He woke up, legs stiff and arms sore, unsure of the night before. He raised his hand to his temple, which grazed the newly laid stitches that were the source of the pain in his head. The man stood up, red-eyed and hazy, and looked down the dimly lit alley to determine his whereabouts. The sound of his ringtone filled his weary head as he glanced down at his phone. His phone presented him with the name of the caller. Christopher.

"Go to Wynyard Station. Be there in one hour."

Hearing his cold voice, his mind raced to the events of the previous night.

Tied down, surrounded by white panelled walls, his eyes bloodshot and pleading, he struggled against the restraints as the nurse braced his arm. Christopher reassured him quietly, as he stuck the needle into his arm, that everything would be okay. His eyes rolled to the side as his mind took a backseat to the drugs in his system.

His mind returned to the stitches on his head causing him to hurl over in pain. Resisting the urge to lay down he carried on forwards towards the sound of the city. At the corner of the alley and the road he composed himself and threw his hood over his shaved head. His eyes darted from person to person, but were focussed on the light above them. A number stood firmly above each individual like a halo. The pain subsided as he stood in awe of the number illuminating each person's face.

He spotted a man with a brown paper bag in his hand, lying on a bench, eyes wide open and his joints convulsing every few seconds. Walking up to the homeless man he kept his eyes focussed on the number over his head. A bright two illuminated the man's face. He reached out and moved his hand, passing it through the number as if it wasn’t there, and startling the homeless man who stood up and removed a knife.

He backed away as the man took unsteady steps towards him slashing the air. The homeless man's number changed to a bright one. Pinned against the wall he glanced at the crowd that had gathered around him as they pleaded the homeless man to put the knife down. Without choice he raised his fist towards the homeless man and threw it towards him. As his fist traveled through the air he noticed the number above the man's head began to change again. The number turned deep red and took the form of a zero above the fist planted in his face.

The man fell backwards onto the metal edge of the seat he was on. The throbbing in his fist brought him back to reality and he soon realised the homeless man was dead.

He sprint through the crowd and down the street, taking note of each number he came across. He stopped and focussed on his breathing, taking slow deep breaths. Moving towards the glass panels of the building beside him, his reflection came into view. He looked above his hood but did not see a number. He looked around at the passer-by's numbers, ranging from the thousands to the tens of thousands.

He looked down at his hand, which was covered in blood. He tried to move it but the pain from the break in his wrist was unbearable. His eyes shifted to the hospital that stood tall at the end of the street, illuminated by the red and blue lights of the ambulances parked out front.

He scanned the waiting room, looking at the numbers above each patient. The numbers around the room were noticeably lower than outside the hospital. His eyes became fixed on an elderly man sitting across from the door. His slow breathing echoed throughout the silent room drawing attention from its occupants. The coughs that followed also echoed as he took unsteady steps towards the nurse. "Please" he said, his eyes watery as he approached the nurse. A red zero loomed over the old man following his steps until his knees gave way and the sound of his body hitting the floor bounced through the waiting room.

The nurses flooded in panic to the old man who lay motionless on the floor. He let out a deep breath but never inhaled. A ringtone broke his focus on the body. HIs phone lit up with a caller; Christopher. 

"TEN MINUTES." 

He stood steady on the platform, eyes blankly staring into nothing as he was unable to bring himself to look at the numbers around. His arm resting in his sling. His mind resting on an idea. A purpose for the numbers. He peered at the incoming train until his view was disrupted by a pair of black glasses that lay upon the face of a lady in black. The lady held tightly to her folder as she took steps towards him. The lady raised the folder to his chest before disappearing into the sea of people behind him. The train pulled up beside him and its doors opened while he stood perplexed at the folder in his arm. He boarded the train eyes fixed on the folder and sat down to read its contents.

His eyes landed on a photograph of himself, which sat above his name, birthday and occupation. His eyes caught his signature and a statement in bold.

"I authorise the performance of the following operation / surgical procedure(s)

  - Implementation of experimental chip 'DTH02' "

His breathing increased as his hand moved to the stitches on his head. Beads of sweat dripped over his fingers as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He slid his finger over the screen and pressed the phone to his ear. 

"Answer the following questions with as much honesty as you can" Christopher said, his cold voice inducing a shiver down his spine.

"W-who are you? What did you do to me?"  he said, eyes still trained on the folder.

"Do you remember agreeing to this operation?" he questioned

"No. What are the num-"

"Have you experienced anything out of the ordinary during this period?"

"Y-yes the numbers. T-they went red. They went red. They died." He said eyes were swelling as he kept them trained on his photograph.

"Can you tell us more about the numbers? How are they affected?"

He looked up, tears blurring his vision of the carriage. He shut his eyes to release the tears ,which rolled slowly down his cheek, before reopening them. His eyes widened as he panned the carriage of passengers, eyes fixed on the light above their heads. His mouth opened slightly as it took in an uneasy breath.

"w-what d-do the numbers mean" He managed to stutter as his eyes rested in horror on the crowd of people on the carriage. Each person's number shone bright red in the shape of a zero above each of their heads. The horn blared a bellowing sound before the front carriage collided with the other train.