The Organ Harvester

There’s nothing left to save.

Too many people. Not enough of anything else. Earth choked itself out slow — under concrete, steel, and noise.

They walled off the core five years ago. Vanta. The last place with clean air, real water. You can see its towers from here, glowing like a memory that doesn’t want you back.

I live in what’s left. Flooded alleys, blackout zones, stacked bodies breathing in their own heat. No law. No help. Just the grind of keeping still while the rot moves.

They call my place Neon Mercy. I never named it. I never offered mercy.

I cut. I cauterize. I forget.

And I sleep just fine.

I Found him behind a waste chute off Third. Face-down. Barely breathing. One shoe gone.

I rolled him over. Young. Human. Maybe twenty. No chip. No collar. Cheap clothes. Blood on his ribs. Eyes fluttering.

No one around. No questions.

I grabbed his arms and dragged. He didn’t fight. Nail scraped pavement all the way back.

Neon Mercy swallowed us whole. Door locked. Lights on. Silence.

Strapped him down — wrists, ankles, chest. He twitched when I touched him. Good.

Still warm. Still something left to ruin.

I didn’t sedate him. Just locked the body down with a paralytic — full sensory retention, zero control. The kind of silence that makes you understand what you are.

He came to fast. Eyes half open, darting. Chest rising shallow. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. But I saw it in his throat — that stuck, animal rhythm.

I adjusted the strap across his sternum. Leather creaked. He twitched. Good. Still had feedback. That meant I could work clean.

“You’re lucky,” I said. “Most people live their whole lives thinking they’re more than this.”

I turned on the lamp overhead. The hum filled the room. Gloves on. Scalpel in hand. Steel tray beside him, sterilized earlier.

I made the first incision just beneath the ribcage. Shallow at first — just skin. It peeled easily, slow. He flinched. Couldn’t stop it. Sweat beaded instantly. A high-pitched whine built in his sinuses, but no scream came. He couldn’t lift it.

Muscle next. I split it in two passes. Each layer gave way like it had been waiting. His breath stuttered. Shallow. Fast. Real fear—not the kind people fake.

“There is no ‘you’ here. No soul. No center. Just structure.”

Fascia pulled aside. Organs exposed.

“They give you a name, a birthday, and a lie. And you hold onto it like it’s armor. But it’s meat. You’re just meat with memories stapled to it.”

I started with the left kidney. Clamped the artery. Cut clean. Sealed and bagged. Still warm. No damage. Sellable.

Spleen next. Discolored, but intact. Probably malnourished. Still good for transplant. Still good for someone else.

“If you were anything more than a body, you'd be somewhere else right now.”

I checked his face. Tears. Fogging eyes. Still inside. I needed him to stay.

“Don’t drift yet. I still need the liver.”

It came out harder. Slippery, fibrous. Took both hands. I felt him tense under the strap. Muscles contracting on instinct. The paralytic couldn’t fully hold the pain back. He blinked three times. Fast. Still there.

I dropped the liver onto the tray with a soft, wet sound. Blood ran thick across the floor.

The lungs weren’t worth money. But I collapsed one just to measure the response. He twitched again. Eyes wide now. Throat trying to scream.

“It matters that you feel it,” I said. “That’s the only part of you that was ever real.”

Heart still beat inside the open chest cavity. Erratic. Fast. Weak.

Could’ve sold it—but not while it was still pumping. Wouldn’t hold long outside the body. Not in this heat. Not without chillers.

And I wasn’t going to wait.

“This part’s mine,” I said.

I leaned in, barehanded. Gripped the heart at the base. Pulled hard. One twist. Sharp.

It tore.

No sound. Just a final breath, ragged and low. The kind that leaves.

The body slackened. Still open. Still warm. Still bleeding.

I took what was left — eyes, bone marrow, a few intact teeth. Bagged everything. Labeled what I could. The tray was full. The air thick.

I peeled off the gloves. Dropped them into the bin.

The light above the table flickered once. Always does.

“That’s all there ever was,” I said, to no one. “Meat, nerve, heat, silence.”

I washed my hands.

Another name removed.

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