Everything was black.
A darkness so dense it seemed to swallow even his thoughts.
Then, an orange flash lit up the void, followed by sparks of color that slowly took shape. Joseph saw himself as a child, standing in the middle of that nothingness, staring at his own image in confusion. A few meters ahead, a golden glow revealed two silhouettes: a tall, pale man with light brown hair—Anton—and beside him, a woman with dark, softly curled hair, dressed in a white country dress adorned with daisies. It was his mother. Both stood with their backs turned, whispering words he could barely make out.
"Anton… you must look after your brother… Joseph is very fragile and…" murmured the woman, her voice delicate and calm.
"I will, Mother," Anton replied.
"Mom… Anton…" Joseph whispered, taking a step toward them.
The silhouettes slowly turned around. Joseph's heart clenched. They had no faces—smooth, empty surfaces, as if their features had been erased.
Instinctively, he ran toward them. As he moved, his body began to change. His fingers lengthened, his arms widened—he grew from child to young man, and from young man to adult within a few desperate strides, as though his whole life was condensed into that single motion.
His mother, however, began to drift away. She didn't walk or run—she floated backward, gliding softly, pushed by some unseen force. Joseph stretched out his hand farther and farther, but she remained just beyond reach.
"Mom! Anton! I… I'll be a great scientist too! Please, believe me!" he shouted, tears burning down his cheeks.
Finally, he reached Anton. He met his brother's gaze for an instant before trying to move past him—but Anton grabbed his arm tightly. This time, his lips moved, and his voice echoed through the void, clear and thunderous, resonating deep within Joseph's bones:
"Jos! Jos! Jos!"
Then his mother's sweet voice returned—soft at first, then breaking into sobs.
"Forgive me, Joseph… I'm so sorry. Please forgive me, I hope someday you can forgive me, I—"
Her voice distorted and looped, louder and louder, until the darkness shattered into a thousand fragments of light.
Joseph opened his eyes. A blinding white glare hit him. Above, lights rushed past, reflecting off a gray ceiling. He was on a stretcher, being pushed quickly down a corridor. Distant voices surrounded him—urgent, panicked:
"Keep the pressure steady!"
"We have a pulse, but it's weak!"
"Hurry, prepare the trauma bay!"
He tried to speak, but only a faint breath escaped his lips. There was no pain—only a strange emptiness flooding through his body. And yet, his mother's voice echoed louder than all the others inside his head.
The surgical lamp's brilliance pierced his eyes—it was a burning beacon.
"What happened?" he wondered. The answer came instantly, like a lightning strike. The cliff. The failed grip, the roar of the wind, and the endless fall that followed—a void he'd never feared.
He tried to move a finger, then his right foot, then his arm. Nothing.
They're probably broken, he thought, watching the doctors move frantically around him.
The memory of that call came rushing back.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Whatever, he thought. This is the end.
In his mind, flashes of the project's beginning appeared—moments of excitement, long nights, the cost in time and money glowing red like debt across a ledger. Joy turned to gray.
No… I failed, Mom, he thought.
A single tear escaped from the corner of his eye, tracing a warm line down to his cheek before dropping onto the bloodstained sheet.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to avoid the light. His gaze drifted toward the glass wall separating the trauma room from the hallway. Beyond it, two figures stood watching—faces marked by a mix of horror and relief. He saw his grandfather, Georg, sitting on a bench, eyes closed, face tilted toward the ceiling. Beside him, Anton paced back and forth, restless.
Joseph's heart jolted. Like a splash of cold water, realization hit him. Anton's here.
His breathing quickened—short, trembling bursts. His chest rose and fell rapidly.
"He's crashing!" a doctor shouted.
"Sedate him now!"
One of them nodded and injected the sedative. Joseph felt the prick in his arm, and the world began to fade again, as if a thick curtain were closing over his eyes.
The ticking of a clock was the only sound breaking the silence in the waiting room.
Anton's right foot tapped restlessly, the rhythmic thud vibrating through the floor beneath his boots. His eyes were fixed on the polished tiles, though his mind was miles away. Next to him, Georg rested his head in his hands, covering his eyes.
"I don't understand…" Anton muttered, barely above a whisper. "Joseph's climbed that cliff dozens of times. It doesn't make sense that he slipped."
Georg exhaled deeply.
"I don't understand either, son. I was talking to him… right before the accident." His voice trembled. "He sounded a bit nervous. We talked about his evaluation, the project… and then he said the company was calling him. Fifteen minutes later, I got the alert." He lowered his hands, sighing. "God help us… may everything turn out well."
Anton nodded silently, his gaze still locked on the floor, his foot tapping without rest.
The door opened abruptly.
"Anton… Georg." It was Jacob Hunt, still wearing his white coat, the name Dr. Hunt embroidered on his chest. His face was grave, though he forced a faint smile when he saw them.
"I came as soon as I heard. I was in the east wing when the notice came in." He approached and hugged Georg first, then Anton.
"Thanks for coming, Jacob," Georg said weakly.
"How is he? Have they stabilized him?" Hunt asked.
"We don't know," Georg answered, exhausted. "They moved us out because Anton was a little…" He glanced at his grandson's tapping foot. "…uneasy."
Hunt ran a hand through his hair. "God… I hope he makes it. What happened? Did his condition cause it?"
Anton shook his head slowly.
"I don't know. When I left him, he was a bit shaken, nervous about the evaluation, but nothing out of the ordinary. He shouldn't have fallen."
Suddenly, the door opened again. A doctor in blue scrubs stepped in, holding a transparent tablet.
"Family of Joseph Marsol?"
All three stood almost simultaneously.
"Yes, that's us," Anton replied.
The doctor checked his tablet and nodded. "Your relative is stable. We've transferred him to the operating room for initial reconstructive procedures." He paused. "I need to confirm a few details. Any allergies or medical conditions? Our system shows HSAN Type V. Is that correct?"
Anton lifted his gaze. "Yes. Joseph has hereditary sensory and autonomic neuropathy, type V. He can't feel physical pain."
The doctor studied his face for a moment, processing the information.
"That explains the lack of reaction. He can still sense touch and temperature… I see." He typed something on the tablet. "Still, I must warn you—his condition is critical."
Georg gripped the edge of his chair tightly. "Please, tell us."
The doctor inhaled.
"He suffered multiple fractures. The bones in his legs, arms, and spine are completely shattered—crushed in some areas. He's lost almost all mobility. It's a miracle he survived that fall."
Hunt closed his eyes and whispered a short prayer.
The doctor continued, "His jaw is broken, so he won't be able to speak for now. There's also moderate brain damage—he may experience short- or long-term memory loss."
Anton ran a hand over his face. "Are there any options?" he asked tensely.
"Two," the doctor said. "First, traditional reconstructive surgery—repair what we can, stabilize the spine, and fix the fractures. But…" he looked at them seriously, "he'll never walk again. He won't regain full use of his hands, nor will he be able to speak. The memory loss would be permanent."
"The second option: a full cybernetic intervention—biomechanical implants to replace the limbs, part of the spine, jaw, and neural connectors. With that, he could recover complete mobility."
Georg nodded faintly. "As expected," he murmured.
"But it's long and dangerous," the doctor added. "It could take up to a year. There will be multiple surgeries, and any failure during neural integration could be fatal."
Silence fell. Only the clock ticked.
Anton stared at the floor, fists clenched, then nodded. "I understand, doctor. Are those the only options?"
"Yes," the doctor said softly. "With all due respect—it's a miracle your brother survived."
Georg lowered his gaze. "Jesus…" he whispered.
Hunt rubbed the back of his neck, steadying his breathing.
"The bio-implants are experimental," the doctor continued. "They're expensive, but if you can afford them, we can begin pre-surgical evaluations. You have a month to decide. In the meantime, we'll keep him stable and monitored."
Anton exhaled. "Money won't be a problem," he said calmly.
The doctor nodded and prepared to leave.
"When will we be able to see him?" Hunt asked.
"In about three hours."
"Alright. Thank you, doctor."
The door closed behind him, leaving a heavy silence.
Georg breathed deeply. "A new body… but at what cost?" he murmured, watching the door.
"Georg, Anton… I have to get back to my shift," Hunt said. "I only got a short break. I'll join you after."
"Thank you for being here, son," Georg replied with a faint smile.
Anton just nodded, eyes back on the floor.
Hunt left the room.
"Everything will be fine, son," Georg said, patting Anton's back.
"I don't want to see Joseph like that… with implants, or going through all those surgeries. He hates them."
"I know, but we have no other choice."
"I don't know, Grandpa… who knows," Anton said, glancing at the clock—7:30—and touching the small implant on his temple.
"I just want to see him walk again," Georg murmured, his voice breaking slightly.
Anton didn't answer. For the first time that night, his foot stopped moving.
Only the faint blue glow of his inmo blinked at his temple, reflecting in his eyes the weight of a single, unspoken thought.