He had skipped the things he remembered but couldn't say out of shame—like the voices in his head and his cowardly thoughts.

  "How do you feel right now? Are you experiencing headache, nausea, blurred vision, ringing in your ears, erection?"

  The white-coated, blonde, bespectacled woman sat at her desk, filling out a paper with her hand on her chin.

  "No, I don't have anything. Will you answer me now?" said the man with tired eyes. Like he just woke up from a really long sleep.

  "Do you remember your family, your name, or what you did for work? Any information would do."

  "I have a wife and a daughter..." The man fell silent, scratching his unkempt beard.

  "Very good. Do you know how long you've been dead?" The woman, whose eyes had been on her paper until then, looked at him for the first time. Exhaustion showed beneath her black eyes.

  The man pondered this serious question. No definite answer came to mind.

  "1 week?" he said modestly, not wanting to exaggerate.

  "I see."

  The man noticed she had reached the end of her paper. Just as he thought 'Finally my questions will begin' she pulled out another form. There were at least three more.

  He sighed heavily with irritation and impatience. Rising from what looked like an operating table, his feet touched the ground with a metallic 'tink'sound. He noticed his feet were made of metal and panicked.

  He rolled up his white sweatpants and saw the metal continued up his legs.

  "Don't worry, when I'm done there won't really be any difference," said the woman, noticing his concern.

  "How much of my body is like this?" His hands began to sweat.

  "Eighty-six percent." said the woman with unsettling calmness.

  "How... How did I survive?"

  The woman set down her pen. She leaned back in her chair and gazed at the ceiling. After a moment's reflection, she leaned forward again.

  "I don't know why or how you died. To be frank, I don't know who you are either. There are things I can't explain yet. The information I can share is limited and classified. Know this much: you're someone important."

  He thought it wasn't enough. Everything she said only raised more questions.

  "Let's continue one by one and slowly. Where am I, what is this place?"

  "I can't tell you exactly where you are, but you're in an infirmary."

  "Why can't you tell me?"

  "Everything I tell you has been pre-approved by my superiors. To tell you more, I need to take notes of your answers, assess your health condition, complete these papers, and report to them. If you help me, everything will be resolved faster."

  All the man could do was nod helplessly.

  It took about an hour to complete the papers. The woman asked questions to evaluate his memory, logic, and psychological state. After a brief physical and reflex test, they finished the paperwork.

  "Is there anything else you'd like to add?"

  The man worried about the voices he'd heard earlier. But since he'd heard them while dying, perhaps this happened to everyone who died. The voices had stopped since he awoke. He felt no need to mention them.

  He shook his head, and the woman filed the papers and left without another word. He remained alone in the modest, white-painted room with its strange equipment.

  Though he couldn't remember anything, including his name, some technical knowledge remained. He could recognize standard medical devices, factory machines, and everyday electronics. But none of the machines here looked familiar. This deeply troubled him. How could he not recognize these seemingly simple devices? It was as if his memory had selective gaps. Why could he remember some things clearly while others were completely blank? Most importantly, if he had truly died—which he was certain of—how could he still alive? These questions echoed in his mind as he studied the unfamiliar technology, searching for answers. But no matter how long he looked, he found none. Could it be... Had it been more than a week?

  His heart raced, his palms sweated. His body trembled. Fear gripped him. His breathing became difficult as he fell to his knees. He felt ashamed of his fear.

  "Calm down, everything will be fine."

  That man's voice again. Though he didn't know who this familiar voice belonged to, his words seemed to help."

  "Take a deep breath in and out. We don't need to frighten ourselves over things we can't control. You'll be fine. You always have been."

  He steadied himself through controlled breathing. Placing his hand over his heart as he stood up. At that moment, two people entered the room—the blonde woman who had left earlier and a tall, slim man wearing a black suit with gold embroidery. As he entered, he adjusted his slicked-back hair.

  "We've been waiting for you to wake up. I'm personally glad you're awake. My name is Zeta," he said, extending his hand. After a brief hesitation, they shook hands.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  "I know you have many questions. I wanted to come personally to explain some of them. May I know your name?"

  "Sir, he doesn't remember his name. I wrote it in the notes," said the blonde woman from behind him.

  "Papers, files, notes... Yes, yes. I want to hear it from his own mouth."

  He waited silently, as if thinking a little longer would help him remember his name.

  "I don't remember."

  "You can start by choosing a name for yourself! Or we can easily give you one, don't worry. Aleah, would you bring a sona for me and the gentleman?" said the man, dismissing his amnesia.

  The woman let out a slight sigh and left the room. After adjusting his suit, Zeta sat down at the desk where she had been sitting. He gestured for the man to pull up a chair.

  "I won't mince words with you, but your delicate situation requires a detailed explanation. Here's what's happening: You died—it's important that you accept this fact. We had to preserve you under special conditions for a long time because our technology wasn't advanced enough. When we achieved the necessary breakthroughs, we decided to use you. This process isn't simple. We tried many times and failed until you came along. You're the only person who has successfully returned to life—this makes you unique. Your case was particularly challenging because most of your body and organs—especially your brain—were lost and unusable. To bring you back, we used tissues and organs from others who couldn't survive. I want you to know this sincerely: you're not just an experiment to us, you're someone very important and valuable," said Zeta, interlocking his fingers on the desk, never taking his eyes off his subject.

  The words seemed etched into his mind, each one leaving a deep impression. Thousands of questions swirled in his head, and he couldn't decide which to ask. What mattered was asking the right question, but which one was right? Each seemed more crucial than the last. He tried to organize his chaotic thoughts.

  "How long have I been here?"

  "To be honest, your records are lost. I don't know your entry date, which is why the registration was done late. However, each person we used to revive you was carefully monitored."

  "How long have I been here?" the man repeated, anger edging into his voice.

  "You've been here for seven thousand three hundred and fifty-six years."

  The man couldn't process this information. Every cell in his brain struggled with this number. Seven thousand three hundred and fifty-six—each digit carved deep wounds in his mind, blurring his thoughts. The number echoed in the depths of his consciousness as he tried to grasp this enormous span of time. The weight of millennia of sleep settled on his shoulders, making even breathing difficult.

  "What... what happened to my wife and daughter?" he asked, his voice trembling. Even as he asked, he knew the answer somewhere inside but couldn't accept it. Logic failed him as hope prevailed. "If I'm still alive, maybe they are too. Maybe they've been awakened somewhere like me." he thought, clinging to his last shred of hope.

  "Do you realize how many years have passed? They're dead." Zeta's words carried no empathy.

  "Then why am I alive!" the man cried out, his voice raw with anger and pain. "Why did you separate me from my loved ones? Why didn't you let me rest in peace with them? After all these years, what do you plan to do by bringing me back? If you have the technology to revive me, why didn't you bring them back too? Kill me again! Find someone else, someone who wants to serve you like a slave—but I will never work for you! I won't do anything, do you understand? Nothing!" His voice rose with each word, his eyes welling up. "I want to be with my wife and daughter, nothing else matters to me!"

  "Do you realize the cost of our research and procedures? The resources spent on each experiment, the equipment used, and years of work are invaluable. Just maintaining and renewing laboratory equipment exceeds a country's annual budget. It's a miracle we achieved success in such a short time—just a few thousand years. I won't repeat these procedures with their almost impossible chance of success—I'm very clear about this. Besides, we can give you anything you want. I can arrange as many women as you desire, even better ones than before. Through modern genetic engineering, we can create someone perfect, equipped with all the features you want, someone to meet your every need. All you have to do is not cause us trouble. It's that simple."

  "Who are you to say I could give up my love for my wife?" he shouted, standing up. Though he couldn't remember her face, name, or voice—though not even the smallest fragment of memory remained—he was certain. He knew he loved them deeply. He would never abandon this unshakeable love. It was the only truth, the only certainty left in his memory. This bond burned in his heart so strongly that even time couldn't erase it, no force could break it. Despite thousands of years, this love still blazed within him like a flame.

  "There's no need to shout, sir," said Zeta, his voice controlled but authoritative. "Normally, I enjoy discussing business and I'm always open to others' ideas, but this matter is absolutely non-negotiable. To be clear: you will work for us. There is no discussion, no alternative, and this decision will not change." His impatience became increasingly apparent.

  An uncontrollable wave of anger swept through the man's body. His vision darkened, his hands began to shake. He grabbed Zeta's perfect suit by the collar and raised his fist. Just before he could strike, an unbearable, indescribable pain enveloped his body. It felt as if thousands of sharp knives were flaying his skin, thousands of hands tearing at his flesh. He collapsed to the ground.

  "Please, sir, we're both intelligent people. Did you think I hadn't anticipated your resistance? I planned my precautions meticulously. If you refuse to comply, you'll experience this pain—it won't kill you but will make life unbearable. The same will happen if you try to kill yourself. Believe me, I sincerely feel sorry for you. If you cooperate, you'll be well rewarded. Not just well—you'll have a magnificent life. You'll be the most important, most respected man in all of Nivara! And I truly envy you."

  At that moment, Aleah entered with two glasses in her hands. She noticed the man writhing in pain on the floor.

  "Sir, that's enough. He just woke up and his body is still very sensitive. After long-term cryogenic sleep, his systems haven't fully stabilized. We wouldn't want complications under these conditions. Permanent damage could occur, especially to his nervous system."

  "You're absolutely right, dear Aleah, always thinking about our patients' health!" said Zeta, with a hint of regret. "But unfortunately, you're a bit late." He gently took one of the glasses and headed toward the exit, looking thoughtful.

  Before leaving, he caught his reflection in a machine's shiny metal surface and, with characteristic meticulousness, adjusted his hair with almost obsessive care. As if he couldn't tolerate even the smallest flaw in his appearance, he positioned each strand exactly where it should be.

  The pain vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. He took a deep breath and stood up, frowning, lost in thought about what to do next. The woman's touch on his shoulder brought him back to reality. She was offering him a glass.

  "Drink some. It will help."

  He took the glass containing a clear, slightly greenish liquid. He looked at the woman, nodded with a slight smile, and drank it in one gulp. It had a strange taste, like apple mixed with tea, and made him feel somewhat lighter. He wondered if he had ever tasted anything like this before, but couldn't remember. There were so many things he couldn't remember...

  "Is what they said true? Have I been here for that long?"

  "You need to rest. I'll take you to your room," said Aleah, avoiding his question.

  He followed her into the corridor. Everything was metallic, cold, and sterile. Blue lights along the walls illuminated their path. After several turns, they stopped at a door.

  "This is your room. Everything you need is inside. I'll come to get you tomorrow morning." Aleah opened the door and stepped aside.

  The man entered the minimal room—just a bed, desk, chair, and small bathroom unit in the corner. The door closed behind him with an audible lock. He sat on the bed and covered his face with his hands. Seven thousand years... How could this be possible? And what would he do now? Despite having just awakened, he felt overwhelmingly tired. For now, he decided to just rest a little...