“You won’t need to eat or drink, but you can still be injured. You can still die.”
The words rang like a verdict and a challenge, urging him to find a way to endure this solitary, frozen world. Survival, he realized, would mean more than simply existing—it would require skill, discipline, and unflinching resolve.
Back at his apartment, he noticed how the pervasive silence had transformed the familiar walls into something strange. Setting down his coat, he switched on his computer, heart thumping at the faint whir of machinery. At least some things still work, he thought. When the internet responded (albeit sluggishly), relief washed over him. Even in a world caught between seconds, automated servers carried on without human intervention.
He dove into research mode, bookmarking everything from medical databases to how-to videos and scanning emergency preparedness forums. Opening a fresh document titled “Survival Knowledge—Phase 1,” Aion typed the foundations of his plan:
- Emergency First Aid (hemorrhage control, fracture stabilization, CPR)
- Infection Control (sterilization procedures, antibiotics, wound care)
- Internal Medicine (handling trauma, allergic reactions, chronic pain)
- Basic Surgery (suturing, setting bones, operating in dire circumstances)
He paused, hearing his own breath in the quiet, then added a bullet for “Logistics and Practice.” A disciplined schedule, he decided, might be his anchor in this timeless place. He allocated mornings to theory, afternoons to hands-on exercises, and evenings to review and reflection. If I don’t create a routine, I’ll lose myself, he thought.
With his plan in place, Aion set out the next day for the nearest hospital. Each step on the deserted sidewalks felt strangely loud; the hush of the city magnified even the shuffle of his shoes.
When the hospital doors—frozen mid-slide—didn’t yield to his approach, he maneuvered around them. Inside, time had paused in the stark glow of fluorescent lights. Patients sat in wheelchairs, nurses gripped the handles of carts, and doctors leaned over charts. Their faces held expressions of concern or concentration, now sealed in glass-like stillness.
Aion fought off a shiver. This place, once alive with urgency, is now an eerie tableau.
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He moved with cautious efficiency, starting in the ER. First-aid kits lined the walls, filled with gauze rolls, bandages, and tourniquets. He grabbed a stretcher and loaded it with supplies he recognized as vital. In the surgical ward, he found sterile trays with scalpels, clamps, and sutures. He cleaned them thoroughly, despite their likely sterility, then organized them in duffel bags taken from staff lockers.
In the pharmacy, rows of medicine—antibiotics, painkillers, antihistamines—stretched out in silent testimony to all the emergencies that would no longer come. Aion methodically filled containers with essential drugs, his thoughts drifting: If I get hurt badly, these might be all that stand between me and oblivion.
Loaded with supplies, he returned to his apartment. The space felt cramped beneath the weight of his newfound mission. He converted his dining table into a medical station—stacking textbooks, sterilizing instruments, and laying out diagnostic gear in neat rows. Just seeing the organized tools boosted his confidence, turning dread into determination.
In the weeks that followed, Aion woke to the same silent dawn each day, grateful at least for the faint glimmer of sun that still rose and set despite the city’s stasis. Mornings became a ritual of reading anatomy guides and medical papers, the stillness ironically perfect for concentrated study. Afternoons found him hunched over practice dummies fashioned from fabric scraps and leather, practicing sutures until his fingers cramped. Evenings were for reviewing notes and journaling, his apartment illuminated by the cold glow of lamps.
His first successful suture on a piece of leather brought an unexpected surge of pride. I’m learning he thought, gazing at the neat stitches. In a world unchanging, these small victories felt monumental.
But mere survival wasn’t enough. At night, he allowed himself the luxury of broader dreaming:
Could he conduct experiments impossible in a world moving at normal speed?
Could he write his own compendium of human knowledge, building on the work of countless experts now trapped in suspended time?
The possibilities fluttered like embers of hope, casting brief light in the pervasive darkness.
Yet, in the course of his citywide forays, Aion began to notice faint incongruities—shadows that didn’t match the position of light, a displaced object in a building he was sure he’d left untouched. Once, in a mirrored hallway, he glimpsed motion behind him, only to turn and find nothing there. Were these tricks of a weary mind? Or evidence that he wasn’t the only one moving through the silent streets?
The thought fueled a new sort of vigilance. Whenever he left his apartment, he marked subtle details—where a particular book lay on a shelf, the exact angle of a trolley’s wheels. Returning to find anything altered made his pulse hammer. Part of him yearned to confirm there was another traveler in this endless pause. Another part feared what—or who—he might discover.
For now, though, he focused on the concrete. Mastering the knowledge he’d collected was his single greatest assurance of survival. Standing at his makeshift medical station one evening, eyes scanning a row of carefully labeled medicine, Aion allowed himself a slight smile. In this frozen world, I’m moving forward.
The silence was no longer suffocating but charged with possibility. Each day, he inched closer to becoming someone equipped to handle the unthinkable. And although doubts lingered—echoes of loneliness and the specter of unseen forces—Aion clung to the conviction that purpose, no matter how small, could anchor him to life.