The Dwelling  

Chapter 14: The Dwelling 

"Alright, bro, are we heading inside to keep playing, or should we go to our place?" Paul had barely finished speaking when the building behind them exhaled heavily, sending a violent burst of white fireworks into the air. 

"Play? After everything that's happened today? Let's just find a place to rest." Kestrel's nerves had been stretched to their limit, frayed and ready to snap. All he wanted now was a moment of respite. 

Paul, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed—borderline reckless. Barely escaping death, and yet he had the audacity to bring them to a place like this. 

As the car pulled away, Kestrel gazed out the window at the kaleidoscope of neon and chaos outside. Everything felt eerily surreal. After a while, he turned his attention to Paul, who was, as expected, not driving properly—too busy live-streaming again. 

Despite his carefree demeanor, there was no denying Paul's loyalty. 

"Hey, you reckless idiot, you're broke, yet you're still spending like there's no tomorrow? Treating us, ordering extra drinks—at first, I thought you were some rich kid." 

"Shit, what kind of talk is that?" Paul scoffed, slamming his foot on the gas, sending the car roaring forward. "I risk my damn life to make money—why the hell would I hoard it? If I die with cash left unspent, now that would be a real tragedy." 

Kestrel shook his head slightly. He could never understand Paul's philosophy on money or life itself. 

He had seen depictions of futuristic cities in movies before, but never had he imagined that the real future would look like this. 

A blur of Chinese characters flashed past—a street sign. Kestrel knew they had entered Queens. 

The car wove through the towering cityscape, neon lights gleaming on glass and steel. But as they ventured deeper, the landscape began to shift—the streets grew filthier, garbage piled up along the sidewalks. Though the buildings still shimmered with neon, a sense of decay crept in. 

Then, Kestrel saw him—a frail, staggering old man, pants missing, urinating openly on the roadside. That was the final straw. 

"Paul, where the hell are you taking us?" 

"Our place, of course. Right there, that tower." 

Kestrel followed the direction of Paul's finger and saw it—a skyscraper looming in the distance. 

The structure was bizarre—its lower floors were lit, clearly inhabited, with advertisements plastered along the walls. But as his gaze traveled upward, the building seemed… unfinished. Scaffolding still clung to its upper levels, giving it an odd, disjointed appearance. 

Not quite abandoned, yet not quite complete. 

The car door swung open, and Kestrel, brows furrowed, followed Paul toward the half-built tower. 

Beneath the shelter of the concrete, away from the rain, figures lurked—hollow-eyed, shivering. Their limbs twitched erratically, their gazes vacant, their movements eerily reminiscent of the undead. The stench of human waste clung to the air, garbage bags and excrement scattered about like landmines. 

"This place gives me a bad feeling," Kestrel muttered, pressing a hand over his nose. 

"Relax, bro. Just some junkies who fried their brains. They look creepy, but they're harmless." 

As if to prove his point, Paul pulled out a gun and fired several rounds into the air. 

The reaction was instant—the vagrants scattered like startled rats, scrambling along the walls in a desperate attempt to flee. 

"See? If anyone ever comes begging for food or smokes, just do this. They'll back off real quick." 

Stepping over discarded debris, they entered the elevator. Paul jabbed the button for the 18th floor. 

When the doors slid open, Kestrel took a tentative breath. The air here was stale, thick with mildew, but at least it was free from the nauseating stench below. 

"The stairwell separates two worlds," Paul said, striding down the dimly lit corridor. "Whatever filth is down there? It won't reach us up here." 

Stopping at the third door, Paul scanned his iris. The lock clicked open, and he pushed the door inward. 

A musty odor greeted them, but the apartment itself was clean enough. Small—about 30 square meters—but functional. One bedroom, a living area, and a bathroom. 

What stood out was the partition between the bedroom and the living room—not a traditional door, but a holographic waterfall, shimmering with digital precision. 

Paul clapped a hand against the wall. With a mechanical hum, a section of the right-side panel lifted, revealing a floor-to-ceiling window. Beyond the glass, the neon city lay shrouded in misty rain, a luminous dreamscape. 

"Not bad, huh, bro?" 

"This… this is your place?" 

Paul burst into laughter. "Shit, man, you crack me up. Who the hell actually buys property these days?" 

He flopped onto the gray couch, and a floating 3D screen flickered to life before him. "This belonged to a buddy of mine. I had access to it before he died. No idea how many months of rent he prepaid, but for now, it's all yours. Stay as long as you want—until the landlord finally kicks you out." 

Kestrel took a slow walk around the space. It had everything—fridge, washing machine, wardrobe. There was no need to buy anything; it was ready to live in. 

To be honest, this was far better than he had expected. He had assumed Paul would dump him in some filthy rat hole. 

Paul casually swung one leg as he flipped through the floating channels. Finding nothing of interest, he stood up and stretched. 

"Alright, that's that. You get some rest. Tomorrow, we'll deal with the neural system issue. I've got places to be—69 Club isn't gonna enjoy itself. Can't let that membership fee go to waste. My mom raised me to be a frugal man, after all." 

As Paul sauntered out, TPAL's voice chimed in. "Should I keep an eye on him? Make sure he doesn't run off?" 

"No need," Kestrel replied. "That guy isn't going anywhere. Don't forget, he's a streamer. But stay alert tonight—just in case someone tries to rob us." 

Paul seemed loyal, but trust was a fragile thing, especially in an unfamiliar city. 

Sinking into the couch, Kestrel finally allowed himself to relax. His nerves, so taut throughout the day, slowly began to unwind. He exhaled a deep breath. 

His gaze flickered to TPAL, then to his surroundings. Everything that had transpired felt surreal, like a fever dream. 

For a fleeting moment, he had the absurd notion that if he just closed his eyes and drifted to sleep, he might wake up back in his own world. 

But then he lifted his cold, mechanical arm. He flexed his fingers, watching the metallic joints shift under the dim light. 

No, this was real. All of it. 

A quiet sigh escaped his lips. "If only this were just a dream," he murmured, tilting his head back to stare at the dull gray ceiling. His fingers absently traced the seam where metal met flesh. 

Meanwhile, in the elevator, Paul popped in his earbuds, blasting death metal into his skull. Dialing a familiar number, he smirked as the line connected. 

"Yo, bro, how much did you sell those two guys' info for? How many DogeCoins?" 

"What?! You didn't sell it? Not even for 0.1?!"