And as the "prescription" reached 100%, the bathroom door behind him didn't just look clear—it looked like it was made of glass. He could see the heat signatures of the people in the hallway, their hearts beating in time with the new, digital pulse behind his eyes. He didn't need a doctor anymore. He needed a technician.

He knew the risks. Every forum thread he’d skimmed warned of corneal ulcers, "oxygen starvation," and permanent scarring. But the eye doctor wanted a hundred-dollar exam just to verify a prescription that hadn't changed in five years. Leo was tired of the gatekeeping. He just wanted to see the clock across the room without squinting.

He didn't just see the clock; he saw the microscopic dust motes dancing on the glass. He saw the individual fibers of the carpet. He turned to the window and recoiled. He could see the pores on the face of a man sitting in a car three stories below. It wasn't just vision; it was high-definition intrusion.

Leo washed his hands twice, his heart hammering against his ribs. He popped the seal on the first vial. The lens was eerily thin—almost like a film of oil on water. He balanced it on his index finger, held his breath, and pressed it against his iris. The world snapped into a terrifying, crystalline focus.

He blinked, and he was back in the bathroom. He tried to scream, but his vision flickered again.