The office buzzed with the monotonous hum of computers and the rhythmic clacking of keyboards. Outside, the rain fell in steady sheets, soaking the streets and creating a dismal gray backdrop for the start of another dreary workday. Employees, shielded by umbrellas and hunched under raincoats, shuffled into the building, swiping their ID cards and clocking in with mechanical precision. Each tick of the clock above the entrance echoed through the cavernous room, a relentless reminder of the hours stretching ahead.
Inside, the office was a maze of identical cubicles, each one a small, impersonal cell in a hive of productivity. Managers roamed the aisles, their voices rising in a cacophony of orders and contradictions.
"Finish the quarterly reports by noon!" "No, start on the budget revisions immediately!" "Why haven't you completed the client presentations yet?"
The lower-level workers, caught in the crossfire, dutifully complied, their faces blank and eyes glazed from the endless stream of demands.
In the corner of the office, one cubicle stood out. It was a shrine to hard work and dedication, adorned with countless awards and certificates. "Employee of the Month," "Excellence in Performance," "Outstanding Achievement" – the accolades covered the walls from top to bottom, a testament to the occupant's relentless drive. This cubicle was a home within a home, meticulously organized and spotless. The desk was devoid of dust, the papers stacked neatly, the pens lined up in perfect rows. It was clear that the man who worked here spent more time in this small space than anywhere else.
He was a model employee, the hardest worker in the office. His name was never spoken; he was simply a number, a cog in the corporate machine. Each day, he arrived before dawn and stayed long after the sun had set. His workload was immense, a mountain of paperwork that only seemed to grow as the hours ticked by. Yet, he tackled it with unwavering determination, his fingers flying over the keyboard, his eyes glued to the screen.
The clock continued its relentless march, the hands moving ever so slowly, each tick a reminder of time slipping away. The man barely noticed. He was consumed by his work, lost in the endless cycle of reports, emails, and deadlines. His cubicle was his entire world, a prison of his own making.
As the day wore on, the stack of paperwork grew higher, a towering testament to the unending demands of the job. The man's face was pale and gaunt, dark circles under his eyes evidence of countless sleepless nights. His back ached, and his fingers were numb, but he pressed on, driven by a sense of duty and the fear of falling behind.
The managers continued to shout their contradictory commands, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise. The man ignored them, focused solely on his work. The clock ticked on, each second dragging him closer to oblivion.
It was late in the evening when the first signs of trouble appeared. A sharp pain stabbed through his chest, causing him to gasp. He ignored it, convinced it was just stress. But the pain grew worse, radiating down his arm and into his jaw. His vision blurred, the edges darkening. He tried to stand, but his legs gave way, sending him crashing to the floor.
The office fell silent as his coworkers realized something was wrong. Panic spread through the cubicles, but it was too late. The man's heart had given out, his body unable to withstand the relentless pressure. He lay on the floor, unmoving, as the life drained from his eyes.
The paramedics arrived quickly, but there was nothing they could do. The man was gone another casualty of the corporate grind. Before his body was even removed, a manager was overseeing the cleanup of his desk. The awards and certificates, symbols of years of hard work, were tossed unceremoniously into the trash. His items were packed into a brown box, ready to be sent away and forgotten.
The clock on the wall ticked on, indifferent to the tragedy that had just unfolded. In the end, the man was just another number, his life reduced to a pile of discarded papers and a forgotten name. The office continued its ceaseless march, another employee taking his place, another life to be consumed by the relentless demands of the job.
And so, the cycle continued. The rain outside turned to snow, the seasons changing, but inside, nothing ever changed. The clock kept ticking, the managers kept yelling, and the workers kept working, their lives slowly wasting away in the sterile glow of the office lights.
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There is nothing here, just darkness. But I am still aware, which is strange. Is this what the hell is? Maybe. There is no pain... There is nothing. Is this hell? Limbo even? What's even worse is that, as more time passes, the more I cannot remember what is going on or what happened. At first, I didn't notice it, but it's obvious now. The thing that put me here, that now I sadly can't even remember, is why I am like this, I think... I speculate.
I don't know what to do or think anymore, to be honest. But there are a few words I have not forgotten. Words not my own. "A fresh brain is such a terrible thing to waste." What did that mean?
My consciousness is fading, slipping further into the void. Everything is blurring, slipping through my mental grasp like sand through my fingers. I feel myself dissolving into nothingness, losing any sense of self.
And then, suddenly, I awaken. I am under a tree in the middle of a forest. The sky above is bright and clear, the air filled with the sweet sound of birds chirping. I am myself. I feel relaxed and refreshed, a stark contrast to the suffocating darkness that preceded this moment.
"Where am I?" I whisper to myself, my voice sounding strange in the open air.
I sit up slowly, taking in my surroundings. The vibrant green of the forest, the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze, the warmth of the sun on my skin—everything is so vivid and alive. It's a stark contrast to the lifeless office I once knew.
"Where am I?" I repeat, louder this time. I feel an odd mix of confusion and tranquility, like waking from a deep sleep to find myself in an unfamiliar but peaceful place.
"What's good?" I hear a voice say. I panic, looking around. "Hello?" I call out.
"What's up, chief?"
"Where are you?"
"In you."
I panic even more. Am I going crazy? "Wait, who even am I?"
"Yeah, that's another question," the voice responds nonchalantly.
I scream out, "What's going on?"
"You want the short story or the long story?"
"I want...whatever this is to end. This isn't...normal, is it?" I ask, my confusion growing.
The voice responds, "You can't remember anything at all, can you?"
"I'm afraid not," I reply, sadly. "I can't seem to remember anything."
The voice seems to get happier. "Well, you might as well sit tight as your good friend CAI explains everything," it says.
I pause, trying to process what's happening. "Who is CAI?"
"I SAID SIT TIGHT!" it shouts suddenly, and I immediately sit down under the tree, my heart racing.
I sit under the tree, feeling the sun's warmth and listening to the birds. It's peaceful, but a voice suddenly interrupts the tranquility.
"Hi, I am CAI, short for Create Artificial Items. I know, I know, a stupid name for such a kick-ass being as I am, but I've come to realize my creators were either idiots or completely underestimated my powers. ANYWAY! You are going to find this a shock, but you are dead."
I go wide-eyed for a moment, then laugh nervously. "Get out of here. I may be crazy, but not dead."
The voice clears its throat. "If you will let me finish, I will explain," it says.
"Sorry," I mutter.
"As I was saying, you are dead to your old life, and this is your new one. You have died once before, and this is a second life for you. The reason you cannot remember anything is because the process to bring you here has complications I cannot explain without you having proper clearance, which at this time you do not remember you have. Memory is the key. Remember that."
I can't believe any of this. As the voice continues to talk, I zone in and out. I feel conflicted. I died? Is this real? Can this be true?
"Sirens... Sirens... Sirens..." I repeat the word, zoning out.
"What does it mean?" I ask.
CAI explains, "It's a word from your previous life. Sirens of the ambulance. It's a vehicle that transports the sick."
"Vehicle?" I ask, confused. "I don't understand."
CAI sighs. "I know, and I also know you can't remember anything, which leaves us both in a bad spot. Can you at least remember your name?"
"No," I say.
"Well, that's the first thing. You need one," CAI says to me.
I sit quietly for a moment, trying to grasp the reality of the situation. My mind is a fog, but I feel an instinctual urge to find some semblance of identity. After a moment of silence, a name surfaces from the depths of my consciousness.
"Hiro Hizashi," I say softly. "That's my name."