In a sudden surge of panic, I found myself at a loss for what to do.

This guy—who I supposed was my brother—had not only managed to sneak up on me in a moment of an embarrassing display of amazement, but was also a total stranger in my world!

My instinctive response was, embarrassingly, to hide.

But given that I was confined to a wheelchair, my feeble attempt at concealment amounted to nothing more than clumsily putting my hands in front of my face. Yeah, as if that would render me invisible or something.

Frankly, I had zero clue what the hell I was doing.

Any remnants of panic begun to evaporate immediately when a roar of laughter erupted from the doorway. The guy—presumably my brother, Gabriel—was practically doubling over, guffawing at my awkward spectacle. The nerve!

My fleeting panic was instantaneously supplanted by a surge of indignation directed at this unfamiliar boy.

"What's so funny, Gab—riel?" I blurted out, my voice tinged with more than a hint of annoyance.

Talk about first impressions. I'd nailed it, alright. Except not.

I'd stumbled over his nickname, realised mid-sentence how ridiculous it sounded, and opted for the full name instead. Which, of course, made zero sense, since 'Gab' and 'Gabriel' have entirely different vocal cadences.

So, yeah. Stellar first impression, Sera.

This only fanned the flames of his already uncontrollable laughter, causing him to literally double over, clutching the edge of the kitchen counter near the entryway for support. The sound of his unrestrained mirth was like a breath of fresh air—so genuine and unburdened, it made me realise I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard someone laugh like that.

An involuntary smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, drawn out by the sheer, gleeful abandon he exhibited. There he was, sinking to the floor, his back resting against the counter as he fought to catch his breath between spasms of laughter.

While he was still lost in his riotous laughter, I took the moment to really look at him.

Gabriel, or 'Gab' as I was apparently supposed to call him, seemed every bit the product of this cyberpunk world that I had expected him to be. At 16, he already had a rebellious edge that screamed 'youthful defiance.'

His hair was an undercut, the sides almost buzzed to the scalp while the top flowed in a chaotic tumble of curls that gleamed an unnatural orange—likely some sort of nano-dye. Piercings dotted his ears, and I even spotted a subtle nose ring glinting in the dim light of our cramped apartment.

His attire, a blend of tech and fashion, complemented his edgy look.

A black, sleeveless vest revealed arms crisscrossed with what seemed to be thin, bioluminescent tattoos, casting a soft glow against his skin. Underneath the vest, a graphic tee sported some inscrutable, futuristic band logo.

He wore baggy, ripped cargo pants that looked like they had already been worn for years. The ensemble was completed by a pair of heavy combat boots, scuffed from what I could only assume were many nights of running through less-than-savoury parts of the city.

As he finally caught his breath and rose, steadying himself against the counter, I realised that his eyes—a bright, electric orange that matched his hair—held a glimmer of something that I couldn't quite place. Mischief, perhaps. Whatever it was, it intrigued me, adding a layer of complexity to this brother I didn't remember but, deep inside, felt I should know.

As his eyes met mine, they flickered briefly, conducting a rapid visual sweep over me. I felt an uncomfortable vulnerability under that gaze, but the intent behind it was clear: This was the assessment of an older brother checking for obvious harm or distress in his younger sister.

As he moved closer, my muscles involuntarily tensed, my grip tightening on the armrests of the wheelchair. Despite the burgeoning realisation that he was supposed to be family, he was, to me, still an enigma wrapped in a riddle. I'd just met the guy, after all.

He halted midway, catching the subtle cues of my discomfort—a pause that spoke volumes.

Good on him.

It's a strong indicator of decent upbringing: If you sense you're making someone, especially someone in a vulnerable position compared to yourself, uneasy, put on the brakes, buddy!

“How are you feeling, Sera?” He asked after a moment, his voice laced with genuine concern.

It was honestly surprising how much that simple question impacted me.

When was the last time anyone had genuinely cared about how I felt? Had actually, genuinely and truly, wanted to know my thoughts?

I found myself fighting back tears involuntarily.

‘Why the fuck are you so emotional about this, Sera?!’ I chided myself, trying to cover my emotional vulnerability with self-directed anger—a true staple of mine.

Suddenly, I felt surprisingly strong arms pull me into a gentle hug; now all bets were off. To make matters worse, it seemed that somehow, somewhere, my body—Sera’s body—remembered the comforting touch of her brother.

It started raining in our apartment right away, like a dam had burst that had kept the floods at bay for far too long. Of course, being the strong, independent woman that I was, I absolutely did not cry. Not a single tear. Nope, not one.

After regaining some semblance of composure, I ventured softly, "I'm fine now... Thanks, Gabriel."

He gave me one last reassuring squeeze before he cautiously retreated, distancing himself by a few measured steps. Clearly, he still remembered my earlier tension—kudos to mom and dad for teaching him boundaries!

For a few seconds, our eyes locked in an awkward tableau, as if searching for some flicker of familial recognition. Finally, he averted his gaze and awkwardly broached the elephant in the room. "So... Dad mentioned you're dealing with some kind of amnesia? Is that why our conversation feels a bit, um, off-kilter?"

Seizing the opportunity he'd presented, I jumped right in. "Yeah, I don't remember a thing... I'm sorry. If Oliv—dad hadn't told me I had a brother, I wouldn't even recognize you. My memory's completely gone."

Laying it out like that felt peculiar, disorienting even.

It wasn't the half-truth that bothered me; I had no qualms about bending the truth when needed. But presenting my situation in such blunt terms felt odd in itself. The expressions hushing over his face as I spoke, a blend of confusion, hurt, and a dash of existential pondering, didn't help settle my discomfort either.

Feeling the emotional scales tip, I sensed it was my turn to offer some comfort.

"Don't worry, I'm sure I'll start remembering things soon! You'll help me piece it all back together, won't you?" I said, infusing my voice with an extra dollop of sugary reassurance.

The effect was instantaneous; a glimmer of relief washed over his face as he responded, "Um, yeah, absolutely. I'm here for you, sis. You know that. Ahh… Well, I guess now you know that?"

His slightly awkward fumbling for words elicited a laugh from me, lifting the atmosphere even more.

I had to keep in mind that beneath the layers of street-smart savvy and well-placed boundaries—an impressive feat for a teenager in this chaotic, cyberpunk world—lay a simple 16-year-old boy who had just been hit with the reality that his younger sister had completely wiped him from her memory—involuntarily, of course.

Seizing the opportune moment to dig for some much-needed insights, I latched onto the chance like a pitbull with a chew toy. "So, fill me in on me—on Sera. Maybe hearing about myself could give my memory a much-needed kick?"

Gabriel's expression shifted into a pensive one as he deftly navigated around my wheelchair, making his way to the worn, familiar couch—the same stage for my laughably ambitious workout attempts—and sank into its inviting, yet definitely thoroughly worn, cushions.

"Where to even begin," he mused, his eyes unfocused as if scanning the far reaches of his thoughts. Minutes ticked by in a slow crawl, and I was just on the brink of prodding him—worried that he had somehow drifted into a mental void—when his voice broke the silence.

“So… You’re a bit of a blank.”

Wha…! How dare he!

Here I had been bracing myself for some deeply profound self-revelation, and he slingshots 'blank' at me? And no, blank was not a terrible way to censor an insult. ‘Blank’ was one of those cyberpunk genre-typical slang terms.

In the world of Neon Dragons, you called someone a blank if they were an absolute, complete and utter, moron. As in, “they are completely blank in the head”. My friends and I had started using blank as a friendly insult among each other in my past life after the release of the game as well. It was quick, easy to use and got the point across!

"Also, you're kind of a bitch," he tacked on almost instantaneously, sending the final straw crashing onto my already fractured patience.

Just as I was about to angrily roll my wheelchair toward him—fully intent on administering a thrashing for the ages—his palms shot up in a defensive surrender, and he hurriedly elaborated.

"Look, don't shoot the messenger! You asked, and I'm laying it out: You're a blank bitch. You've got this whole lone-wolf persona going on, always entangled in your own web of stuff. A teenage rebel in perpetual opposition to, well, everything. When mom or dad request anything from you, your knee-jerk reaction is to do precisely the opposite—just for the sheer pleasure of being contrary.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"And if they try to extend a helping hand? Forget about it. You're too mature—too self-sufficient—to need assistance from anyone, thank you very much. Particularly in this last year, you've pulled away, creating a growing chasm not just between you and them, but also between us. I won't lie; it's stung."

He paused, as if grappling with some internal disquiet. "You kept me in the loop for the most part, until approximately two months ago. I thought maybe you needed your space, so I backed off, but then..." His voice wavered, tinged with a cocktail of guilt and regret.

It clicked. The pieces of the puzzle abruptly fell into place. "Then I vanished. Ended up comatose in some forgotten alley’s trash can," I concluded, my voice laden with a newfound sense of gravity.

"Yeah... I'm so sorry, Sera," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes averted to the worn, grimy carpet that adorned our apartment's floor.

The weight of self-blame hung palpably in the air around him, a thick fog of guilt for a tragedy he had no part in—at least as far as I was aware.

I found myself grappling for the right words, stuck in a conundrum of how to ease his misplaced guilt.

What could I possibly even say? 'It's not your fault'? In a situation as complex as this, such a statement seemed like trivial platitudes at best, and condescending reassurance at worst.

At that moment, I was uncomfortably aware of my own emotional ineptitude.

Comforting people, particularly when it came to such heavy emotional burdens, was never my strong suit—even in my past life, I was more likely to face a problem with action rather than empathy. Yet, here was my brother, clearly in pain, and I was out of my depth on how to make it better.

An awkward tension stretched between us, his eyes still glued to the floor as if the right words to say might suddenly manifest there. I rolled my eyes at my own lack of emotional acumen and finally decided to cut through the dense atmosphere the only way I knew how—with bad humour.

"Well... Maybe I can stop being such a blank bitch then," I said, a playful grin tugging at my lips. "Since I don't even remember being one, I'd probably suck at imitating it. Maybe I can try being a rockstar or something this time around, instead?"

Gabriel let out a snort, momentarily caught off guard by my audacity. 'Mission accomplished,' I mused internally, a self-satisfied smirk lighting up my face.

"You're such a blank, Sera," he said, but the laughter dancing in his eyes belied his words. "Seriously though, I was scared you were... y’know.... I'm just really, genuinely relieved you’re okay."

Unable to resist the perfect set-up, I arched an eyebrow in mock-exasperation and theatrically lifted my hands towards my wheelchair-bound legs, palms up in a 'you're kidding, right?' gesture. The unspoken irony hung in the air like a thick fog, but if it got him to smile, even for a moment, it was worth it.

For a split second, Gabriel's eyes went saucer-like, as if he'd tripped on a social landmine. But when he caught sight of my playfully exaggerated expression, his anxiety dissolved, replaced by a chuckle. "You've developed a sense of humour, I see… Not sure how to feel about that one, yet. I will clarify—I'm glad you're mostly okay, aside from being wheelchair-bound for the moment, you irredeemable blank."

'Nailed it,' I thought, mentally awarding myself points for comedic timing.

Despite my best efforts to maintain a neutral expression, a broad, smug grin broke through, practically carving itself onto my face. And why shouldn't it? It had been an eternity since I'd shared a genuine, unguarded moment with another human being, let alone a family member.

It felt surprisingly good.

"So, any word from the docs about your legs?" he inquired, glancing dubiously at the battered wheelchair that looked like it had been salvaged from the set of a dystopian movie. "I mean, you're not going to be confined to that relic forever, are you?"

He seemed to catch his own unintended insensitivity a beat too late and hastily added, "Not that it would be a big deal! I'd be more than willing to continue to help you out, of course!"

The sensation was odd, being tiptoed around by Gabriel, who wasn’t really my brother but may as well have been for all the emotional complexity of the situation. While I understood his hesitation, his cautiousness was grating. I realised I didn't want to be seen as fragile or different just because I was temporarily tied to this creaking, outdated wheelchair.

"That thing's practically an antique," I conceded, my gaze dropping to the dilapidated wheelchair that creaked and groaned with every movement, as if it were protesting its continued existence—much like old me, back in my studio apartment. Huh? It’s like poetry.

"But I won't be confined to it for long! The doctors are predicting a couple months of physical therapy. But just between us," I leaned in slightly, conspiratorially, "I'm planning on smashing their estimates. I've already made significant progress today." My smile grew wider, more self-satisfied, bordering on downright smug.

What? I deserved to be smug about this!

You have no idea how difficult it had been to get those first 100 XP, okay? Don’t judge me.

"Really? That's incredible, Sera! What did you do today? Care to demonstrate?" His voice brimmed with the kind of enthusiasm I could only liken to an exuberant golden retriever, albeit one dressed in the peculiar patchwork of cyberpunk fashion clearly chosen by a 16-year-old boy.

"Don't mind if I do! Make some room, good sir!" I declared with an over-the-top flourish, manoeuvring my clunky wheelchair toward the couch. The chair protested my movements with an unholy chorus of squeals and groans that filled the air. Such elegance! Such grace!

Taking my position in front of the couch, my eyes narrowed as they locked onto my legs. This was my moment, my chance to make him regret calling me a blank!

I focused with an intensity I hadn't mustered in a long time—even more than during my earlier workouts. After all, it was showtime!

Summoning every ounce of willpower, I clenched my jaw and stared at my legs as if I could will them into motion. It was a Herculean task, each muscle fibre seemingly coated in molasses, resisting my mental commands. My hands gripped the armrests of the wheelchair so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

Sweat began to form on my forehead, each droplet coalescing into a small army that soon began its descent down my face. My body shook from the exertion, but my legs remained frustratingly inert, like leaden weights refusing to budge.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gabriel's face morph into a mask of concern, his eyes filled with a trepidation he couldn't quite hide. Yet, to his credit, he held his silence, recognizing this struggle as my own private battle, one that I needed to wage myself.

Finally, with a roar of effort that seemed to emanate from the very core of my being, my legs started moving upward. It was as if I had broken some invisible barrier, and with a triumphant, albeit painfully slow, surge, my legs crested the top of the couch cushion. Letting out a war cry that could rival any ancient champion, I let my legs collapse onto the couch, every muscle in my body quivering in the aftermath of my struggle.

I looked up at Gabriel, my face flushed but triumphant, eyes alight with a feral kind of joy.

"Wow, that was, uh, certainly an experience," he finally said, his eyes a blend of astonishment and confusion. "You really put your all into that, didn't you?"

His words were commendable but lacked the oomph, the sheer ecstatic energy I'd expected. It was as if he couldn't fully grasp the Herculean effort it had taken for me to perform that simple act.

But then it hit me: Why would he?

He hadn't been at the hospital listening to the prognosis. He hadn't been there when I'd mustered my first ounce of strength, seeing how much I struggled to even move my legs the tiniest amount.

A self-deprecating thought floated into my consciousness: 'Maybe I really am a blank.'

It occurred to me that I'd been foolish to expect him to mirror my own emotional whirlwind.

Gabriel was obviously proud, but he couldn't fathom the depths of the struggle I'd just surmounted. And that wasn't his fault; it was simply a chasm of experience that neither of us could bridge in that moment.

The real kicker? No XP-induced dopamine rush either. Apparently, my exertion hadn't met the mystical criteria for dowsing me in that sweet, sweet XP. Which was fair. After all, the first time I got that notification, it took a pair of these monumental leg-raises.

Still upset about it, however. It doesn’t need to make sense, okay?

"Yeah, you'd be surprised. When I got home, my legs were like noodles—couldn't even twitch 'em a millimetre," I admitted, struggling to convey the enormity of what felt like a landmark achievement. The irony was palpable: There I was, basking in the glow of a minor miracle, yet somehow unable to share its full weight with Gabriel.

We whiled away the next hour, our conversation ebbing and flowing through tales of my hospital journey, updates on my rehab progress—retold by yours truly in the most fantastical ways possible—, and a smattering of casual, inconsequential subjects.

My mind teemed with questions I yearned to fire his way, but the moment felt too precious to disrupt. I was taking a respite, and, God knows, I needed it.

Ever since that nightmarish episode back in my studio, life had heaved a slew of inexplicable, downright surreal experiences at me. So outlandish, in fact, that I still wondered whether I was just lost in some vivid dream or not.

And so, there we were, just shooting the breeze, our casual banter filling the room until, at some point, the front door opened and Oliver returned home.

Oliver burst through the door like a squall ripping through an unsealed window, the impact of his entrance echoing as the door slammed against the back wall. He scanned the room frantically, his eyes finally landing on Gabriel and me, a mixture of confusion and a hint of fear playing across his face.

"Everything alright, Dad?" Gabriel broke the uneasy silence that followed, his voice tinged with both concern and perplexity.

'Good, it's not just me who thought that entrance was fucking weird,' I mused, silently grateful that Gabriel took the reins in navigating this odd moment.

Oliver's eyes then welled up, further warping the room's atmosphere. At least he shattered the silence. "Sera... My baby! You're actually here! I thought it was some cruel daydream at the office... I wished for it so hard, but couldn't trust my own senses. I..."

Overwhelmed, his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks. His gaze stayed glued to me, as if I might evaporate should he dare blink or look away.

Almost instantly, Gabriel was there, kneeling beside him, offering solace and whispered reassurances. "It's okay, Dad. She's back. Sera's back."

I felt like an impostor caught in a floodlight.

Oliver wasn't celebrating my return; he was celebrating Sera's—a girl I could never be. A girl that would never, ever return. It was just me now. An errant Soul in the body of his baby girl.

This might as well have been a private, sacrosanct moment between a father and his lost child, and yet, here I was, an awkward bystander with a front-row seat. The worst part? As much as I wanted to, I couldn't just get up and leave, and not solely because my legs had yet to receive that memo. This was my family now, for better or worse.

"Hello, da—uh, Oliver," I stammered, lifting my hands for a timid wave as I sat anchored to my rickety wheelchair before the couch. I had intended to say 'Dad,' I really had, but the words stuck in my throat. It felt premature to wade into that depth of intimacy, despite the ache to alleviate Oliver's palpable emotional turmoil.

He seemed like a decent, caring man, deserving of that connection.

Hearing my voice—or rather, Sera's voice—must've ripped away the last shreds of Oliver's emotional restraint. He shattered into a heightened fit of sobs, his cries heavy and agonised.

----------------------------------------

After what felt like an eternity, or perhaps just thirty-plus minutes, Gabriel managed to pacify him enough to hoist him off the dingy apartment floor.

He guided Oliver to the couch I was facing and sat down beside him.

An uncomfortable silence hung thick in the air, each of us seemingly ensnared in our own thorny thoughts. Oliver's gaze remained unwaveringly fixed on me, as Gabriel's eyes flicked between us, and I found myself staring at random objects around the room, avoiding eye contact like it was a fatal disease.

'Seriously, what the hell is this? I signed up for cyberpunk escapades, not a prime-time drama featuring the world's most awkward family reunion,' I inwardly groaned, wrestling with the tension that gripped the room like a straitjacket.

Thankfully, the universe granted me a reprieve.

The apartment door emitted the characteristic beeping of a biometric lock disengaging, followed by the staccato clack of heels against the concrete floor of the hallway.

As I laboriously swivelled my wheezing wheelchair to face the newcomer, a voice—distinctly feminine yet imbued with an icy neutrality—filled the room.

It was the sort of voice that had navigated boardrooms and silenced disagreements, a voice accustomed to wielding words like weapons.

Cutting through the still-palpable tension, it addressed me directly.

No inquiry, no mere utterance, but a calculated challenge that landed like a gauntlet.

"Daughter."