“Brother, sun’s shining on your ass now. Get up already!”
“Yang Yang, why don’t you sleep in a little since it’s a holiday? Breakfast’s kept warm in the rice cooker.”
“Oh, morning, son!”
“Haha, look who’s up. My dear grandson.”
“Bro, wake up now, wake up already, you hear me?!”
“Get up, you trash! Don’t die!”
“Gao Yang, stop sleeping, the air fish is coming.”
“Little Gao, I can’t walk longer with you.”
“Brother Yang, stop sleeping. Everyone needs you.”
“Little Yang Yang, you’re finally up.”“Elder Seven Shadow, thank God you’re awake.”
“Captain, stop sleeping! Wake up!”
“Boss, get yourself together!”
“Gao Yang, go.”
…
The moment consciousness reconnected with his body, Gao Yang felt himself in free fall. Then came the slow rise, as if ejected from a water bed that had caught his descent.
His return to solid ground was gradual. Heavy eyelids lifted, then quickly shut against waves of pain. That pain sparked through his neural pathways like life's fuse, racing to reignite his breath, his heartbeat, his very existence.
Time passed. His eyes opened again, adjusting to the dim light.
Beep—beep—beep—
Bright signals pulsed in rhythm with his slow heartbeats, as if cheering his return.
At last, Gao Yang’s finger twitched.
Ding.
Light bloomed around him. An androgynous artificial voice spoke softly:
[Attention, patient #31415926 has regained consciousness.]
[Attention, patient #31415926 has regained consciousness.]
Hurried footsteps approached. Gao Yang’s vision was still blurry, covered in large patches of light. He could only vaguely make out a nurse on his side. ɽἈƝọΒƐᶊ
A beep. Then: “Doctor! He’s awake! He’s awake!”
“Who?”
“Lucky mascot! Lucky mascot!”
“Quick! Get Director Stone!”
Gao Yang's weakened mind and body had reached their limit. Even processing this simple exchange and deducing his situation exhausted his mental resources.
He slowly closed his eyes, mind drifting.
This time, it was simple sleep.
…
Seven days later, Closure Rehabilitation Center.
The facility rose five stories high in a perfect circle, its large modern architecture both comfortable and well-equipped. Beyond its rehabilitation equipment and medical instruments, it resembled more a cutting-edge recreational facility than a hospital.
Gao Yang spent seven days here doing nothing but tending to his basic needs. The center assigned him a doctor, a nurse, and Yan—an AI companion that spoke human language and bore a resemblance to both a cat and a dog.
Yan served as Gao Yang's everyday assistant and caretaker. Beyond monitoring his vitals round-the-clock and fielding his questions, it offered conversation mode for company.
This level of care wasn't due to any particular importance on Gao Yang's part, but rather him being the first awakened Jupiter Traveler of the month.
The data showed that the rehabilitation center could service 300 patients at once, but the historical peak was only 43.
The day before Gao Yang woke up, the center discharged its last two Jupiter Travelers, leaving him as its sole patient.
Gao Yang regarded this with indifference. He approached this life as mere entertainment, waiting for the dream to entertain him in new ways.
All he had to do was to spot a hole. Whether it was a dream or an illusion, he must wake up.
He kept these thoughts to himself. Everyone here was just an NPC, programmed to say: It's natural to think this way. It's a side effect of the Jupiter Virus. You need time to recover.
His situation reminded him of a movie. The protagonist wasn’t mad, yet everyone, including the doctors, insisted that he was. Each attempt to prove his sanity only painted him more deranged, until finally, driven truly mad, he landed in the psychiatric ward. Everyone had smiled in relief: He'll get better soon.
The first two days after waking up, Gao Yang was bound to the bed, transitioning from IV nutrients to a liquid diet.
By the fourth day, he graduated to solid food with multivitamin supplements.
The final three days saw him regaining mobility through a therapy exoskeleton. Gao Yang didn't mind this part; it felt like piloting a Gundam.
Throughout the seven days, Gao Yang had been forbidden to leave the rehabilitation center. The building's windows were all smart screens capable of simulating sunlight and scenery with believable day-night cycles.
The screens also projected holographic commercials—all internal promotions by Closure Corps, such as the global promotion played in the lobby on the first floor.
It chronicled Closure's history, showcasing its unmatched technology, capital, influence, and social standing. Then came the story of the Jupiter Virus, including its emergence, spread, and devastating impact on humanity.
Enter Closure, humanity's savior. Their breakthroughs in brain neurology, consciousness digitization, and artificial intelligence led to the virus's first comprehensive treatment.
The core technology was the ability to upload one’s consciousness to a neural network in digital form, while being able to plant into a human brain the limitless artificial consciousnesses from Bodhi, the super artificial intelligence.
Bodhi's replicates, planted in each virus victim's brain, adapted their form to match the patient's dreamscape—appearing as systems, chatgroups, divine artifacts, pets, or mentors.
Bodhi would guide the patients and do its best to help each patient reach their closure, so as to wake them up from their deep coma.
They called this intricate process the Closure Treatment.
After implementation, patient recovery rates jumped from five in ten thousand to one in a hundred—a twentyfold increase. This breakthrough gave humanity unprecedented hope against the Jupiter Virus, launching Closure to its position as the world's premier tech corporation.
Now, Closure partnered with governments worldwide to establish treatment centers of varying scales. Yet despite these efforts, three-quarters of all patients remained in regular hospitals or at home, waiting for miracles that might never come.
Closure assigned patient numbers chronologically, based on infection time. Each patient received thirty days of free treatment upon entering a center.
Those who hadn't awakened within thirty days faced survival odds below one percent. Families could opt to continue treatment—at a high price. These extension fees became one of Closure's primary revenue streams.
It cost Closure a great fortune to maintain their facilities and continue research and development. Moreover, the resources available at the treatment centers were limited; it stood to reason that one had to pay for extended treatment.
The promotional video continued, showcasing Closure's achievements: increase in awakened patient counts, treatment innovations, Bodhi iterations, and success stories of Jupiter Travelers rejoining society with Closure’s support.
Warm music accompanied the encouraging visuals of smiling actors and recovered patients.
The sequence ended with Closure's logo—a β and its mirror image representing a set of gates.
Then she appeared.
Age had touched her gracefully. She sat in her wheelchair, wearing a silver-gray modified qipao and a pearl shawl, her hair put up in an elegant hairdo. On her nose perched a pair of tortoiseshell glasses.
Her kind face smiled at the camera. “Life is a journey, and a dream but one of its stops. Prepare, then we may set out again anytime.”
Gao Yang knew her, of course. It was Surnamed Li.
“Madam Li’s amazing.”
The voice pulled Gao Yang from his thoughts. His nurse had settled beside him on the lobby bench.
She was in her twenties with brown hair and a round face, approachable like a girl next door. She wore a silver nurse uniform with a design that looked high-tech and ahead of Gao Yang’s sensibility.
On her head was a holographic dress hat, projected from the communicator she wore on her right ear. It was something of an AI assistant, allowing the personnel to remain updated on any situation at the rehabilitation center.
Ting Ting, coincidentally another person Gao Yang “knew”.
“Why?” Gao Yang asked.
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