The twentieth century left us with nothing but debts and hollow dreams, and there, between those two stands our protagonist—a solitary figure etched in the grey ink of desperation. He is a man hollowed by the mundane horror of insolvency, a spectre haunted by his own life.
In his pocket lies a faustian pact for the digital age. A contest run by "Mr. Something," which some people may even dare to name "Beast," an electronic phantom, a deity of the fibre-optic void.
The ritual is banal: seventy-two hours in the rotting carcass of St. James Hospital.
The sacrament? A bottle of viscous, neon-orange sludge.
A horrid alchemical mistake...