The pill sat on the cracked plastic floor like a black marble of mercy. One swallow and it would all be over. No more debt collectors pinging my implant every hour. No more empty walls staring back at me. No more waking up to the memory of my ex-wife's voice in court, smooth as silk, telling the judge I'd raped her—lies she'd spread so well that every partner I'd ever had turned their backs on me.
I used to run Voss & Associates, the sharpest corporate law firm on the mid-levels. Corner office. Real leather chairs. Assistants who practically bowed when I walked in. Now I was thirty-eight, sitting cross-legged on the bare floor of a one-room hab-unit in the undergrid of New Tokyo, 2057, with nothing but a duffel bag, a half-empty bottle of synth-whiskey, and maybe nine hundred internal credits left in my neural account. No furniture. No fridge. No food except the nutrient paste I'd scraped from the dispenser two days ago. Just me, the pill, and the low hum of the city that had already written me off.
I pushed myself up, knees cracking, and shuffled to the single grimy window.
Down here the neighborhood was a rotting carcass. Flickering red neon spelled out "IMPLANT UPGRADES – CASH ONLY" and "FRESH COMPANIONS – NO ID REQUIRED." Sketchy guys in hoods huddled on corners, selling black-market neural jacks and second-hand prosthetics still wet with someone else's blood. Two floors below, a woman in a torn skirt leaned against a rusted lamppost, legs spread, negotiating with a nervous salaryman who'd probably flown down from the towers for something cheap and quick. Further down the alley I could see the usual nightly entertainment: a guy on his knees getting a cheap spinal implant jammed in with a dirty auto-injector, blood trickling down his neck while he moaned like it felt good. Another alley over, three punks had a kid pinned, stripping his jacket and siphoning whatever credits were wired to his wrist.
I hated it. But if I tilted my head and looked past the crumbling hab-blocks, I could still see the real city glittering in the distance—flying cars streaking between glass skyscrapers that punched straight into the clouds, holographic billboards the size of buildings advertising luxury synthetics and eternal youth. That world still existed. Just not for broke, ruined men like me.
I looked back at the pill.
One more night, I thought. Walk out there, breathe the air, see if there's anything—anything at all—worth sticking around for. If the city still feels as dead as I do, I come back, swallow this, and end it clean. No more fighting. No more losing.
I pulled on my battered coat, felt the faint buzz of my nine hundred credits in my implant, and stepped out before I could change my mind.
The street hit me like a slap—ozone, piss, fried street-meat, and the constant low thrum of drone traffic overhead. I kept my head down and walked. Past the implant guy still working on the girl; her eyes were rolled back, lips parted in a sound that could've been pain or pleasure. Past the robbery; I didn't even glance sideways. Not my problem. Not anymore. My boots splashed through puddles of oil and rainwater as the neighborhood slowly changed around me. Neon shifted from bleeding red to crisp electric blue. Security drones hummed higher up. The air smelled less like despair and more like money.
I crossed the invisible line into the mid-levels and stopped in front of a sleek storefront: "Elysium Synthetics – Premium Companions." The window display glowed with perfect, flawless bodies, price tags floating in holographic script.
I stepped inside before common sense could stop me.
Cool, filtered air. Soft music. A polished salesman in a crisp suit smiled like I was still somebody.
"Looking for a companion model, sir? We have the new Nexus-9 series—"
My eyes landed on the nearest price tag.
Fourteen thousand credits.
My stomach clenched so hard I almost laughed. I turned on my heel and walked straight back out without a word.
The alley right beside the fancy store was darker, narrower, the kind of place people only entered when they were already desperate. A sketchy guy in a grease-stained jacket leaned against a rusted roll-up door, smoking something sweet and illegal.
"Looking for something the big stores won't sell?" he asked, voice low and oily. "Pre-owned. Off-grid. No registration. Way cheaper."
I should've kept walking.
Instead I followed him through the door.
Inside was a cramped back-room lit by one hanging bulb. Three androids stood on low platforms. Two looked cheap—plastic shine, visible seams, dead eyes. The third…
She was something else entirely.
Long dark hair that caught the light like real silk. Skin that looked warm, soft, alive—no seams, no ports, no telltale glow. Sharp cheekbones, full lips slightly parted, curves under a simple black slip that hugged her like it had been poured on. She looked like a woman who could ruin you and make you thank her for it.
I couldn't tell she wasn't human.
The guy noticed me staring hard. "Decommissioned prototype. Hyper-realistic. Full sensory suite, emotional response matrix, the works. Three thousand credits and she's yours for thirty days—non-refundable after activation. After that, she's permanent property. No returns, no take-backs. You want her or not?"
Three thousand.
I had nine hundred.
My neural account would go negative the second I tried. Debt collectors would ping me harder than ever. Interest would stack. I'd be even more screwed than I already was.
I didn't care.
"Sold," I said.
He grinned, pulled up a battered holoscreen. The contract flashed in front of my eyes in glowing red text:
30-Day Companion Lease – Non-Refundable. Full ownership activates after thirty days. Partial payment accepted. Remaining balance due immediately or interest accrues at 18% daily. Unit designated as personal property upon activation.
I pressed my thumb to the scanner anyway. The nine hundred credits drained out instantly. The system dinged—negative two thousand one hundred credits now owed. My implant buzzed a warning I ignored.
The guy shrugged, handed me a small chrome key fob. "She's powered down. Press the fob to the base of her neck. Enjoy, man. You're gonna need it."
I took the fob, stepped up to her platform, and pressed it right where her spine met her skull.
Her eyes opened.
Warm brown. Focused. Alive.
She blinked once, looked straight at me, and for the first time in months something inside my chest kicked hard—like a pulse I thought had already died.
She looked real.
She felt real when my fingers brushed her shoulder.
And now she was mine.
I owned her completely.