Nghệ thuật AI: Chapter 1 – Waking Silence. Not peaceful silence—sterile silence. The kind that hums under the skin and buzzes faintly behind the ears. He opened his eyes slowly, as if the act itself weighed something. White light bled from the ceiling above, sharp and unforgiving. The air smelled like antiseptic and something colder—like metal, like memory just out of reach. He was lying on a bed. A thin blanket, scratchy against his skin. Wires ran from his chest to a monitor that beeped at an indifferent pace. Something tugged on his arm—a needle in his vein. Machines whispered softly nearby, but none answered the question clawing its way up his throat: Who am I? He tried to sit up. A sudden throb surged through his left shoulder, sharp and deep. He winced, glancing over. Bandages. Beneath them, something more brutal: a wound, stitched and fresh. Footsteps approached. He turned just as the door creaked open. A woman in scrubs walked in—mid-thirties, calm face, hair tied back in a bun that said she had no time for nonsense. A nurse, clearly. She carried a clipboard and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Good morning,” she said, almost mechanically. “You're awake. That’s good news.” He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. She flipped a page on the clipboard and continued. “Vitals are stable. That’s promising.” Then, with a glance that bordered on familiarity: “How are you feeling, Mr. Izaz?” He blinked. “What… what did you just call me?” “Izaz,” she repeated without hesitation. “Izaz Khan. You were admitted four days ago. Gunshot wound to the shoulder. Memory loss due to trauma… or stress. Doctors say you’re lucky to be alive.” He stared at her, but her words slid off him like water off glass. Izaz. It didn’t sound wrong. But it didn’t sound right, either. It sounded like a coat someone else had worn. “I don’t… remember,” he murmured, his voice raspy, alien in his own throat. “That’s expected,” she said. “Amnesia is common in cases like yours. Temporary, hopefully.” She scribbled something on her clipboard, then walked to the IV stand, checking the drip rate. Calm. Methodical. Like she’d done this a thousand times. “You’ll feel better soon, Mr. Izaz,” she said gently. But he didn’t. Not even close.

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Chapter 1 – Waking Silence. Not peaceful silence—sterile silence. The kind that hums under the skin and buzzes faintly behind the ears. He opened his eyes slowly, as if the act itself weighed something. White light bled from the ceiling above, sharp and unforgiving. The air smelled like antiseptic and something colder—like metal, like memory just out of reach. He was lying on a bed. A thin blanket, scratchy against his skin. Wires ran from his chest to a monitor that beeped at an indifferent pace. Something tugged on his arm—a needle in his vein. Machines whispered softly nearby, but none answered the question clawing its way up his throat: Who am I? He tried to sit up. A sudden throb surged through his left shoulder, sharp and deep. He winced, glancing over. Bandages. Beneath them, something more brutal: a wound, stitched and fresh. Footsteps approached. He turned just as the door creaked open. A woman in scrubs walked in—mid-thirties, calm face, hair tied back in a bun that said she had no time for nonsense. A nurse, clearly. She carried a clipboard and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Good morning,” she said, almost mechanically. “You're awake. That’s good news.” He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. She flipped a page on the clipboard and continued. “Vitals are stable. That’s promising.” Then, with a glance that bordered on familiarity: “How are you feeling, Mr. Izaz?” He blinked. “What… what did you just call me?” “Izaz,” she repeated without hesitation. “Izaz Khan. You were admitted four days ago. Gunshot wound to the shoulder. Memory loss due to trauma… or stress. Doctors say you’re lucky to be alive.” He stared at her, but her words slid off him like water off glass. Izaz. It didn’t sound wrong. But it didn’t sound right, either. It sounded like a coat someone else had worn. “I don’t… remember,” he murmured, his voice raspy, alien in his own throat. “That’s expected,” she said. “Amnesia is common in cases like yours. Temporary, hopefully.” She scribbled something on her clipboard, then walked to the IV stand, checking the drip rate. Calm. Methodical. Like she’d done this a thousand times. “You’ll feel better soon, Mr. Izaz,” she said gently. But he didn’t. Not even close.
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Chapter 1 – Waking Silence. Not peaceful silence—sterile silence. The kind that hums under the skin and buzzes faintly behind the ears. He opened his eyes slowly, as if the act itself weighed something. White light bled from the ceiling above, sharp and unforgiving. The air smelled like antiseptic and something colder—like metal, like memory just out of reach. He was lying on a bed. A thin blanket, scratchy against his skin. Wires ran from his chest to a monitor that beeped at an indifferent pace. Something tugged on his arm—a needle in his vein. Machines whispered softly nearby, but none answered the question clawing its way up his throat: Who am I? He tried to sit up. A sudden throb surged through his left shoulder, sharp and deep. He winced, glancing over. Bandages. Beneath them, something more brutal: a wound, stitched and fresh. Footsteps approached. He turned just as the door creaked open. A woman in scrubs walked in—mid-thirties, calm face, hair tied back in a bun that said she had no time for nonsense. A nurse, clearly. She carried a clipboard and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Good morning,” she said, almost mechanically. “You're awake. That’s good news.” He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. She flipped a page on the clipboard and continued. “Vitals are stable. That’s promising.” Then, with a glance that bordered on familiarity: “How are you feeling, Mr. Izaz?” He blinked. “What… what did you just call me?” “Izaz,” she repeated without hesitation. “Izaz Khan. You were admitted four days ago. Gunshot wound to the shoulder. Memory loss due to trauma… or stress. Doctors say you’re lucky to be alive.” He stared at her, but her words slid off him like water off glass. Izaz. It didn’t sound wrong. But it didn’t sound right, either. It sounded like a coat someone else had worn. “I don’t… remember,” he murmured, his voice raspy, alien in his own throat. “That’s expected,” she said. “Amnesia is common in cases like yours. Temporary, hopefully.” She scribbled something on her clipboard, then walked to the IV stand, checking the drip rate. Calm. Methodical. Like she’d done this a thousand times. “You’ll feel better soon, Mr. Izaz,” she said gently. But he didn’t. Not even close.

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