History will not remember me kindly.

It's a thought that has plagued me for nearly two centuries after undergoing surgeries and alterations to prolong my life.

Regrets loom in my mind as I stand at the window,

looking over the glistening lights of the city far below me.

Like myself, the city should have died long ago.

Alas, it appears immortality is easier for the individual than the masses.

After I saved their lives, the people gave me a title.

They called me the revered physician, a man who looked annihilation in the face

and laughed. When the apocalypse came for our world, swallowing it in darkness, feasting

on countless lives, and sucking the marrow from the very bones of civilization, I challenged

its gluttony. I proclaimed for all to hear that death would

not claim this city. It and its inhabitants were blessed. I pushed back against the darkness

with light, and the city became a beacon in the dark. The masses cheered as the city lights

refused to dwindle.

Everyone was saved, and I was their hero.

But how does that old saying go?

Ah yes.

You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

A bleak sentiment, but not inaccurate.

Sighing through my heavy mask, I turn away from the city and toward my instrument of salvation.

While the top of my tower might not be the most practical place for an operating theatre, the view of the city keeps me motivated.

It reminds me of the reason for my actions.

...