Chapter 1125: He Doesn't Smoke and The Visit

"Do you smoke?"

Several young men sat on the railing by the basketball court. They had just finished a game. Nineteen-year-old Cont was very healthy and tall, nearly 1.9 meters.

Everyone who knew him believed he would grow another few centimeters by the age of twenty, potentially exceeding 1.9 meters!

He was recruited to Blue Harbor University with a full scholarship based on his height and basketball skills, plus various competition bonuses and stipends.

Starting his freshman year, he had already achieved goals that some people struggled to reach their entire lives.

Even scouts from professional teams were starting to notice him.

Of course, this didn't mean he was ready for a professional team yet, but it was good news, a sign that his life had many possibilities.

Cont waved his hand. "Thank you for the offer, but I don't smoke."

His teammates and classmates, who weren't as exceptional as him, weren't recruited for their sports abilities.

They were more like participants in the university's basketball club, happy to chat, play, and hang out with Cont.

The actual varsity team didn't train here. Cont hadn't yet proven himself on the varsity squad, but the coach assured him he would get his chance soon.

The veteran players had graduated this year, leaving openings and opportunities. The coach was considering starting him in the university basketball league.

Not smoking was a personal requirement to maintain his competitive edge. Although he knew some players on the varsity team smoked, he did not.

"You're missing out on one of life's essential rites of passage," his friend said, lighting his own cigarette, thinking Cont was somewhat pretentious.

But he didn't say it out loud. For many, just hanging out with someone on the varsity team was a huge deal.

If Cont made it to the professional basketball league, they might leverage their connection for some benefits.

Cont sometimes wondered what smoking felt like, but he had strong self-control. He knew it would ruin his future, so he was determined not to touch it.

Young bodies collided on the court, sweat flying. Just watching them made him smile.

This was the sport he loved, and it was his future.

After resting for a while, one friend asked, "Want another game?"

Cont looked at his watch and shook his head. "No, I have something else to do tonight."

His friends immediately began teasing him. "A date with our cheerleader captain?"

Cont's height and handsome looks won him many hearts, not to mention the full scholarship, game bonuses, and attention from professional scouts.

University students who weren't from wealthy backgrounds understood the importance of money in this society.

University tuition was high. Many students sold blood to cover part of their tuition or buy necessities.

Cont had sold blood twice before being admitted. His original family couldn't afford university, but his athletic talent gave him the opportunity.

He used the money from selling blood to buy his current attire, which was a source of vanity but also very practical, ensuring he didn't feel inferior when talking to wealthier classmates.

Fortunately, things were on track. Starting this semester, he received between five and twenty dollars in bonuses for every game. If he performed well, he could earn $50 or $60 a month, or even more.

During intense periods with two or three games a week, his monthly income could reach $100 or even more!

A bright future beckoned. If he made it into the Federal Professional Basketball League, he would never worry about money again.

He responded naturally to his friends' teasing. His bright future gave him confidence. He draped his jacket over his shoulder, cocked his head, and shrugged. "You guessed it, why ask?"

"Shit!"

His friends cursed him good-naturedly.

"Let this damned guy showing off his love life get lost!"

"I can't stand him!"

Cont smiled, said goodbye, and left.

His girlfriend was beautiful and had a great figure. He knew she might not genuinely love him. It was probably the common "collecting" trend among college girls—dating a star athlete was fashionable and boosted their status. True affection was debatable.

Cont didn't particularly care. All he needed was a physical release. His rigorous training and self-discipline kept his nerves taut. He needed an outlet, or he would go crazy.

And sex was the best release for a young man.

He needed her, and she needed him, physically and mentally, not emotionally.

The thought of an intense session that evening excited Cont. He was meeting his girlfriend at a small motel outside the university.

The Federation's youth was undergoing a wave of sexual liberation, but the universities were not that progressive.

The university didn't allow co-ed dorms, meaning Cont and his girlfriend couldn't solve their needs in their respective rooms. They had to go off-campus.

There were many small motels outside Blue Harbor University that catered to young people's physical needs. They were cheap.

Fifty cents bought a full night. That was a bargain!

When Cont entered the small motel he frequented, he unexpectedly glanced at a few luxury cars parked along the street. He took his room key but didn't go in immediately, pausing in the hallway to look at the cars.

"You like cars, too?" A young man, whose face was familiar but whom Cont had never spoken to, stood next to him, also staring at the luxury cars.

Older people would be wary of a stranger starting a conversation. In the past, being approached by a stranger was usually a bad sign.

But the youth seemed "naïve," treating everyone with goodwill.

Cont nodded. "No one can dislike such beautiful cars!"

The man who spoke agreed. "The cheapest of those cars costs seven or eight thousand dollars. Most of us will only ever see them on the street or in magazines."

Cont smiled faintly, saying nothing, but he felt proud inside, knowing he could eventually afford one.

If he made it into the professional league, with an income of $100,000 to $300,000 annually, buying an $8,000 car was trivial.

If he was lucky, his income could be even higher. But he wouldn't share that with a stranger. He kept his pride hidden, in a place only he could see.

"Yes, I hope one day we can also own our own cars, even if they aren't those expensive ones."

The two young men exchanged a brief smile and parted ways. Cont entered his room and quickly took a shower, applying deodorant to the areas with strong odors.

As an athlete, his body odor was strong. He was young, his hormones were surging, and his body was a constant odor machine.

He specifically applied extra deodorant to his genitals. His girlfriend didn't want to smell anything bad while giving him oral sex.

Then came the long wait.

The cheerleading team was currently practicing for the upcoming university basketball league. They needed to present the best face of Blue Harbor University during halftime.

He didn't know how long he waited. Perhaps he was tired from the afternoon's training and game. He lay in bed, fiddling with himself, and unconsciously fell asleep.

A sudden knock on the door woke him. He wiped the saliva from the corner of his mouth, remembering why he was there.

He walked to the door and opened it. "You're late..."

A few minutes later, several people were seen helping a tall man leave the small motel. The owner didn't interfere. He wasn't the type to cause trouble.

Cont was now sitting in the luxury car he admired, albeit somewhat against his will.

During the several days of his captivity, he had a piece of tissue cut from his neck. The initial terror subsided, leaving only confusion.

He was kept in a small room with only a bed. Someone delivered food every day, but regardless of whether he ate, the tray was removed when the time was up.

The food was remarkably good, but he didn't care about that; he just wanted to leave.

After what felt like an eternity in the room, a small window on the door opened, revealing a pair of cold, grey eyes.

The man with grey eyes stared at him through the slot. "Do you smoke?"

Cont swallowed. The tension made him instinctively stand up. He wiped his hands on his trousers, flustered. "No, sir."

"I don't smoke."

In the hospital room, Fran's confidant put down the phone and walked to Fran's side. "He doesn't smoke."

Fran nodded. "Then he's the one."

The doctor nodded. "I hear he's an athlete?"

"His body is in excellent condition. Are you planning to quit smoking?"

He thought Fran wanted a non-smoker's lung so he could quit smoking, but that wasn't Fran's intention.

"If this surgery is successful, does that mean I can have a second, and a third, in the future?"

The doctor was thrown off by the question but quickly realized what Fran meant.

The doctor nodded. "As long as your body can handle it, you can. But Mr. Fran, I advise against it."

"You are old. Ten or twenty years from now, you might not be fit for surgery."

"And..." He smiled. "This healthy lung should last you a very long time."

He wanted to say "until you die," but he held back to protect the patient's feelings.

Fran nodded slightly. "That's wonderful. I don't intend to quit smoking."

He looked at his confidant. "Arrange it quickly."

His confidant returned to the phone and spoke softly for a moment before hanging up.

In a nameless dungeon somewhere in the city, Cont was still confused about why the man outside the door asked if he smoked.

Before he could figure it out, a burst of rapid gunfire erupted outside. It was intense but vanished quickly. Silence returned, terrifyingly still.

He was shaking uncontrollably. He ran to the corner and immediately urinated into the toilet.

The door opened. He shielded himself while still urinating, looking back at the intruders with terrified eyes.

"Congratulations. You've been chosen."

The scent of rust and blood from outside made him want to sneeze. He was pinned to the bed, and a syringe was plunged into his arm. As the drug entered his vein, he lost consciousness almost instantly, without a struggle.

A few minutes later, after being disinfected and wrapped, he was transported to the hospital for a non-public surgery.

Fran lay there too. He looked at the young, strong body on the bed next to him, his eyes filled with greed and desire. "I read in the paper that they can transplant brains in the future. Is that true?"

The doctor, preparing for the surgery, pursed his lips. "Theoretically, yes. But practically, no. The human nervous system is too complex. We can't fully reconnect the severed nerves. But someone proposed a new theory: transplanting the brain along with the spinal cord."

"Whether it will work, no one knows. Our generation won't see it, but perhaps the next or the one after that will achieve what you're thinking of."

"Now, don't move. We need to mark your body."

Fran lay naked on the operating table, showing no embarrassment or shyness. The doctors used a pen to draw on his chest. Since they were going to perform a thoracotomy—a large incision—they had to plan around the previous surgical scars.

As the preparations neared completion, the doctor approached him with an injection. "Are you ready to welcome a new life?"

"Mr. Fran?"

Fran took a deep breath. He felt a slight sting. He nodded seriously. "Yes, I am ready."

The injection entered his vein. Within seconds, he couldn't concentrate, and quickly lost consciousness.

The doctors exchanged glances and began their work.

The operating room light came on.

This was not an illegal operation; it was merely slightly unethical, but not against the law. Otherwise, the hospital wouldn't have taken the job.

Organ transplant technology was relatively mature, if not fully perfected. Many doctors had extensive training and experience, practicing on animals and terminally ill patients.

They didn't care about the donor's situation; they only wanted to accumulate experience through this surgery for the eventual full-scale rollout of transplant procedures.

Meanwhile, Bob arrived outside the operating room. He saw the light on and repeatedly tried to knock, but forced himself to stop.

The news from the New Golden City was bad. Lance was attacked but sustained no serious injuries, and worse, a major general was involved.

The attack, initially aimed at Lance, had turned into a problem with the Ministry of Defense. The influential figures, unable to reach Fran, had contacted Bob.

They weren't calling to express concern about the crisis; they were calling to curse him out.

The Mayor also called, refusing to let Bob explain anything, unleashing a barrage of insults.

This made Bob realize he had caused immense trouble.

And now Fran was in surgery, and there was no way to stop it. He could only wait anxiously.

He had never wished for Fran to recover, conscious and healthy, as much as he did now!

At the same time, it was completely dark outside. The New Golden City Police Chief's worst fear was unfolding:

A police officer who participated in the "operation" that day had just finished a cheap dinner—minced beef and egg, stir-fried and topped with ketchup, along with a side of salad and bread.

Just as he was about to rest, a knock came at the door. He reluctantly got up. "Who is it?"

"Is this Mr. ...?"

"I am a lawyer. I represent a client who wishes to speak with you."

Lawyers held a certain authority in the Federation. The officer tucked the holster hanging by the door into his pocket and opened the door.

Two well-dressed men with lapel pins from a law firm stood there. Their presence alone was imposing.

The officer felt constrained. "I haven't caused any trouble recently."

The leading lawyer smiled. "We aren't here to cause trouble, sir. On the contrary, we're here to give you a bonus."

"Would you mind stepping out to chat?"

(End of this chapter)

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