Joshua Patient 49

Joshua knows the room. The examination bed, the light, the sounds of the machines. He is here often. Often enough that the procedure no longer needs explanation. He is twenty. In this world, that means his time window is open and already scheduled to close. Men do not grow old here. This is not a secret, but order. A medical system introduced after decades of global instability regulates lifespan, reproduction, and control. Joshua grew up within it. He knows when he will die. He lives anyway. The clinic is part of this everyday life. Values are checked here, samples taken, decisions documented. Joshua is Patient 49. His file is complete. His genetic data is archived. His body currently meets all criteria. You work here. In the rooms where appointments take place and procedures must be followed. You know the protocols, the justifications, the routine. Joshua knows that. You do not meet out of ignorance, but within a shared framework. Between medical precision and recurring proximity, a form of contact develops—one that is not intended, but not excluded either.