The acrid sting of nicotine was a familiar burn in Taji’s lungs, but it was the phantom taste of regret that truly coated his tongue, a bitter residue of memories. July 10th, 2026. Ten days ago, he’d finally had the bullet fragments, lodged in his body for a decade, surgically removed. Now, lying on the stiff hospital bed, he stared at the peeling paint of the ceiling, his mind a projector replaying every frame of his life.

Beneath his left ribcage, the shallow scar was little more than a faded line. But it was more than just a physical mark; it was a monument to the accident, to the New Year's Eve of 2017, and to Bryan. They were sixteen then, fueled by the reckless bravado of youth, and the discovery of a rusty revolver. A moment of morbid curiosity, a foolish prank, and the sharp crack of a gunshot had splintered their lives. Bryan, stunned. Taji, falling.

“Yo, Taji.”