The Last Mortal

The Cemetery of the Immortals Pitch-black darkness. Only the faint, powerless glow of distant city lights manages to pierce the night. A heavy, suffocating silence reigns. In the ruined, abandoned cemetery—overgrown with wild weeds—just a single headstone still stands. Its inscription reads simply: "MORTAL HUMAN: 2042." No one comes here anymore. No one’s path ever leads to this graveyard. Once, we thought death was a disaster. We spent billions to conquer it, waged wars, defied God. And in the end, we won. The day we stopped cellular aging, we thought it was humanity’s greatest triumph. Or so we believed. An overcrowded subway car. People packed shoulder to shoulder, barely room to breathe. But there’s something strange about this crowd: everyone looks flawless. Smooth skin, strong bodies—each one appears to be in their late twenties or early thirties. No elderly, no children, not even the scent of a baby... And in everyone’s eyes, a bottomless, vacant dullness. No one speaks. Everyone’s lost in their smart glasses or the floating virtual screens before them. Aras (320 years old, but looks 28) is wedged among this soulless crowd. But there’s something in his eyes the others lack: a restless searching, a spark. Just then, above the subway doors, a digital display flashes blood-red letters: > WORLD POPULATION: 45 BILLION. NEW BIRTH PERMITS SUSPENDED. In a world where no one dies, no one is allowed to be born. When time loses its meaning, every day becomes a perfect copy of the last. Love never ends, but the thrill, the magic, is gone. Careers never finish, but there are no more rungs left to climb. We killed death... and in return, we sacrificed our future. Aras sits in his minimalist, nearly empty apartment. A giant digital clock on the wall ticks forward—not backward—racing ahead at a dizzying pace, a symbol of time spent but going nowhere. Aras pulls a hidden, old medical journal from his drawer. Its pages are yellowed, carrying the scent of the past. Tucked between the pages is a photograph: his mother, who died "of old age" years ago, before the system took hold. Aras’s fingers tremble as he touches her face. Just then, a sharp knock at the door. In this age, it’s almost unthinkable—no one knocks unannounced anymore. Startled, Aras stands and opens the door. Standing outside, breathless and wrapped in an old trench coat, is a woman: Leyla (250 years old). There’s no trace of that subway dullness in her eyes; instead, they blaze with fear and wild excitement. In her hand, a syringe filled with a glowing black liquid. LEYLA (whispering, breathless) "I found it, Aras... I found the way to crash the system. The way to make us mortal again. They’re after me—let me in." From deep within the city, the sirens of the Immortality Guards begin to wail. As the sound draws closer, Aras hesitates for a moment, glancing first at Leyla, then at the black liquid in her hand.