Life's like a game of chess … At least, it used to be for me. You make your move, thinking ten steps ahead, and then the world makes its move. Sometimes it plays fair. Other times it cheats—pulls two, maybe three dirty-ass moves in one go and leaves you checkmated and buried like some amateur who didn't see it coming.
That's what happened to me. Or maybe it didn't. Honestly, I don't fucking know anymore.
I had my life figured out. Solid programming job. A girlfriend who stuck around for years and made life easier to smile through. A badass car I inherited from my dad. We even bought a nice bitchin' house in the suburbs, with a mortgage but still. Talked about marriage, kids, the whole doves-and-bouquet scene. The dream, more or less.
Didn't matter in the end, did it? I still died unhappy as hell.
Granted, getting brutally murdered might've had something to do with that.
I could've taken death by lightning. At least that has logic to it. Just one of the unlucky 24,000 who get zapped each year. Could've accepted that. Maybe even laughed it off if I had a second to spare. Just get inside when it storms and don't get hit dumbass.
But getting mistaken for some crypto millionaire by a bunch of brain-dead thugs? Tortured for money I never had, then left to die? That's some next-level bullshit.
They broke in at night, woke me with a gun to my head. Kicked me around for answers I didn't have. My girlfriend was out of town visiting her family, thank God. At least she didn't have to see any of it.
Two hours of torture. I screamed, begged, cried—prayed to every god I'd ever heard of. No one answered. Thick-ass walls in this "nice neighborhood" made sure nobody else heard either.
And if you're sitting there thinking, "It's only two hours, could've been worse. Go ahead and get shot in the kneecaps and see how long five minutes feels, fucking dare you. Time stops when pain hits that deep. And those bastards laughed. Called me weak. Like I'm supposed to be John Wick or something.
Best part? I wasn't even the guy they were looking for.
Wrong address. They got the streets mixed up. Their target was two blocks over, apparently. Buncha walking wastes of oxygen. Braindead as it gets.
Before they left, they took everything valuable. Called it "compensation for wasting their time." Oh, how gracious of thee, noble sirs. Forsooth, I do weep, having wasted thy precious minutes with honest declarations and offers of real coin locked within a humble bank account that thou couldst not be bothered to plunder, even when I did plead.
Still, somehow, for a few seconds after they left, I thought I'd survived. That I won. I was alive.
…Not for long.
They shot my legs. Took my phone. Blood poured out like a busted pipe. No time. No strength. No help.
I crawled to the living room, dragging myself like some pathetic animal. Slumped into my new armchair—still smelled like leather. My mind flickered. Everything slowed. Felt like falling asleep after a long, shitty day.
I held a broken picture of me and her. My girl, cracked glass doesn't suit your eyes. And then I thought about all the little mistakes that killed me:
I skipped the security system because "it's a safe neighborhood."
No gun. No plan. Fucking hell, I forgot to lock the damn front door.
Maybe none of it would've mattered. But it might've bought me time to call the cops. Might've bought me another move in the game.
But I left my life up to chance. To wind. To fucking fate.
Maybe I should've cheated back. If the world plays three moves at once, maybe I should've had a bullet for each pawn coming for me. And a few extra for good measure.
Maybe… maybe I should've written something funny on the floor with my own blood. She'd have laughed, probably.
…
…
But then, why am I not dead?
My eyes open. I should be dead. Blood loss should've taken me hours ago. But I'm still here. Wide awake.
And everything's different.
Lights. Blinding, buzzing lights. A skyline filled with an insane mix of colors.. I'm sitting in a damn lawn chair on the roof of some building. The view is incomprehensible.
Neon ads dancing across skyscrapers—one for beer, featuring giant fucking boobies. Flying cars humming overhead. Sirens. Gunfire. The air reeked of piss and oil.
Yeah. That's just fucking cyberpunk.
Looks like the world made its next move.
Game's not over.
Not yet.