There was no pain. No screams either. No blood, no visible tragedy. Just a moment. A blink of awareness, an imperceptible tear. A random street crossing, a car that didn't stop, and a heartbeat. Just one.
Then, silence.
Not the kind of silence that follows an explosion. Not one filled with echoes or tinnitus. But perfect silence. Absolute. Suffocating in its stillness. A void where even thought had no room. As if existence had been reduced to a corrupted file, a damaged sequence waiting to be rewritten.
He didn't know if seconds or centuries had passed. Time didn't flow there. It didn't exist. It just was.
And then, the light.
Not a heavenly one, nor a spiritual revelation. It was white, clinical, steady. Cold. A hospital light. Fluorescent, soulless.
He blinked. Once. Twice. The ceiling was steel gray. The walls smooth, covered in soft panels. Machines on both sides of the bed, all projecting silent data on floating screens. His body didn't hurt, but it didn't respond either. As if tuning in to itself.
He tried to move his head. Vertigo. A wave of cerebral nausea. The kind of dizziness that doesn't come from the stomach, but from a miscalibrated soul.
"Álvaro…"
The voice was soft. Feminine. Firm. Familiar.
He turned his eyes as best he could. He recognized the face. His mother. But different. Younger. Too young.
His still-disorganized brain resisted accepting the logic. He tried to speak. Nothing came out. His throat was dry. His lips numb. His hands… small. His hands. But not his.
A nurse approached, noted something on a pad, checked his vitals. They spoke to each other as if nothing were abnormal. As if he hadn't just been reborn.
"Simulation failed," said the nurse. "Neurosensorial mismatch. But stable."
Simulation.
The word echoed in his mind. He hadn't been in a simulation. He had died. And yet, here he was. In a bed he didn't know. In a body that felt like his, but wasn't familiar. In a city that should've been known… but wasn't the same anymore.
Beside the bed, a screen displayed environmental info. Language: Spanish. Time zone: CET. Location: Madrid, Sector 3. Date: March 13, 2074.
Álvaro's heart rate spiked. The heart monitor let out a sharp alert. His mother approached, taking his hand.
"Relax. Everything's fine. You're home. It was just a system error."
System error.
No, he thought. This is not an error.
Two nights passed under observation. The questions were minimal. The clinical report stated "post-immersion stress." Nothing unusual for a senior in a corpo program. No one suspected. No one could imagine that the boy in that bed hadn't just suffered a system failure. He had died. In another world. And had come back.
His mother took him home in a discreet AV. Private residential, protected zone, mid-rise tower. Everything gray, spotless, automated. Tactical security, with retinal scans and voice sensors at every door. Smart panels, foldable shelves, furniture that made no noise when moved. The kind of home only someone born corpo could call "normal."
Álvaro recognized every corner. And yet, everything felt foreign.
In his bedroom, the bed was made with millimetric precision. The desk loaded automated reports. A personal pad awaited him, synced with his calendar. Upon opening it, the interface recognized him instantly: Welcome, Reinos. 98.2% brain efficiency.
It was his world. But not the one he had left.
And as he reviewed data, as he watched the city through the panoramic window of his room, as he listened to his father arguing over encrypted call with a partner in Frankfurt, he could only think one thing:
This is Cyberpunk 2077.
And now, he was inside.
Not as a spectator.Not as a player.
But as an element.
As an operator.
As someone who, this time, didn't intend to make mistakes.