Death came calling in a pinstripe suit and canotier hat, of the kind that nobody had worn for at least a hundred years. My narrow doorway framed his narrow frame, and he flashed grey teeth in a winsome smile.
John sweats beneath the wires that entangle his head and transmit images and words directly to his brain. Soft restraints encase each limb, band his torso. Another thick bar around the neck. Only his right hand can move—to touch the adjacent console panel. Four buttons nestle into its metal surface, a series of differently-coloured squares labelled A, B, C, D.