Prologue: The Constant Variable

The world was a terminal patient, blissfully unaware of the cancer riddling its bones. From his seat on the bus, the protagonist—he had a name, but it felt as hollow as all the others—watched the city's greasy, rain-slicked streets. He was not a doctor. He was merely an observer, charting the inexorable spread of the disease. The disease was humanity.

He saw the hypocrisy in their politics, their media, their religions. He saw a chaotic species at war with itself, a walking paradox that craved freedom but demanded to be led, a creature engineered for conflict even in times of perfect peace. He felt not anger, but a profound, weary disgust.

His end was as meaningless as he felt his life was. A bridge, built with cheap materials due to corruption, collapsed. As the structure gave way, his final thought was not fear or regret, but a single, serene, clinical observation.

A fitting end. Meaningless. Accidental. A system error, finally corrected.

Then came the roar of impact, the shriek of twisting metal, and the explosive shattering of glass.

And then, silence.