The once bustling bridge is now desolate, his gaze shifts, sweeping across the long expanse, finally resting on a young couple. They wear simple, modest student attire, leaning against each other cautiously as they tie a ribbon marked with their names to the bridge.

Watching this scene, his heart remains unmoved, merely tinged with a faint mockery and sadness.

Perhaps he should have confessed back then, like those foolish couples, leaving his name here, so that today he could walk there, and casually throw the ribbon into the river below the bridge.

His fingers clutch the cold, wet railing, he wants to shout loudly here, yet without knowing what to say, he merely exhales warm breath, letting it cool in the rain.

Rebellion, complaints? He doesn't know what to rebel against, whom to complain about, just feels that the future is like this bridge, a downhill road visible at a glance.

He hasn't committed any significant mistakes, nor encountered any good fortune, merely drifting down with the tides of the era, while the vision in his heart lingers in the high sky, longing for the orange neon lights.

Tonight might be the best day of the future.

He tilts his head back to watch the raindrops fall into his eyes, then lowers it, allowing the droplets to trace his cheeks.

His steps become particularly light, as if walking on clouds ready to shatter at any moment, the bridge's road grows more deserted, and the couple who tied the ribbon has also disappeared.

He has nowhere to go, only following the road beneath his feet step by step downward, unwilling to look at the distant lights.

This is a massive city, incomparably prosperous, yet it still leaves him cold.

Along the road in the rain, he proceeds in a daze, crossing streets, passing high-end stores with lights still on, wandering through the night, with only the occasional streetlight illuminating his hair, letting him see his lonely shadow.

Constantly crossing, constantly wandering, an endless progression, his body temperature dropping lower and lower, perhaps finding a place to rest would be better. Yet this gradually chilling body instead fascinates him, reluctant to awaken.

Passing an unknown number of street corners, the road beneath his feet still has no end, like the advertisements high above in the sky. This is a metropolis of 30 million people, a lively city for countless lives.

Finally, on a downward slope, he takes a misstep, his body tumbling down, head and nose banging against the ground, the dizzying pain causing him to curl and struggle in the mud and water, licking his blood-flavored lips. After several failed attempts, he slowly props himself up with difficulty, hobbling forward along the railing.

The memory of a body once brisk and agile has disappeared. At this moment, he feels like the pitiable old men he used to see, ridiculous and laughable.

"Ha—" he laughs at himself, his eyes staring blankly at the path ahead, fingers gripping the railing, using the cold metallic touch to regain a bit of clarity.

"Fuck."

"Uh, haha, ha ha ha." His unpleasant laughter dissipates into the night, particularly bitter and sour.

Supporting himself for nearly a hundred meters, his legs recover slightly, allowing him to let go of the railing more often. He stands again at the roadside, watching the large vehicles come through the rain curtain from afar.

The bright lights make his vision dizzy, a strange thought briefly rises in his mind but is quickly suppressed.

Not to that point yet...

He shakes his head to clear it, pulling out his Personal Terminal to find the nearest way back.

Surprisingly far, seeing the high taxi fare displayed nearby, he slowly puts down the Personal Terminal, again taking slow steps into the night.

His near-frozen fingers slip back into his pockets, his wet steps tread forward once more, as if the checkered pattern on the ground were the most worthwhile scenery.

The night grew deep.

Fewer shops and buildings by the road remain lit, the streets growing quieter, with only the occasional sound of propellers in the night sky—traces of advertising airships.

Though not a pampered person, advancing in this cold rain curtain, his stamina gradually drains away, causing his steps to slow, each movement burdened with pain and heaviness, his center of gravity hard to maintain, beginning to waver precariously.

Not going to work, he must find a place to rest and recover his strength.

Yet as he looks around, he is already in the remote suburbs of the city, even the streetlights are particularly dim. Perhaps due to some subconscious psychological effect, he had avoided brightly lit avenues, deliberately choosing paths less traveled, resulting in this bitter outcome.

Can only keep going then.

With this thought, after a brief rest, he rises with difficulty, proceeding again down the road, dragging what feels like a failed remainder of his life.

The black sky, frozen fingers, shivering body, cold, numb legs—everything is so bad.

He sees a small fire burning by the roadside in the distance, folded paper pages lifting in the orange light, flying up before quickly landing.

His pupils see only that small flame, almost infatuated as he moves towards it. When his fingers reach the rolling flame, the scorching heat brings him back to consciousness, though he is now somewhat dazed.

Everything before him seems to collapse, crashing into the cold, wet ground, his ear pressed into rushing water, filled only with noise.

A pair of hands tries to help him up, but he has completely lost strength, unable to cooperate, making the process especially difficult.