#What it means to forget
#006
The city never slept. Ether District pulsed with digital veins, flickering signs, and the drone of neon dreams. Asher Vale stood against the railing of an upper-tier skywalk, watching the chaos unfold below like a detached god. His wrist console blinked—a silent reminder of the transfer: 83.4 Bliss credits from last night's auction. It should've felt like victory.
Instead, it felt like debt.
"You ever wonder what happens to them after?" Eden asked, leaning on the rail beside him. Her braid shimmered faintly under the neon light, dyed with micro-reflectors. "The ones who sell."
Asher didn't answer at first. His eyes trailed a hover-ambulance weaving through the air like a shark among pigeons.
"They forget," he finally said. "That's the point."
"No," she pressed. "I mean what really happens. You ever seen one come back? After a high-weight trade?"
His silence was its own answer.
Eden pushed off the railing, pacing. "I scanned the logs this morning. Elion's capsule rated 9.4 on the G-Index. That's supposed to be lethal without follow-up stabilization. But the auction didn't offer one. You didn't even suggest it."
"He didn't ask."
"That's your job now? Just waiting for people to beg you to save them?"
His voice was cold. "I'm not a therapist."
"No, you're not," she snapped. "You're a Soul Auctioneer. And you know exactly how Bliss works."
That hit.
Asher turned sharply. "You think I don't get it? Bliss is pain. Bottled and sold. The wealthy get high on regret they never earned. The poor get clean by amputating their guilt. It's a cycle. One we survive by managing."
She crossed her arms. "Then explain it to me. Explain what we're really doing."
His jaw clenched, but he gave in.
"You remember the Bliss riots? Four years ago?" he asked.
Eden nodded slowly. "Of course."
"They started when someone leaked the original Bliss code. Turns out, it wasn't just a neural relaxant. It could replicate trauma—accurately. Intimately. You could feel someone else's deepest pain like it was yours."
"Empathy on demand."
"Exactly. And that should've made people kinder. But you know what happened?"
She didn't speak.
"They got addicted. Because the high wasn't the pain—it was the purge. The release. Like confessing your sins, but without consequence. That's what Bliss became. And soul trading?"
He paused, eyes burning in the city's cold light.
"It's the confession booth."
Eden's voice was quieter now. "So we're priests in neon robes."
"No," he said bitterly. "We're dealers. We sell emptiness. We turn memories into commodities and pain into pleasure."
The silence stretched between them, too loud to ignore.
She finally whispered, "And what happens when there's nothing left to sell?"
He looked away. "Then they stop being human."
A siren wailed in the distance. Somewhere, another auction was starting.
Eden touched her wrist console. A glowing cube blinked into view—a low-tier soul capsule.
"I found this in the dumpster outside 'Forget-U' last night," she said. "Still active. Someone threw away a piece of themselves."
Asher took the capsule. The glow was faint. Whatever memory it held, it was nearly dead.
"You gonna sell it?" she asked.
He looked at the cube, then at her.
"No," he said. "I'm going to remember it."
And for once, Asher Vale—the boy who sold what others couldn't bear to keep—chose to carry someone else's burden.
Because deep down, even a Soul Auctioneer wondered what it meant to still have a soul.