The Last Human: Unlimited Power, Unlimited Beauties

I opened my eyes.

That was my first mistake.

The second was keeping them open long enough to realize I had absolutely no idea where I was.

For several seconds, I stared at a ceiling I had never seen before while my brain attempted to boot up after what felt like a violent overnight disagreement with alcohol. My skull throbbed. My tongue felt like it had been wrapped in carpet. There was a faint taste of liquor in my mouth, mixed with whatever poor decision had apparently won the championship last night.

I blinked slowly.

The ceiling remained unfamiliar.

”Fantastic.”

My voice came out rough.

I turned my head and inspected the room.

Definitely not mine.

That conclusion took less than three seconds. For one thing, the place was too tidy. My room looked like clothes had developed civilization and were currently fighting a territorial war across the floor. This one had soft curtains, neatly arranged cosmetics, a small mirror surrounded by little bottles, several cushions, and enough feminine decoration to make my presence feel like a clerical error.

A woman’s room.

Of course.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember how I had gotten here.

Nothing.

Well, not literally nothing.

There were fragments.

A bar.

Music.

A woman laughing.

Someone handing me another drink.

Me accepting it with the wisdom and restraint of a raccoon finding an unattended garbage bag.

After that, my memory had apparently been thrown into a blender.

I opened my eyes again.

”Okay, Caled. Think.”

No answer.

”Excellent teamwork, brain.”

A soft groan came from beside me.

I stopped moving.

Ah.

Right.

There was someone else in the bed.

Very slowly, I turned my head.

A woman lay beside me under the same blanket.

Naked.

Mostly covered, obviously, but I had enough visual evidence to understand the situation without calling in forensic specialists.

I looked down at myself.

Also naked.

I stared at my bare chest.

Then at her.

Then back at myself.

”Not again.”

The words left my mouth with the exhausted familiarity of a man discovering his dog had eaten another shoe.

The woman shifted.

Her black hair spilled across the pillow as she moved, soft and slightly messy from sleep. She made another quiet sound, then opened her eyes.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

Okay.

Cute.

Very cute.

She had small eyes, smooth features, and an innocent-looking face that made her resemble one of those K-pop stars whose entire career seemed built around convincing millions of people that perfection was somehow a casual morning activity.

She smiled sleepily.

”Good morning, Caled.”

Well, she knew my name.

That was useful.

For anyone keeping score, I am Caled Morningwood. Twenty-four years old. Yes, Morningwood. No, I did not choose it. I merely inherited the burden and learned to weaponize it socially.

Now came the more difficult part.

What was her name?

I smiled back while my brain began searching through the wreckage of last night.

Something Korean-sounding.

I was almost sure of that.

Seo-ah?

No.

Yu-na?

Maybe.

Hanna?

That felt possible.

There was definitely an A somewhere.

Actually, I was certain it ended in A.

Probably.

Maybe.

My confidence was built on a foundation of wet tissue paper.

She tilted her head.

”Why are you staring at me like that?”

”Admiring the morning view.”

Her smile widened a little.

Good. Stall for time.

I searched harder.

Sana.

That sounded right enough to risk my life on.

”Good morning, Sana.”

Her smile disappeared.

Ah.

So much for that.

She pushed herself slightly upright, pulling the blanket higher over her chest.

”Sana?”

I kept smiling.

”Yes?”

”My name is Natalie.”

Oh.

Not Korean.

Not ending in A.

Technically there was an A inside Natalie, which meant my brain had at least located one correct letter. I deserved partial credit.

She narrowed her eyes.

”You forgot my name, didn’t you?”

I laughed.

It was the laugh of a man standing beside a burning building while insisting the smoke was decorative.

”Forgot? Please. I was joking.”

”Joking.”

”Obviously.”

She folded her arms beneath the blanket.

”Then say my name.”

Easy.

Natalie.

She had literally just told me.

All I had to do was repeat Natalie.

”Of course, Natalia.”

Silence.

Her eyes narrowed even more.

I stared back.

My brain quietly walked into traffic.

”Natalia?” she repeated.

I raised one finger.

”In my defense, extremely close.”

”My name is Natalie!”

”Yes, and Natalia is basically Natalie wearing different shoes.”

She grabbed a pillow.

I immediately lifted both hands.

”Violence this early? We haven’t even had breakfast.”

”You really forgot!”

”I remembered your face.”

”You were looking at my face for half the night!”

”See? Strong visual memory.”

She swung the pillow at me.

I caught it against my shoulder and laughed.

”Okay, okay. Natalie. Beautiful name. Unforgettable.”

”You literally forgot it.”

”Temporarily misplaced.”

”That means forgot.”

”No, forgetting is permanent. Misplacing means I eventually find it again.”

”You found it because I told you.”

”Details.”

She glared at me, but I could see the corner of her mouth fighting a smile.

She pulled the blanket tighter and gave me a suspicious look.

”So what do you remember from last night?”

I considered lying.

Then I considered how much effort a convincing lie required before breakfast.

”Bits and pieces.”

”What bits?”

”You laughing.”

”That’s it?”

”There was music.”

”We were in a club.”

”Excellent. Two memories. Recovery is going beautifully.”

She stared at me.

”You really drank that much?”

”I prefer the phrase ’temporarily outsourced my memory to alcohol.’”

”That is not better.”

”It sounds more professional.”

”And you still came home with me.”

”Apparently drunk me had excellent taste.”

Her expression softened for half a second.

I pointed at her.

”See? That one worked.”

”Don’t get confident.”

”Too late. It’s a chronic condition.”

I leaned back against the pillow, pleased with myself.

”There. You almost laughed.”

”I did not.”

”You did internally.”

”You are unbelievable.”

”I’ve been told I’m difficult to believe in.”

She shook her head.

Before she could respond, a loud knock struck the door outside the bedroom.

Both of us went silent.

The sound was heavy.

Not friendly.

Not the gentle knock of room service arriving with pancakes and forgiveness.

Another knock came.

Harder.

A man’s muffled voice followed from outside.

I looked toward the door.

Then at Natalie.

All color had drained from her face.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

The kind of interesting that usually came right before somebody got punched.

”Natalie?”

She stared at the door.

”Oh no.”

”That phrase has never improved a morning.”

Another bang.

The man outside called something again, louder this time.

Natalie scrambled upright, clutching the blanket around herself.

”This is bad.”

”How bad?”

She looked at me.

”That’s my boyfriend.”

I blinked.

Once.

Twice.

I pointed toward the door.

”Your boyfriend?”

”Yes!”

”The boyfriend variety of boyfriend?”

She stared at me.

”What other kind is there?”

”I was hoping for a dog named Boyfriend. Maybe a very committed houseplant.”

”Caled!”

I sat up.

”You have a boyfriend?”

Her jaw dropped.

”I told you!”

”When?”

”Last night!”

”I was drunk last night.”

”So was I!”

”That makes us both unreliable witnesses.”

The door shook under another hard knock.

Natalie lowered her voice.

”I told you before we came here. I said I had a boyfriend.”

I stared at her.

”And what did I say?”

She looked almost offended by the question.

”You said it made things more thrilling!”

I paused.

My hand rose slowly to my chin.

I considered that statement with all the seriousness of a judge reviewing evidence.

Then I nodded.

”Yeah. I can absolutely hear myself saying that.”

”You did say it!”

”I believe you.”

”You were smiling when you said it.”

”Also believable.”

”You said, ’A little danger improves the flavor.’”

I winced.

”Wow.”

”Yes.”

”That is embarrassingly on brand.”

”This is not funny!”

”I disagree. It’s not funny for you. I’m still evaluating my side.”

She smacked my arm.

”Ow.”

”Get dressed!”

”That was going to be my next brilliant idea.”

Another loud impact rattled the door.

The boyfriend sounded considerably less interested in civilized negotiation now.

I threw the blanket aside and started looking for my clothes.

My pants were on the floor near the foot of the bed.

My shirt was hanging over a chair.

One sock had somehow reached the other side of the room.

I did not remember removing any of them.

Drunk Caled apparently had the organizational habits of a small tornado.

Natalie hissed, ”Hurry!”

”I am hurrying.”

”You’re putting your pants on backward!”

I looked down.

She was right.

”Minor design disagreement.”

”Turn them around!”

”I know how pants work!”

”Apparently not!”

I yanked them off and corrected the situation.

This was not my first encounter with a woman who had a boyfriend.

Far from it.

Some women had husbands.

Those were worse because husbands tended to arrive with the terrifying confidence of men who had signed legal paperwork.

Then there were sugar daddies.

Those were a special category.

A boyfriend might punch you himself.

A husband might chase you down the stairs.

A rich older man could potentially have somebody else punch you while he checked stock prices.

Life had given me plenty of warnings.

I had treated most of them like terms and conditions.

Natalie tossed my shirt at me.

”How many times has this happened to you?”

I caught it.

”This exact situation?”

”Yes!”

”Do you want the reassuring answer or the accurate one?”

She stared.

”Oh my God.”

”That sounds like you’ve selected accurate.”

”You’ve done this before?”

”I prefer to think of myself as experienced in emergency exits.”

She pointed furiously toward the door.

”That is not something to be proud of!”

”I’m not proud. I’m prepared.”

”Caled!”

”I’m dressing, Natalie. Multitasking under pressure lowers quality.”

I pulled my shirt on and started buttoning it, skipping two buttons by accident.

She looked at me.

”You missed one.”

”Fashion.”

”You missed two!”

”Advanced fashion.”

The door banged again.

Something near the frame made a worrying cracking sound.

Natalie’s eyes widened.

”He’s going to get in.”

”Then I should probably avoid being here when he does.”

”No kidding!”

I shoved my feet into my shoes without bothering with the missing sock.

One foot would simply have to experience freedom.

I glanced around.

”Front door?”

”He’s outside it!”

”Right. Stupid question. Bathroom window?”

”Too small.”

”Under the bed?”

She looked at me like I had suggested hiding inside a sandwich.

”You think he won’t check?”

”Depends. Is he thorough?”

”Caled!”

”Balcony it is.”

I hurried toward the glass balcony door and pulled it open.

Fresh air hit my face.

Then I looked down.

My stomach briefly filed a formal complaint.

We were high.

Very high.

Her room was several floors up in a condominium building, and the street below looked much farther away than I would have preferred while considering unconventional travel options.

I leaned over the railing.

Cars looked small.

People looked smaller.

Gravity looked enthusiastic.

I slowly leaned back.

”Natalie.”

”What?”

”What floor are we on?”

”Why does that matter?”

”Because I’d like to know exactly how stupid my next decision is.”

She hurried toward me, still wrapped in the blanket.

”Can you reach the next balcony?”

I looked sideways.

There was another balcony below and off to the side.

Not directly next to hers.

Of course not.

That would have been too convenient, and convenience had apparently blocked my number years ago.

I measured the distance with my eyes.

Possible.

Probably.

Maybe.

Those were three extremely dangerous words to place near gravity.

Behind us, the bedroom door shook violently.

A man’s voice shouted Natalie’s name.

I glanced back.

”He sounds charming.”

She shoved my shoulder toward the balcony.

”Go!”

”You sure you don’t want to introduce us?”

”Caled!”

”I could explain.”

”You slept with his girlfriend!”

”Right. Difficult opening statement.”

The door frame cracked again.

I climbed over the railing.

The wind immediately made the height feel much more personal.

Natalie stared at me.

”Be careful.”

I looked back at her.

”Oh, now we’re introducing caution?”

”Just jump!”

”Mixed signals, Natalie.”

I positioned myself.

The neighboring balcony was lower, which helped.

It was also farther away, which did not.

Still, I had done things like this before.

Not often enough to put it on a résumé, but often enough that I knew hesitation was the enemy.

You committed.

You jumped.

You grabbed something sturdy.

You promised yourself you would make better decisions.

Then you completely forgot that promise the next time a pretty woman smiled at you.

Simple.

Behind me, the bedroom door gave another violent shudder.

I looked at the gap.

Then the drop.

Then the door.

”What am I doing with my life?”

Natalie answered immediately.

”Question it later!”

”Fair.”

I bent my knees.

The door behind her sounded like it was one good hit away from opening.

I jumped.

For half a second, everything worked.

My body crossed the gap.

The other balcony rushed toward me.

My hands reached out.

I was going to make it.

Of course I was.

Caled Morningwood, veteran of terrible exits, undefeated champion of avoiding consequences.

Then the balcony door opened.

Directly into my head.

There was no warning.

Just glass, metal, pain, and the sudden realization that architecture had chosen violence.

WHACK.

The impact snapped my head sideways.

My body bounced away before my hands could grab the railing.

For one ridiculous instant, I had time to think:

Seriously?

A door?

I survived the boyfriend.

I survived the jump.

And a door was going to defeat me?

Apparently yes.

The balcony disappeared above me.

Air swallowed me.

I was falling.

Again, there was surprisingly little dignity involved.

No heroic music.

No slow-motion memory of my childhood.

No profound understanding of existence.

Just wind roaring past my ears while gravity dragged me downward like I owed it money.

The building blurred beside me.

I looked down once.

Bad idea.

The ground was coming up very quickly.

”Well,” I muttered into the rushing air, ”this feels familiar.”

Then I hit.

Everything ended instantly.

Yeah.

Not a particularly good way to die.

I would have preferred something more impressive.

Saving a bus full of children.

Fighting off armed criminals.

Maybe dying at ninety after an exhausting night with twins.

Instead, my grand finale involved another man’s girlfriend, a balcony, and a door with suspiciously good timing.

At least it was quick.

There are worse things than dying instantly.

Probably.

I would have liked time to complain, though.

Death should come with a customer feedback form.

Cause of death?

Poor judgment.

Secondary cause?

Hostile architecture.

Would you recommend this experience to a friend?

Absolutely not.

And just like that, my life was over.

Twenty-four years.

Gone.

I had spent a lot of those years chasing fun, women, alcohol, and whatever terrible idea happened to look attractive at the time.

Mostly women.

Definitely women.

Different personalities.

Different faces.

Different countries.

Different levels of regret the following morning.

I had enjoyed myself.

Maybe too much.

Okay, definitely too much.

But still.

It had been a good life.

A very good life, depending on how flexible your definition of responsible was.

And now I could not believe it was finished.

No more bars.

No more flirting.

No more waking up beside beautiful strangers and performing emergency name reconstruction before they noticed.

No more risky encounters with women who came attached to boyfriends, husbands, or wealthy sponsors with anger-management budgets.

No more tasting a different woman every night.

My wonderful life was over.