Osaka, 2075The city pulses with neon veins and synthetic breath. Amid it all, I bury myself in regenerative biology—less a job, more an obsession.
I'm 24. Not a kid anymore, not quite grizzled by life, but I carry my family's weight like it's etched into my DNA. Maturity didn't come with time. It came with need.
I remember being a boy, sitting under a flickering streetlamp when someone asked, "What's your dream?"
I blinked, confused. "What's a dream?" I asked.
He chuckled. "It's what your heart wants most."
I thought hard, then shook my head. "I don't think I have one."
I loved my family. But beyond them—nothing. No ambition. No fire. Just silence.
Until that stormy night.The kind where thunder growls and rain hits the roof like war drums.
The lights flickered. I sat alone on the floor with instant noodles, flipping through static-filled channels—when a film caught my eye.
A man took a steel rod through the gut. Collapsed. Blood pooled. Silence.
Then… fingers twitched. Bones snapped back, skin stitched itself whole. In seconds, he was healed. No scars. No pain.
I froze.It wasn't horror—it was divine. Perfect biological control. The idea gripped me like a vice.
Regeneration.
From that moment, I couldn't unsee it.
The next morning, I tore into textbooks: stem cells, axolotls, starfish. I studied gene clusters, children with hyper-healing, trees regrowing stronger after damage.
Grades? Irrelevant. I wanted answers.
Immortality.
Not a fantasy—an equation I had to solve.
Some say vampires regenerate from blood, phoenixes rise from ash, dragons outlast time. But I didn't care for myths.
I wanted the breach in nature's armor. The fault line where death slips through. And if it didn't exist?
Then I'd create it.
That hunger—the need to stare death in the eye and not blink—became everything.
Of course, chasing the impossible wasn't cheap.
I built a cyber-tech side hustle—an underground matrix of encrypted jobs. Hacking firewalls protected by quantum locks. Erasing AI footprints from blacksite databases. Quiet, invisible work.
It funded my lab. My research. My madness.
Now, standing in front of my childhood home, not much had changed. Same chipped paint. Same cracked tile on the porch.
I hadn't told anyone I was coming.
Quietly, I slid my hand over the door handle. It clicked open. I lifted the creaky frame and eased in.
The smell of cardamom and fried onions filled the air.
There she was—Mom—humming softly as she cooked. Hair tied back, flour on her cheek, moving with that calm rhythm only she possessed.
I crept closer, already smiling. One step, then two—
"Boohoo!" she shouted, whipping around with a grin.
I yelped, stumbling back. "Mom! How—? I was stealth itself!"
She crossed her arms. "Please. You sneak like a baby giraffe."
Laughing, she pointed to the shiny backsplash behind the stove. My reflection was perfectly exposed.
"Clever mom," I said, shaking my head.
"Decades of practice. And a little kitchen surveillance," she winked.
That night, the house felt warmer than memory. Not from the lights—but from all of us. Together.
Mom moved like wind between stove and table, her eyes scanning each of us—checking if we were fed, rested, happy.
Dad sat at the head. Retired commando. Still built like a tank, arms crossed like he was guarding a war room. Eyes sharp, always reading the room. But when he looked at Mom, the edge softened.
"So," he said, mouth half-full. "You finally came home."
"Needed Himalayan soil samples," I grinned. "Six months isn't that long."
Sera, across from me, snorted. "That's half a year, genius."
My sister. Molecular biology professor. Glasses she didn't need, sarcasm she didn't hide.
"Still making students cry?" I teased.
"That was one time. He cheated."
Rio, seventeen and all chaos, laughed. "You two are terrifying."
"You still aiming for science?" I asked.
"Duh," he said. "One Coer isn't enough."
Dad gave him a nod—small, but heavy. Mom beamed.
"You should've seen him last week," she said, placing another dish. "Nearly blew up the hydro vents."
"Controlled detonation," Rio muttered.
Laughter filled the room. The kind you don't plan—the kind only history and blood can create.
The walls leaned in, listening. And I knew—no matter where I went chasing immortal secrets, this would always pull me back.
The next morning, sun filtered gently across my childhood ceiling.
I stayed in bed a moment longer, letting it warm my face.
Downstairs, the scent of toast and tea drifted up. Part of me wanted to stay—just a little longer.
But science waits for no one.
My lab was fifteen kilometers away, buried in a government fortress built for the elite.
At breakfast, Mom handed me a bento with her signature smirk. "Eat this. Not test tubes."
Sera sipped her coffee. "He probably regenerates lunch from leftovers."
Rio laughed. "Or grows a sandwich from starfish DNA."
"Hey—" I started to protest.
And then, I paused, watching them laugh, argue, tease.
And I smiled. Just for a second longer.