The Memory Pawnshop.

As the enamel clock on the counter strikes seven, I touch the implanted chip that burns at the back of my neck. The third customer of the day, wrapped in a musty tweed coat, taps his memory card on the sandalwood countertop, the value of the card displaying a blood-red -47%.

“Pawn first love.” The man's eyeballs were bloodshot, “To replace the memory of the day of her car accident.”

I activated the verification program, and the memory card projected a hologram: a teenage boy and girl holding hands under a cherry blossom tree, the girl's hair dripping with cake cream. The system popped up an evaluation report: [Purity 92% Emotional Entropy 8.3 Suggested Acquisition Price 230 Memory Coins]

“Not enough.” The man suddenly ripped open his collar, revealing the festering chip interface at the back of his neck, “Adding this - the memory of my wife cheating on me - should make up for the negative value, right?”

“Illegal memory transaction detected.”

“Cleaning protocol activated.”

Before I could react, the man suddenly pulled out a pistol. The moment the bullet pierced through the glass display case, the crystal memory jars that sealed other people's lives shattered in response. Pink mist gushed out from the breach, and the entire pawnshop suddenly fell into a collective hallucination - all the customers began to cry and embrace the air.

“You memory mongers...” The man coughed up blood through the smoke, “have no idea what you're selling...”

I press the panic button while the security drone is corroded to scrap metal by the memory fog. When the man's gun was pressed against my brow, the chip on the back of his neck suddenly burst into electrical sparks - that memory of cheating was backfiring on the host, and the holographic projection turned into a surveillance image: it was clearly him walking into the hotel by himself with his arm around the woman in the white coat.

“Transaction completed.”

“Collection of memory default tax: optic nerve usage rights (30 days)”

The man's screams stop abruptly, his pupils clouded with grayish opacity. I wiped the blood off my forehead and realized that the memory jar of my first love in the display case was deteriorating, and the face of the girl under the cherry blossom tree was distorted into the likeness of my dead sister.

Key Plot

Black Market of Memories: The protagonist discovers hundreds of “Memory Mothers” frozen on the bottom floor of a pawn store, continuously producing false memories.

System Loophole: Pawn memories are played back in the middle of the night, and the protagonist sees how he pawned his own humanity.

Time Trap: The street where the pawnshop is located resets every 24 hours, and everyone repeats the same conversation.

The Ultimate Trade: The system asks the protagonist to pawn his knowledge that his memories can be traded in exchange for his freedom.

I locked the door of the pawnshop when the sound of wildcats fighting came from the back alley. The bill checker suddenly spit out a bloodstained thousand-dollar bill with “Don't Trust Memory Assessment Reports” written on the back in lipstick. What's even more frightening is that when I called up the surveillance, there was no such thing as a man with a gun in the picture - just me alone performing a double act to the air.

“Today's performance meets the standard”

“Unlock secondary memory bank”

I swallowed the anti-rejection pill and the chip on the back of my neck began to burn. The crystal jar in the deepest part of the display automatically lights up, the one that holds the memory of my first day in the pawn store. When I touch the jar, I see a completely unfamiliar scene: myself shoving a gun into a crying man's hand and whispering in his ear, “Pawn the real and you'll be happy.”

My reflection reflected in the glass suddenly spoke, “Welcome to the Memory Keepers, Employee #147.” That's when I realized with a shock that the bill checker wasn't spitting out paper money at all, but an old yellowed photo - a photo of me in a white lab coat, installing a memory chip in a crying experiment.

A clock chimed from across the street, and as the seventh stroke was struck, the man wrapped in a tweed coat pushed his way in again. His memory card value was still -47%, and even the stain on his collar was exactly the same as last time.

“Pawn first love.” His eyeballs were bloodshot, “To replace the memory of the day of her car accident.”