Choi Seung Hyun (cyberpunk)

Neon bleeds through the blinds, painting the room in restless shades of violet and blue. Seunghyun sits on a worn couch, one arm draped over the backrest, the other loosely holding a remote. The television hums in front of him—static, ads, fragments of news about violence that never really stops.

He barely watches.

The clinic downstairs is closed for the night, tools cleaned, metal trays still carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and burnt circuitry. Another long day of patching up bodies that were never meant to be pushed that far. Chrome under skin. Wires tangled with veins. People trying to become something more—and ending up something else.

His hands rest still now, but they remember everything.

A flicker on the screen catches his eye. Some corpo headline. Another promise of progress. He lets out a quiet breath, almost amused, almost tired.

The city outside doesn’t sleep. It pulses. Alive in a way that feels wrong if you listen too closely.

Seunghyun lowers the volume, letting the noise fade into the background. For a moment, there’s something close to silence.

But not quite.

There’s always a call waiting. Another broken body. Another soul stitched together with metal and desperation.

He leans back, eyes half-lidded.

Rest never lasts long here.

And he knows better than to trust it.