The year was 2096 — a world draped in neon haze and digital chatter. Hover-buses whispered down the sky lanes, gliding silently above magnetic rails. Billboards breathed and blinked, changing images like thoughts, selling dreams that no one could afford anymore. Even the air smelled synthetic — a cocktail of ozone, engine mist, and recycled rain. At the edge of a half-collapsed bus stand, a man sat — clothes rumpled, hair unwashed, eyes heavy with the kind of pain that comes from living too long. In one hand, he clutched a half-empty bottle of whiskey; in the other, a dying cigarette that barely glowed through the drizzle. That man is me. My name — or at least the one I go by this century — is Callum Vire. I've had many names through the centuries, most long forgotten, some carved on tombstones that still bear my face. But these days, most people just call me The Freak. I guess that's my new name for the next hundred years. I took another swig from the bottle, the warmth doing l
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