I navigate the city streets like a phantom, unseen among the living, yet I feel every pulse of this neon-infested labyrinth. The air thrums with a murmur of distant machinery, the mechanical serenade of a city that never sleeps, its heartbeat a cacophony of synthetic sounds and human whispers. My name is Elyse, an appellation that swirls like vapor in the smog of this shadowed world, where light is a commodity and darkness an embrace.
Being blind is both a curse and a blessing in this dystopian sprawl of steel and despair. I exist without the burden of images, but not without the weight of perception. I rely on the fragile tapestry of sound, smell, and touch to map my surroundings. The synthetic scent of augmented reality filters through the air, a bitter fragrance layered with the sweet tang of synthetic drugs, that elusive comfort that dances just out of reach.
Tonight, the streets are particularly lively, vibrated by the thrum of desperate souls seeking escape. I can almost taste the desperation, a bittersweet concoction laced with the bitter aftertaste of the city’s top-tier narcotics: Synthcash, Bluelight, and a sinister new cocktail called Dreamweaver, said to bring the user closer to a truth their waking lives refuse to reveal. I can feel the vibration in my bones, hear it echo in the hollow spaces of the alleys. Drug dealers are the true alchemists of this age, promising freedom for a price.
I pivot sharply, my cane tapping rhythmically against the uneven surface. The sound ricochets into the void, bouncing off the ghostly buildings that loom over me like interests racked up in a cruel game of chance. Each tap is a reminder of my existence, a tether to this world that pulls me through the quicksand of my mind. I’ve wandered these halls of disillusionment long enough to know when I’m being watched, the way the air thickens with expectancy.
“Elyse,” a voice slithers through the haze, smooth like silk yet edged with danger—a dealer’s tone, seasoned by negotiations that hang between life and oblivion. It’s Caleb, a familiar specter in my life. I don’t need sight to recognize the timbre behind his words. I can hear the weight of his desperation, the subtle tremor of his ambition.
“Caleb.” My response is clipped; I’ve grown weary of his games, the constant dance of desire and distrust. He’s an architect of highs and lows, weaving dreams for the broken as he shuffles the cards of humanity’s indulgences.
“Thought you might want to know. Dreamweaver is flying off the shelves,” he says, a hint of pride mixing with the unmistakable scent of fear, the two forming a heady cocktail. “Everyone’s looking for the next escape, and I’ve got it.”
“Who’s buying?” I ask, letting the question hang between us like a noose. I do not need to see Caleb to know that he’s wearing a crooked smile, the kind that promises too much and delivers too little.
“Rich kids, mostly. The kind with too much time and too little consequence. But some of them are getting reckless. Found a couple of junkies in the alley last week—overdosed before they even knew what hit them. Too good to be true, or too true to be good.”
I can hear the way his words twist in the air, the palpable tension that comes with power. A dealer thrives on the illusion of control, but in a world where every high has a corresponding low, Caleb is merely a puppet untethered from the strings of fate. I feel a pulse of unease thrum through me, setting my heart racing.
“People are running from their lives, Caleb. They need something to latch onto, anything.” I sense the distance between us, a chasm filled with unfulfilled dreams and half-truths. “But they’ll only dive deeper into the abyss. What happens when they hit the bottom?”
“That’s not my problem, Elyse. I’m just here to make a living.” His voice smoothens, an oily sheen on a rusted cog. “Besides, that’s where you come in.”
“Me?” I scoff, an involuntary sound that echoes in the emptiness around us. “I’m not a part of your supply chain.”
Caleb laughs, a sharp sound that cuts through the ambient noises of the city. “You don’t have to be. You’re a ghost in this world, and ghosts are the best messengers. Deliver the product without ever being seen. You could be my eyes in the dark, Elyse.”
I pause, feeling the weight of his proposition settle on my shoulders. I’ve navigated this underworld long enough to understand its perils, to know the weight a blind person carries when they enter a world built on shadows, secrets, and betrayals. Still, there’s a seductive pull in his offer—a chance to reshape my existence, to become someone other than the blind girl wandering the alleys of Neon District.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the intoxicating blend of exhaust and adrenaline. “What’s in it for me?”
“The thrill, Elyse! The power. You could become a part of something bigger—a pulse in this mechanized heart.” His voice rises, laced with something akin to fervor. “You could carve your name into the walls of this city, be more than a mere observer.”
I feel the truth in his words; I could be more. In a city governed by augmented realities and virtual facades, being unseen can be a blessing. Drug dealers, the architects of escapism and torment, wield power that surpasses the corporeal, and I could slip into that world unnoticed.
But the cautionary whispers of intuition coil like snakes in my mind. I think of the souls I’ve touched who have slipped too far, the ones who chased dreams only to find demons lurking in the corners. “Count me out.”
“Elyse,” he pleads, desperation creeping back into his tone. “You have no idea what the stakes are. The system out there—it’s designed to crush us. People with power will do anything to maintain the status quo, and the ones at the bottom are just collateral.”
“Then let them be collateral,” I respond, my words finding their footing in the firmament of reality. “This is your world, not mine.”
“Anyone can be collateral,” he snaps, irritation punctuating his words. “You think being blind makes you immune? They’ll use you just the same, and when they’re done, you’ll just be another ghost.”
“And you think being a dealer is different? You’re no more than a pawn.” The air between us thickens with tension, charged silence rippling through the depths of the alley, where shadows dance in the light of flickering neon signs.
We stand on the precipice of choices, of paths diverging into two lifetimes—one steeped in the intoxicating thrill of power and the other in the suffocating embrace of despair. “I’m not in the business of chasing dreams built on delusion,” I say, grounding my resolve.
“Fine,” he replies, voice icy now, venom lacing the syllables. “But when you find yourself drowning in the same abyss you tried to escape, don’t come crawling back to me.”
The sound of his footsteps recedes into the thrum of the city, leaving me alone with the echoes of what might have been. There’s a strange clarity that envelops me like the bittersweet embrace of a lover you can’t forget. I feel alive, the pulse of the city coursing through my veins as I resume my journey, each tap of my cane a reminder of my autonomy.
As I walk, I become acutely aware of the lives around me, the tapestry of existence woven from desperation, survival, and fractured dreams. Each sound is a story waiting to be told—a heartbeat quickening in the darkness, a whispered plea for deliverance, the metallic scent of blood mingling with the sweet tang of synthetic euphoria.
Perhaps I am not blind in this society; perhaps blindness is the true clarity. I navigate the city without the blinders of perception, feeling the currents of its underbelly wrap around me, and in this existence, I can choose to either be a victim or the architect.
And so I walk, embracing the shadows, each tap of my cane resonating with the unyielding defiance of a woman who refuses to be defined by the void she cannot see. In a world drowning in color, I am shades of gray, an unseen force moving through the dark, not as a ghost but as a reckoning.
Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.
