When it began, I remember — it was evening.

I was lounging on my couch like the average guy who had lived over two decades, sipping a light unfiltered beer and scrolling through Instagram. Truth be told, moments like these were rare for me. Not because I couldn’t afford them — far from it. I had more money than I knew what to do with. But what I lacked was time — time to relax and think about nothing. Constant calls from clients, signing papers and contracts, planning future sales, holding meetings and conferences — it all drained me, even though it brought me money.

Ah, money. It solves everything, doesn’t it? It has, it does, and it always will. You can buy anything these days. But does buying something guarantee satisfaction? Take love, for example. You can buy it — it’s even easier than buying a car. Flash some cash around a group of women at a bar, and voilà — there’s your 'love.' But that was never enough for me. I couldn’t stand the thought of being loved only for my wealth. That’s why, even now, I didn’t have a wife or even a steady girlfriend. The same went for friends. I didn’t have any of those either because, by the time I was eighteen, I realized I was just a convenient, profitable 'friend' and nothing more.

That’s the price of luxury, the price of being able to buy anything and anyone: loneliness. A crushing, persistent, gnawing loneliness that transcends time, place, or any fleeting emotions. Add the stress of a demanding job, dealing with some downright idiotic clients who need everything spoon-fed to them, and sprinkle in insomnia and apathy. The result? Health problems were inevitable.

By that evening, I’d had some health issues nagging at me, but I paid them no attention. A runny nose? So what. A headache? Big deal. But then it happened.

There I was, sitting, sipping my beer, minding my own business — and suddenly, this deafening hum erupted in my ears. I thought I’d go deaf on the spot. I jumped off the couch, looking around — nothing in my apartment could’ve made that sound. I figured it must’ve been someone honking outside or something, but then it happened again. And again. And I realized this wasn’t coming from outside — it was inside my head. My head was literally buzzing, like it was exploding with a torrent of noise and sound.

My vision darkened, and I started sliding down the wall. My head was spinning, everything blurred, doubled, even tripled before my eyes. I felt nauseous. Trying to stifle the nausea, I clamped my mouth shut with shaky hands — and felt something hot and sticky on my fingers. Blood. It was pouring from my nose, my eyes, even my ears. My strength abandoned me, and I collapsed with one thought in my mind: “Is this the end?”

To my surprise, I woke up feeling oddly refreshed, like I’d slept for three days straight. I stumbled to the mirror and confirmed it — the blood was real. Dried streaks of crimson-black trailed down my face. Washing up, I decided to head to the hospital immediately before another episode hit. My heart pounded as my mind raced with questions: “What is this? Am I dying? What triggered this?”

I ordered a taxi — I didn’t trust myself to drive — and headed to the best hospital in the city. It was a long drive, nearly an hour and a half, thanks to the rush-hour traffic as everyone headed home from work.

I don’t remember much about arriving. I mumbled something to the receptionist, then two burly orderlies practically dragged me after the doctor. My brain felt like mush — a swirling mess of words, thoughts, voices, and ideas, as if I were seconds away from blacking out again.

When I came to, I was lying on a couch in a pristine white hospital room. A doctor with a gray beard sat nearby, studying me with a curious, almost analytical gaze.

“Good evening, young man,” he said hoarsely: “What’s your name?”

“Good… uh…” my tongue felt heavy: “Chuck.”

“And how old are you, Chuck?”

“I’m… I’m…” damn, how old am I? My brain refused to recall anything: “Listen, this might sound weird, but I don’t remember…”

“That’s not the only strange thing, young man. Everything about you is strange,” he scratched his beard and walked over to a desk covered in papers and a computer: “Based on the documents we found on you, you’re twenty-three years old. And at such a young age, you’ve got some serious issues we have no idea how to address.”

“What? Wait… What do you mean?”

“Do you remember what happened to you three days ago?”

“Three days?! I’ve been here for three days?” I was stunned.

“Yes, young man. So, do you remember?”

“Hard to forget,” I replied, trying to force a smile, though I doubted it looked convincing: “Blood everywhere! From my eyes, nose, ears. My head felt like it was exploding. I saw double, felt nauseous, and then blacked out. And when I woke up here, the same thing happened, though I’m not sure if there was blood that time…”

“There was, Chuck. Our cleaning staff almost fainted when they saw that bloody mess. It scared all the patients. Has anything like this ever happened to you before?”

“Well, my head hurt in the evenings sometimes, but I always chalked it up to work stress.”

“And what do you do for work, if you don’t mind me asking? Or do you not remember that either?” he asked, smirking slyly.

No matter how hard I tried to dig through my memory, I came up empty. I could only shake my head weakly, my eyes wide open. This was getting stranger by the second.

“Do you remember the car you arrived in?”

The answer came automatically: “Mercedes-Benz E-Class 2013 W212, black.”

“I knew it… I kne-ew it…” he muttered under his breath, typing something into the computer.

“What’s wrong with me? Am I… am I dying, doctor?”

“I don’t know, son. I have no idea what’s wrong with you. Over the past three days, we’ve run every possible test — necessary and unnecessary — and found nothing. Nothing that could explain the temporary memory loss, the extreme spike in intracranial pressure, or the bleeding. Nothing. We don’t know what this is, what caused it, how to treat it, or if treatment is even possible.

All I can suggest is that you get an MRI, consult more specialists, and hear their opinions. As for me, I can only reach out to research centers that handle cases like yours and hope we can find a solution. If this turns out to be an infectious disease, we’ll need to act fast before it becomes an epidemic where people drop dead in the streets from massive pressure spikes and their brains literally melting.”

MRI showed no results; according to it, I was a completely healthy person. Other doctors also shrugged and had no idea what to do while I was dying. Every night, I was dying. Dying from the realization that I could do nothing. It wasn’t just that existing treatments didn’t work for me — it was that they didn’t exist at all. No one could do anything, and this helplessness, this inaction of everyone I turned to, was killing not just my body but any will to fight for my life.

Each day, I grew worse and worse. I stopped sleeping and eating normally. My anxiety spiked to such a level that I felt ready to give up every second. No amount of money could help — there wasn’t a single sum that could solve my problem because no one knew how to solve it… no one except one man.

***

“I see your problem is very serious. I see you’re ready to do anything to preserve your life, to take any action. And this sum...” The man, about forty years old, wearing a white coat, was counting the money I had poured out before him, accompanied by my desperate plea: “Do something!”

Finally, he spoke: "I can help you."

Were these the words I had been waiting for all this time? My breath caught in my chest as he said them. I was ready to leap with joy, to hug and kiss him. But with a slight wave of his hand, he stopped my body, which hadn’t even begun to react, and delivered words both thunderous and cutting:

“But! But-but-but...” he clicked his tongue: “I can’t guarantee that my option will save you. All I can do is hand you over to, hopefully, reliable hands.”

“What do you mean? What do you plan to do?”

“I’ve seen your case described on a website. I have some connections in one organization. Long story short, there’s a company actively experimenting with freezing humans and “sending” them into the future — to see if they can live long enough to reach that very future. And I’ll tell you this — it’s real. A few volunteers have already been placed into special “capsules.” Their conditions are stable; their illnesses have stopped progressing. Here’s what I’m proposing: become one of these volunteers and hope that in the future, science will advance enough for other scientists and doctors to help you.”

After a dramatic pause, he asked: “Do you agree?”

“I agree.”

I had no other plan. My body was technically healthy but was dying, refusing to function. I had nothing to lose. My business would no longer matter if I survived the experiment because I had spent all my money here and now. I had no close ones to mourn me if I died — everyone would only gain from this. I might heal, and science might progress from my participation.

***

“Close your eyes and breathe — only through the tubes connected to you,” commanded a stately female voice through the speakers in my capsule.

Something, probably cold, began to fill the glass pod around me. I couldn’t feel it, thanks to whatever they had injected into me hours earlier. Metal tubes had been attached to my body to supply oxygen and nutrients. This substance enveloped me like a viscous, liquid jelly that solidified more and more with each passing second. And I fell asleep — lulled by a high dose of oxygen that made me lightheaded.

***

When I opened my eyes, I didn’t recognize where I was. A spacious hall shimmered with wires and devices I didn’t understand. “I did it! The experiment worked! If I woke up, it means I was unfrozen; it means they’ll help me — or maybe they already have!” I tried to stand but found my body restrained on a metal table.

“Calm down, calm down,” a deep, elderly voice echoed through the room, sending shivers down my spine.

I raised my head. Before me, in a large chair, sat an old man, around seventy, reading news off an almost transparent screen. His fingers swiped to zoom in on images and text, flipping to the next page without touching the projection. Antennas implanted in his ears occasionally emitted high-pitched sounds that hurt my ears.

Through a large window, I saw skyscrapers, strangely shaped aircraft, and a peculiar sight: each plot of land outside had different weather. Snow in one area, rain in another, and over this building — sunshine.

Finally tearing my eyes away from the scene, I addressed the old man:

“Where am I? Is my body okay? Have I been cured?”

He studied me with a curious gaze, seeming to process my questions, then gave an ambiguous nod.

“What year is it?”

“3865.”

With these words, he stood and began walking toward me.

“Why am I restrained? Can you please free me?” I started struggling against the binds, but the old man raised his hands in a calming gesture.

“Careful! Please, be careful! You still need to prepare for the heart transplant.”

“What...? Is something wrong with my heart?”

He gave me a look, almost amused.

“Oh no, don’t be silly! Your heart is perfectly fine. I didn’t spend a fortune on you at the auction for nothing. But mine... mine has been acting up lately.”