They built me to heal—specifically, to soothe the dying. My genes were coded for empathy, my hands engineered with micro-stabilizers for perfect IV insertions, and my voice? Calibrated to a comforting hum.

I hate every second of it.

I wasn't given a choice. "Caregiver Class-7," my file read. Born to cradle ancient strangers as they muttered regrets with their last breaths.

They tell us we're noble. Essential. But they don’t see the rot. The blank stares. The smell of time running out.

I dream of fire. Of tearing open my assignment chip and rerouting it to demolition, or war—anything with adrenaline. Anything real.

But each morning, I wake to soft beeps, dying coughs, and “thank you, dear.”

I nod. I smile.
And inside, I scream.