Chapter 3

  POV: Nobody

  Chet brewed a pot of coffee, the rich aroma filling the small café. He slid the steaming cup across the counter to me with a casual grin.

  "On the house," he said.

  I raised an eyebrow, eyeing him suspiciously. "You must be pretty bored, huh?"

  Chet shrugged, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "If the suspect didn’t take your money, then what did they take?" He struck a thinker’s pose, clearly enjoying his Sherlock Holmes fantasy.

  I stared at him, unsure how to respond.

  Then Chet’s face brightened with dramatic revelation. "Aha! They must have taken your virginity!"

  I choked on the coffee, the liquid spewing out of my mouth and splattering onto the counter. Chet's smirk widened as he quickly grabbed a rag and started cleaning up the mess. I glared at him, my face burning with embarrassment. I had a strong suspicion that he’d given me that cup of coffee just to see me choke.

  Chet, still cleaning, chuckled. "Unfortunately, we wouldn’t know if your virginity is truly gone. It’s not like you have a hymen, right?"

  "Not funny, Chet," I muttered, still annoyed by his earlier comment.

  Chet chuckled, unfazed. "You looked good on TV, by the way. Ivory saved you, right? How does it feel? Have you seen the video? Ivory's appearances are always random. She doesn't have a patrol routine, so it's rare for her to show up, which is why there's always such a hubbub when she does."

  I sighed, recalling the memory of that particular encounter. "I feel annoyed, and no, I haven't seen it. I can't afford the internet. But do they have video footage of it? It sure spreads fast if you know it already. This world is really rotten... you can't escape from social media."

  "Sure, sure," Chet said, waving his hand dismissively.

  "Is there no way for me to recover my memories? I miss... home," I said, my voice trailing off with a hint of desperation. Once, my past had been my everything. “It sucked, you know?”

  "Ah, you were a runaway, right?" Chet recalled. “I almost forgot. Well, personally, I don’t care. I’m an orphan, so that’s that.”

  The background story I had crafted for myself was that I was a runaway from the South. The South was a lawless land, overrun by villainy, warlords, and criminals. It was a chaotic place where stories were hard to verify, which made my fabricated past all the more believable.

  Chet leaned in, his expression serious now, replacing his usual smirk. "I have a suggestion."

  "Sure, blow me away," I replied, bracing myself for whatever crazy idea he had this time.

  "How about a specialized psychiatrist? A super-abled psychiatrist with hypnosis-related powers. They’re your best bet if you're looking for effectiveness. I can hook you up with one."

  I hesitated. "I..."

  I didn’t want to go to a telepath. They were a shady bunch. Telepaths were the type of superhumans whose abilities revolved around mind reading, mind control, and telepathy in general. Some had a variation of the ability, something specific to an individual aspect, or were more of an all-rounder. The thought of letting someone like that mess with my mind was terrifying.

  "I’d rather not," I finally said.

  Moreover, I couldn’t let my past life be discovered by anyone. It was a secret I had to take to my grave. The idea of a telepath poking around in my brain was too risky, and the potential consequences were too severe to even consider.

  "Do you know any pharmacy that would let me buy what I want without questions asked?" I asked, hoping Chet would have a solution that didn’t involve telepaths or hypnosis.

  Chet leaned back, considering for a moment. "I could hook you up with a doctor who would give you a prescription for a price."

  I frowned. "Won’t they lose their license?"

  "You’d be surprised how many quacks out there have to do something like this. They have their reasons—some are just plain quacks looking to fatten their wallet, some are victims of loan sharks, and some are doctors who got kicked out because of malpractice."

  "Malpractice? They’d have already lost their licenses by then, right?"

  Chet chuckled. "The world is a flexible place, Tom. Heck, I could have one if I managed to bribe the right person. And then there’s abroad—they’d be able to acquire a new license once they change their names. The City-States are flexible like that."

  His words hung in the air, a demonstration of the world’s murky underbelly. It seemed every solution was fraught with risk, but I was desperate. Chet’s offer wasn’t perfect, but it was a start, and right now, a start was better than nothing.

  I left the café without getting what I wanted. The disappointment weighed on me, but I tried to tell myself to be satisfied with the lead Chet had given me. I muttered under my breath, "That jerk, Chet… he charged me a thousand credits for hooking me up with this… Doctor Melinda?"

  This kind of information should be around eight hundred to five hundred credits, right?

  Dr. Melinda better be worth it.

  Resigned, I flagged down a cab and gave the driver the address. The city blurred past the windows as we drove, a haze of neon lights and concrete. Twenty minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of a small, nondescript building.

  I took a deep breath and headed inside. Doctor Melinda’s office was on the second floor, the third room from the right after the elevator. The hallways smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper, a peculiar mix of cleanliness and age.

  Finally, I stood in front of a door with a brass plaque that read "Dr. Melinda Fonda." I hesitated for a moment, then knocked. A voice from inside told me to enter.

  Dr. Melinda Fonda was seated behind a cluttered desk, her eyes sharp behind a pair of thin-framed glasses. She looked up as I walked in, sizing me up quickly.

  "Have a seat," she said, gesturing to a worn leather chair across from her. I sat down, receiving her scrutiny in its raw form. "So, Chet sent you?" she began, her tone professional but curious.

  "Yes," I replied. "I need help with... memory loss. It's not your usual kind, though."

  It looked like she’d heard word from Chet that I was coming.

  Dr. Melinda Fonda was an intriguing figure. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to pierce right through me. Her thin-framed glasses rested delicately on the bridge of her nose, adding to her air of meticulous professionalism. She had dark hair, streaked with silver, pulled back into a neat bun, and her skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh fluorescent lighting. She wore a white lab coat over a simple blouse and slacks, the attire of someone who valued practicality over style. The lines on her face hinted at a life of experience and perhaps a touch of weariness, but her posture and demeanor conveyed a relentless focus and determination. The clutter on her desk—medical journals, patient files, and various instruments—suggested a mind constantly at work.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  I mentally sighed at my increasing analytical abilities… I’d come to a habit of reading people, and it was transforming into a mechanical fashion, perhaps influenced by my power subverting my subconscious. It had come to a point where I could mentally flick a switch in my head and turn off my emotions, thus aiding my analysis.

  Dr. Melinda wasted no time, her eyes sharp as she addressed me with professional detachment. Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if this was just another routine consultation for her. "I won’t tarry any longer. You should know what it is you came for. The price varies depending on the medicine. On average, I charge three thousand credits for every hundred milliliters of a certain medicine. If it's a tablet or capsule, then a dozen of them will also run you three thousand credits. So, what do you want?"

  I blinked, taken aback by the cost. It was more than I had anticipated. Not only did I have to buy the medicine itself, but the prescription was a separate charge, and that didn’t even include the cost of the check-up. I mentally calculated the numbers. It wasn’t cheap.

  “Three different types of medicines that could help with forgetfulness,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the financial strain I was feeling. "For memory loss."

  Dr. Melinda didn’t miss a beat. She nodded once and quickly began scribbling on a prescription pad. "Donepezil, Galantamine, and Memantine."

  I watched as she wrote, my stomach twisting with a mix of anxiety and dread. My mind was already running through the list of potential side effects, each one worse than the last. I glanced at the prescription as she handed it to me, my fingers momentarily brushing against hers. Her eyes remained cold and focused, her professional demeanor unwavering.

  “The possible side effects of Donepezil and Galantamine,” Dr. Melinda continued, “include nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, upset stomach, lack of appetite, weight loss, or low heart rate. Other, less common issues could be fatigue, trouble sleeping, vivid dreams, or muscle cramps.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to absorb the information. “Okay?”

  Dr. Melinda gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. She adjusted her glasses, her fingers tapping the desk lightly. “Memantine works best when paired with either Donepezil or Galantamine. Side effects for Memantine include headache, dizziness, confusion, or constipation.”

  I leaned forward slightly, my mind already reeling. “How much dosage should I take? And when?”

  Dr. Melinda glanced at me with a faint look of annoyance. “How would I know? It’s not like you’ve had a check-up.”

  I hesitated, unsure how to proceed. Her impatience was palpable, but I needed answers.

  She sighed heavily, rubbing her temples. "Fine. How severe is it?"

  I exhaled, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Assume it’s Alzheimer's. Or something that just outright wipes the memory clean.”

  Dr. Melinda’s expression shifted, her professional demeanor clicking into place. “Alright. Listen carefully, because I won’t say this twice.”

  She started listing the dosage instructions with clinical precision, her voice steady and unyielding.

  “Donepezil: Start with 5 mg once daily. After 4 to 6 weeks, if it’s well-tolerated, you can increase the dosage to 10 mg once daily. Take it at bedtime, with or without food.”

  She continued without pausing. “Galantamine: Start with 4 mg twice daily, in the morning and evening. After at least 4 weeks, the dose can be increased to 8 mg twice daily, and eventually to 12 mg twice daily if tolerated. Take it with meals—breakfast and dinner. Extended-release capsules are taken once a day, in the morning, with food.”

  Finally, she said, “Memantine: Start with 5 mg once daily. Increase the dose by 5 mg each week to reach 10 mg twice daily after 3 weeks. It can be taken with or without food. Regular tablets or oral solution can be taken once or twice daily.”

  I felt a wave of relief mixed with anxiety as she finished speaking. At least Dr. Melinda seemed to know what she was talking about. Chet had mentioned that she was a legitimate medical professional, even if her clientele mostly consisted of criminals and the desperate. It was strange, though, to find myself trusting someone like her.

  I exhaled slowly, trying to steady my nerves. “Thanks. How much is it?”

  Dr. Melinda didn’t hesitate. “Nine thousand credits total.”

  I winced. The amount was steep, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I reached into my pocket, pulling out the necessary credits without even trying to haggle. Her clientele was dangerous enough that it didn’t make sense to argue over price. After paying her in full, I stood up, the weight of the transaction settling in my chest.

  Without another word, I left the office, the door clicking shut behind me.

  I decided to take the bus this time. Walking back felt like it would only drag the day out further. When it came to transportation, I always paid by phone, flashing my QR code on the scanner. The government had been pushing digital payment systems for a while now, offering discounts and vouchers for those who used them. It made sense—there were perks, even in a city this messed up.

  I leaned back against the bus seat, staring out the window as the city blurred past. Neon lights, cracked sidewalks, and towering buildings painted the familiar backdrop of this urban hellscape. The driver swerved to avoid a pothole, and I felt a jolt in my stomach. I was still trying to adjust to this life—whatever this was—but it wasn’t getting any easier.

  The bus ride was uneventful, just the usual hum of the engine and the quiet shuffle of passengers lost in their own worlds. My mind, however, was anything but quiet. I kept replaying the stack of credits I’d just handed over to Dr. Melinda, mentally reviewing the instructions she had given me. I had to follow them carefully. If I did, maybe—just maybe—I’d recover the memories I’d lost. It was a faint hope, but it was all I had left.

  Once I reached the area near the cheap motel where I was staying, the frustration began to bubble up again. I had skipped lunch, unable to stomach food with my nerves so tightly wound. I didn’t want to think about the cost of the medicine or the fear that the side effects might be worse than the problem they were meant to solve. I had bigger issues to deal with.

  I headed straight for the alley where I’d left my cart, a familiar routine I had grown used to. The alley was dark, a narrow stretch of concrete tucked between two aging buildings. I turned the corner, expecting to see my bicycle resting against the wall, secure as always.

  But my heart sank when I saw the empty space where it had been. The bike was gone. I froze, disbelief hitting me like a cold slap to the face. I had parked it there, secured it with a solid lock—how could it have been stolen?

  A surge of anger and helplessness flooded through me. It was absurd. I’d taken every precaution, and yet, someone had managed to walk off with it. My hands clenched into fists, and for a moment, I considered going after whoever did this. But I knew better than to waste time on pointless outrage.

  “No… Think positively, Thomas…” I muttered to myself, trying to regain control. "At least they didn’t take the cart."

  The reason they couldn’t take the cart was because I always disassembled the wheels. It was a precaution I couldn’t afford to skip, especially in a place like this. I quickly attached the wheels back onto the cart, gritting my teeth. If I ever caught the bastard who stole my bike, they would regret it.

  With a growl of frustration, I dragged my cart toward the park. The sun was still high, and I had daylight to work with. I had a hotdog stand to set up, and it was the best way to make some quick money. The park had always been a decent spot for business, especially when there were crowds around.

  I managed to sell plenty of hotdogs that day. The buzz around Ivory’s recent appearance seemed to have worked in my favor, drawing more customers than usual. It was almost as if yesterday’s mess had made me some sort of local legend. By six o’clock, after a steady stream of sales, I decided to pack up. It had been a productive day, despite everything that had happened.

  I carefully wheeled my cart to a different hidden alley. The bike theft still stung, but I had learned to focus on the task at hand. As I disassembled the wheels and brought them with me, I reminded myself that it was better to be safe than sorry.

  With my cart secured, I made my way to the nearest pharmacy to fill my prescription. The pharmacy was small and sterile, a fluorescent-lit place where the pharmacist barely looked up from his tablet as he processed my order. I paid through my phone, the beep of the transaction echoing in the quiet space. It was routine—until the door suddenly burst open.

  A group of thugs rushed inside, their boots thudding against the tile floor. The leader, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, barked orders at everyone.

  "This is a robbery! Hands off anything! Hands in the air!"

  My stomach dropped. My heart was already racing, and the panic began to rise. I slowly raised my hands, trying to remain calm, trying not to make any sudden movements. The thugs were armed and dangerous, and I knew that any wrong move could end badly.

  The pharmacist’s face went pale as he shakily raised his hands. "P-Please, take whatever you want. Just don’t hurt anyone."

  The leader sneered, brandishing an assault rifle like it was a toy. "Yeah, that’s the plan. Now, open the register and hand over the cash."

  I watched, my mind racing. I was just another bystander in this mess. I couldn’t risk doing anything that might get me noticed. My eyes darted around the small space, looking for any possible escape routes, but there were none. The only way out was through them, and I wasn’t stupid enough to try that.

  As the pharmacist fumbled with the register, I took a slow step backward, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. My pulse pounded in my ears, and I cursed my rotten luck. This was the second time in a week I’d gotten caught up in some random crime. It was like the universe had a vendetta against me.

  I was so caught up in trying to remain unnoticed that I didn’t see the lanky thug with the tattoo until it was too late.

  "Hey, you!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. "Stay where you are!"

  I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. "Okay, okay, I’m not moving," I stammered, trying to keep my voice steady.

  The tattooed thug narrowed his eyes, not moving his gaze from me for a second. “Don’t you dare blink at me, motherfucker! I’ll kill you!”