I regained consciousness. Slowly, my senses returned, though my mind was still shrouded in a haze. I was cold.
Someone must have noticed, because I was covered with a warm blanket.
I tried to open my eyes but couldn't.
"Take it slow, no need to rush—you have time," a voice said.
I followed the advice, took a deep breath, and calmly opened my eyes.
I was in the same place where I had lost consciousness. The enormous spotlight was still directed at me, but my eyes adapted instantly.
The same two operators stood on either side, one casting sneering, provocative glances at the other, who was doing his best to ignore them.
Their leader approached from behind and leaned toward me. He checked his watch, straightened up, and said: "It's 8:41 PM, the operation has been successfully completed."
As he walked away, he gave me a look I couldn't decipher. "Welcome back," he added, without turning around.
I got dressed again and, when I looked up, I was alone in the room.
I took the opportunity to examine the strange machine more closely, but everything was shut down and nothing seemed to have changed since I had entered.
I gave up, put on my coat, turned off the lights, and closed the door behind me.
Once again, I walked through the silent, empty corridors and stepped out into the night. I sat in the empty train and tried to gather my thoughts, but the anesthetic was still clouding my mind, making everything fuzzy.
Staring into space, I instinctively pulled out my phone. I began scrolling aimlessly, just to occupy myself and stare at the flashing colors. I wasn't even paying attention to what I was doing. I clicked and scrolled randomly, just to make new things appear on the screen.
After a few minutes of drifting through the flow of algorithms, I suddenly became aware of myself and tried to at least get something meaningful out of it.
At that moment, I received a notification: a new message from Homhance.
I tapped it open and skimmed the message. It mentioned procedure and cooperation and included an attachment.
I tried hard to focus on the long paragraphs, rereading some lines several times to be sure I understood them.
In the end, all I retained was that I wouldn't have to work for at least a month, but I'd still need to show up at the facility for evaluations depending on how I responded to the operation. There were other notes, but my head began spinning, and I chose to ignore them for now. I wanted to close the file, but my headache only worsened, and my vision started to blur. I felt like I was losing consciousness, but I had no strength to resist. I clutched my phone as if it were the last thread tethering me to reality. Just as I was about to completely slip away, a chill ran down my spine, like a faint electric current crawling through my vertebrae.
From that moment on, I could no longer tell what was real and what was my imagination. Whatever it was, I had the strange sensation of being hurled directly into my own mind. It was vast, colder than I would have thought—a giant grey hall lit only by a single bare bulb hanging in the center of the room. I looked around and immediately noticed familiar items: in one corner, my bedroom, identical to my memories; in another, my workstation from the Homhance testing lab. But even with those familiar fragments, the giant hall felt overwhelmingly empty.
At the far end of the room, half-lost in shadow, I noticed rectangular shapes carved into the wall. Squinting, I realized they were doors—some massive, others tiny, some stacked on top of each other in seemingly unreachable places. On the opposite wall, a bluish glow caught my eye. There, two large circles let in the only other light in the hall. I walked toward one and peered through it. Beyond the glass, something was radiating that blue light: a rectangle. But it wasn't a single piece. It was layered, made of various components connected in complex ways, each glowing faintly with its own rhythm. I pulled my eyes away and looked further. Hands. Legs. I was looking out through my own eyes, and the blue rectangle—of course—it was my phone.
Why did it look like that? Was it this place? And what even was this place? A dream? My subconscious? A side effect of the operation? So many questions, and not a single answer. I turned around and scanned the hall with new focus, looking for details I might've missed. Still empty. But then, just behind the large circular windows, I saw two raised platforms, each matching the shape of the windows—round, and lifted slightly above the ground.
Driven by curiosity, I stepped onto one. The moment both my feet touched the platform, a searing pain shot through my skull like an arrow to the brain. It dropped me to my knees. I nearly passed out. But as suddenly as it came, the pain vanished, leaving only silence. Slowly, I got back to my feet. My eyes drifted toward the glowing blue shape again, and something clicked inside me—instinct, pure and clear.
From where I stood on the platform, I could manipulate that blue form, understanding it at a level beyond comprehension. With just a motion of my hand—like a conductor guiding an orchestra—I peeled back layers, separated components. The device was no longer a mystery. I could see everything, down to the tiniest byte in its memory. And, without realizing it, I was enjoying myself. Truly, for the first time in a long while.
But a sudden jolt—something like turbulence—shook me out of it. I lost my balance and fell from the platform headfirst. Just as I was about to hit the ground, I jolted awake, my phone still in my hand. The train doors had opened. Blinking, I read the name of the station: it was mine. I leapt out just as the doors began to close behind me. When I turned around, the train was already gliding off into the night.
It was pitch black outside, and only a few flickering street lamps spared me from having to turn on my phone's flashlight. I walked briskly toward my little studio, eyes glued to the pavement. I was still shaken by what I had experienced, especially because I remembered every detail—the sensation, the structure, even what I had learned about the phone's design. It all felt too real to be a dream. But then, what was that place?
I could feel myself spiraling into a whirlwind of unanswerable questions, so I looked up and inhaled deeply. That's when I saw them—those same three kids who had beaten up the other boy a few days ago. They stood leaning against a wall in a narrow alleyway, just out of reach of the main avenue's light. It was late, and I hadn't passed anyone else since the station. One of them spotted me and said something to the others. All three turned their eyes on me, and I felt my pulse quicken.
I was tired—tired of being afraid even in my own neighborhood, tired of flinching at boys born a decade after me. I was tired of it, but I knew deep down there wasn't much I could do. So I made the sensible choice—I looked away and kept walking, hoping they wouldn't follow. Against my instincts, I glanced over my shoulder. No one was behind me. Maybe they figured I wasn't worth the effort.
I reached my front door, scanned the area one last time, then went in and locked the door securely behind me. I collapsed onto my bed and only then realized just how exhausted I was. Even if I had wanted to get up again, I couldn't have. I let go and surrendered to sleep.
I slept deeply, without interruption. When I finally woke up, I couldn't tell whether I had dreamed or not. For a brief moment, I thought I felt fine—until I tried to sit up. A sharp, stabbing pain shot down my back, pinning me once again to the bed. I twisted and writhed, searching for a position that hurt less. I forced my eyes open, hoping that getting my bearings would help, but my vision was blurred—despite the ceiling light I had forgotten to turn off the night before. Maybe it was just because I had just woken up?
I waited a while, teeth clenched, expecting my sight to clear. But nothing changed. I could only make out large colored shapes, no details, no definition. I didn't understand. Then came the headache—an excruciating pulse that pounded through my skull. I shut my eyes again, laid back in my original position, and tried to calm myself. I tried to breathe slowly, to empty my mind, but worst-case scenarios crept in. Had the operation failed? Was I now handicapped? Was I blind?
There wasn't much I could do. So I chose the path of least resistance, the one that often gave decent results in the short to mid term: inaction. I lay there for what felt like hours, barely moving, barely breathing, hoping not to trigger another wave of pain. Eventually, the intensity faded, and I started learning what movements hurt most.
I made a decision—it was time to go for the painkillers in the cupboard above the stove. I had a whole plan in my head: crawl slowly to the kitchen, straighten up without bending my spine a single millimeter, all while unable to see. A risky mission, but one that had to be attempted.
Thankfully, the mission was a success. After over an hour of painful effort and sweat, I managed to take the precious pills. Their effect was superficial and short-lived, but enough to bring back my sight—though it came with fierce headaches. I was at a loss. Nothing I did seemed to work, and despair was creeping in. Then, like a revelation, a solution struck me, obvious in hindsight: I would contact Homhance and inform them of my condition. After all, they were the ones who had operated on me. They would know what to do.
With my last bit of strength, I typed out an email to the address that had contacted me the night before, and prayed they would read it. I lay there for what felt like an eternity, half-asleep and half-awake, as the pain continued to sting me awake at the slightest movement. Then, suddenly, I heard the familiar hum of drones on the other side of the door. A thud—something being dropped. The buzzer rang, followed by a robotic voice: "Homhance delivery. Have a nice day."
Relief flooded through me. They hadn't replied, but they had acted. I dragged myself to the door, opened the box, and swallowed a few of the colorful capsules without a second thought. The pain vanished instantly. I could think again. I stood up. I silently thanked Homhance—I was genuinely impressed by the effectiveness of their medication. But then again, they had designed my operation.
While I was lucid, I decided to examine the contents of the box more carefully. It wasn't much: four boxes of rainbow-colored pills and two sheets of paper. One listed usage instructions. I was lucky—they recommended taking two to three pills of each kind per day, depending on the pain. The other was a prescription, redeemable at a specific store in the city. Of course, Homhance wasn't going to supply me endlessly—they had only sent samples. I'd have to make a trip to restock.
Thinking about that reminded me that I was officially on leave for at least a month. I had all the time in the world now. Time to figure out how to use it well. That was a change. I was usually so worn out from the week that I spent my weekends half-conscious in bed. Ideas began flowing: I could exercise, cook, binge the latest series. It all sounded great. But right now, I just wanted a hot shower.
I stepped into the bathroom and saw my reflection in the mirror. It was the first time I had really looked at myself since the operation. I examined my back, my head, ran my fingers through my hair—but I saw no incisions, no scars. The only visible change was a faint bluish mark in my pupils, noticeable only up close. It reminded me of what had happened on the train...
But speculating wouldn't help. I had no answers. I decided to shelve my metaphysical reflections and simply enjoy the well-deserved shower.