[Eden City - East District Underground Mall]

John lay on the clinic chair.

The rotating arc-shaped metal slowly moved, emitting an azure glow that illuminated his bloodshot eyes—performing a check through simple rendering of the prosthetic eye and nervous system.

John recounted Qiao's story to the doctor.

Ryan Randall tapped on the keyboard, occasionally responding, and suddenly looked at him with a suspicious gaze, asking.

"You offed that gambling addict, why the hell did you still bother dragging him to Oil Barrel Street to cremate the body?"

"Disposing of the body?"

John pondered and answered. "Mainly for satisfaction, hey, the guy was a jerk, a gambler, a sadist, deserved it."

"Did you get a thrill from flogging the corpse?"

"..."

John almost lifted his head, the machine beeped, and after a moment of silence, he couldn't help but gripe.

"Shit, you're one hell of a pervert, doctor."

"I'm diagnosing you, you Shark Coin."

Ryan hit the confirm key.

The scanning program was outputting a report.

The doctor swiveled his chair, slid toward a nearby glass cup, and then with a very serious tone explained.

"You better recall if there was... some bizarre sense of release when killing, or if during work, you were particularly sensitive to violent imagery... intermittent heart palpitations, uncontrollable rage, the urge to fire on air or living beings."

Ryan calmly picked up his glass and waited for an answer.

John stayed silent.

He propped up his body, hunched over on the operating table, light casting a monstrous shadow on the floor, his mind constantly conjuring scenes from the arms dealer's basement.

Ryan seemed to have anticipated this.

"Your prefrontal lobe is X-ed up, it's now like a short-circuited metal component, any minor stimulus bombards your reason, the next step is prosthetic body malfunction, intermittent amnesia, and various hallucinations."

"F*ck, get me a drink."

John grabbed the bottle, poured himself a drink.

"The Omega Inhibitor is useless, its threshold is just for laughs."

"If it was truly useless, you'd be dead already."

Ryan rotated the monitor on the cantilever.

"Your original organs are somewhat fragile, leading to poor drug treatment effects."

"How much longer do I have to live?"

"Can't say, even if you do nothing, in two months you'll deteriorate to the next stage."

"Holy shit, that soon?"

Upon hearing the dire news, John emptied his glass, then took a few bold gulps directly from the bottle.

His esophagus felt like it had been sliced with a knife, the uncontrollable alcohol vapors rushed from his nasal bridge straight to his brain.

The doctor frowned and looked at the monitor.

"Indeed, your body is extremely... damn peculiar, I can't describe it, just feel it's not so robust, and the deterioration rate of cyber psychosis is absurdly fast."

Ryan shook his head, not thinking further.

"Of course, two months is a conservative estimate, I can tell you don't want to wait for death, give it all you've got... there's no choice now, right?"

[Threshold: 65%]

The syringe rolled on the floor.

The cleaning robot bumped it to the sofa's corner, next to a stack of delivery boxes.

On the dining table was a finished steak.

The farmer's fresh delivery routes were still operational, with a dedicated account to pay John's wages.

John emptied his balance, and exchanged it with Angelica for a lavish meal—a top-tier steak, master-level cooking paired with fine wine and accompaniments, just right at the doorstep temperature-wise.

The apartment's sound system played new rock music.

The tenant's rent included a package by default, with several news channels and hot shows of the moment, along with multiple music packages to choose from.

John enjoyed the music, busy in the workshop, with no signs of impending doom.

He had some experience enduring sudden changes, the worst outcome was returning to the scrap yard's starting line.

Time was indeed pressing.

But there were no leads.

John rested at home for two days.

The world was calm.

Perhaps he enjoyed top-notch rest in the Steel Hot Forest, or it was the side effects of the Omega Inhibitor, or maybe an urgency stemming from deep within...

He didn't sleep soundly.

Compared to other dying individuals.

John also emptied his pockets, yet didn't choose to binge drink or use drugs, he continued to strive in life, such as replicating his assembly line in the new workshop.

The equipment was newly purchased.

The cabinet was delivered home, some copy-paste chips had no extra charges, said to be an old customer discount.

John took advantage of this time to install everything, the assembly and program compilation were ready-made, just different in size with two extra robotic arms.

There were differences nonetheless.

The Black Light feature was restricted, the workshop system hadn't been scanned, nor could it be remotely controlled city-wide via the Atlanta Virtual Network.

John was adjusting the bullet pressing process on the panel when he suddenly received a message.

[Unread Message - Alonna]

[I'm in Eden City, planning to pick up a new car, wanna come?]

John, currently without a goal, didn't view it as a waste of time, he had a good relationship with the Damascus Camp, so even if he was truly unlucky and had to kick the bucket, meeting a few acquaintances in the city wouldn't be a bad idea.

He accepted Alonna's invitation.

[See you at the camp, bring your gun.]

John sensed a whiff of menace.

The last time Alonna saw John was when he fought the Exile leader Sarazi.

That time, her arms were damaged, the main combat sniper rifle was scrapped, and then she left Eden City to recuperate with her family.

The first thing she asked when seeing John again was.

"Where's the Silver Rider?"

"Crashed, rim deformed, flipped over in the tunnel."

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