The door handle slowly turned downward—creaking softly, as if reluctant to usher anyone into a room that was far too quiet. Someone opened it—stepped inside—then closed it again with a sharp click that echoed through the stillness of the night. He removed his shoes; the faint sound of soles brushing against the marble floor lingered briefly before fading away.
With steps that were calm yet certain—measured, disciplined, almost like a metronome—he walked toward the small table in the corner of his private room. His hand reached for a glass that had already been filled with water. The water trembled slightly when his fingers touched the surface of the glass—whether because of the room's cold temperature, or something unseen, was unclear. He sat down in his chair—a luxurious black leather seat—and let out a long breath.
The room was spacious, yet it felt empty. The walls were lined with thin, inactive screens; faint blue LED lights reflected the image of his face, now etched with the lines of time. Outside the window, towering buildings rose high, glowing with flickering neon lights—advertising holograms floated in the air, and drones passed by with a soft bzzzt. The city was alive—too alive—while the room itself felt dead.
He pressed the on button on the television—tick. The screen lit up with a blinding white glow before shifting into a live broadcast. The opening music played—cheerful, energetic, almost excessive.
"We have a special guest with us today! He is a veteran of the entertainment industry for decades, renowned for creating astonishing forms of entertainment. Who else but Mo Fanglei!! Make sure this broadcast airs on December 10, 2077 at 10 a.m.!"
The applause of the audience echoed from the screen—clap! clap! clap!—accompanied by synthetic cheers far too perfect to be called natural.
He immediately turned off the television—click.
Silence crept back in, heavier than before.
He slowly walked toward the window—observing the neon-lit skyscrapers filled with advanced technology. His reflection appeared faintly on the glass; his hair had turned white, his eyes weary, yet his gaze remained sharp—still alive.
"Akhh.. I am already tired of all this. If only another world truly existed, I would want to bring entertainment to everyone there, because all of my goals here have already been achieved.. "
The words slipped out gently—without explosive emotion, without exaggerated complaint—only bitter honesty. Outside, the city hummed—hummm—lights flickered, vehicles hovered as they passed through the air, and three-dimensional advertisements called out the names of products he no longer cared about.
"My name is Mo Fanglei. I was born in 2001, an era when digital screens had just begun colonizing human eyes. Since childhood, I was never interested in climbing trees or fighting; instead, I preferred sitting in the corner of a room, arranging the layout of my toys, thinking about how to make my cousins pay a coin from their allowance just to watch the puppet 'show' I created. Entertainment is my blood
In 2022, I stepped into the real mud of the industry. I was nothing more than a stage crew assistant assigned to sweep cables and endure the promoter's insults. There, I learned one thing: People will pay dearly to forget harsh reality, even if only for one hour.
In 2038, my world collapsed and rose at the same time. The design of my first hologram theme park was stolen by my own company. I was betrayed, fell into poverty, and nearly gave up. But a professional does not die from failure; a professional learns from betrayal. I began building my own empire from scratch, combining Virtual Reality technology with tangible physical experiences.
In 2060, my name had become a legend whispered through the neon corridors of the city. I was no longer merely an event organizer—I was an architect of pleasure. I built the most magnificent gambling district in the world, underwater malls, and even haunted house simulations capable of traumatizing a seasoned mercenary.
Untilfinally, in 2077, when my hair had turned white and my experience had reached its highest peak as a veteran of the industry, I felt boredom because my goal had already been achieved."
Those words echoed in his mind—flowing like an old recording replayed once more. He smiled faintly—the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening.
"I remember my past days—struggling until.. This far," he said while drinking from his glass.
The water tasted bland—there was no flavor of victory, no bitterness—only emptiness. He stared at the ceiling; tiny lights shimmered like artificial stars. In the distance, sirens could be heard faintly—wee-ooo, wee-ooo—perhaps an accident, perhaps a celebration, perhaps both at once. This city never stopped.
Suddenly—thud!
The sound was heard by no one except himself.
His heart began beating irregularly—thud... thud-thud... thud!—like an iron hand crushing him from within. His breath hitched. His fingers weakened. The glass slipped from his grasp—falling onto the floor—crash!—shattering into sparkling fragments beneath the light.
His hand clutched his chest—his breathing broken and uneven. His vision blurred—the neon lights outside the window stretching into meaningless streaks.
The servants who heard the strange noise rushed toward their master's private room to perform first aid—their footsteps hurried—tap! tap! tap!—the door was pushed open—bang!—panicked voices filled the room.
"Sir?! Sir!!"
One servant knelt down, gently patting his cheek—another grabbed a communication device and called an ambulance. The operator's voice sounded fast—broken—while Mo Fanglei's breathing grew weaker.
"Please send an emergency unit immediately—northern district address—quick!"
But it was already too late..
Mo Fanglei, lying limp with blood at his mouth, "is this the end of my life? This.. Is truly pathetic, but if I am given a second chance then I will use it well.. " he thought before exhaling his final breath in his own room even though the servants had called the ambulance as quickly as they could.
The sirens finally sounded closer—wee-ooo! wee-ooo!—red and blue lights reflected across the bedroom walls. But that final second had already passed. The portable heart monitor emitted a long sound—tiiiiiit—without pause.
Outside, the city remained illuminated—remained noisy—remained alive.
But for Mo Fanglei, everything became silent—dark—and empty.
To be continued..