In the neon nightscape of New Chicago, beneath the flickering holograms of a utopia never realized, lay the dim-lit bar where remnants of dreams flickered out like smoke from a dying fire. Jace sat alone on stage, an antiquated acoustic guitar resting on his trembling knee. The crowd was sparse, mainly shadows upon shadows, but he played on for an audience of memories rather than men.

His attention, though, wasn’t on the six worn strings, but rather on the 死爱的 guitar strap that hugged his shoulder like a python. A peculiar relic of his trade, the strap seemed to hum with a life of its own—a selfish little devil that whispered promises of fame while demanding the ultimate sacrifice.

“Jace,” the bar owner, Marie, leaned against the stage with a mix of indulgence and impatience. Her voice cracked the static-heavy air. “You’ve been playing for hours and scaring off customers with those mournful ditties. Wouldn’t kill you to try something a bit more… lively, would it?”

“It’s the strap, Marie. It plays me as much as I play it. I swear it sometimes… demands my soul.” Jace’s voice was a weary rasp, each word measured as if any more might tip him into oblivion.

Marie snorted softly, a sound more akin to a blade casually sharpened. “Gimme a break, Jace. You’re just not cut out for sci-fi spooks and haunted sounds. Leave that stuff to the King.”

“There’s truth in horror, Marie. And sometimes, realized fear is more than fiction—more than I can bear.” His eyes were distant, focused on some unseen dawn beyond the constraints of the present.

Then came Alex, an enigmatic figure, sleek as he was shadowy, draped in an aura of the technological epoch. He glided towards the stage, eyes sharp and knowing, and addressed Jace with a voice oiled by years of secrets. “The strap you speak of—I’ve seen it before.”

Jace paused, the strings beneath his fingers suddenly rigid, expectant. “You’ve what?”

Alex surveyed the room, a reluctant prophet sharing lore to a world not yet ready. “It was crafted from the remnants of a cosmic traveler, my friend. The selfish when living, the strap you now hold is its legacy. It feeds and thrives on the essence of those it binds itself to.”

Incredulity and awe danced like two hesitant partners across Jace’s face. “What does it want from me?”

“Everything,” Alex said, a half-smile ghosting his lips—a smile that never reached his eyes. “But it gives, as well. The power to enchant, to captivate even the most hardened of hearts. Yet it nourishes itself on your joys, your fears, your life’s blood.”

Jace turned the guitar slightly, feeling the weight of a cosmic tragedy on his weary shoulders. “And that’s why I can’t stop?” He asked, more to himself, a vagrant in his own reality.

Marie sighed, softer this time, as if witnessing the eternal struggle of artist against muse, humanity against void. “Sometimes we have to choose, Jace, between the song and the silence.”

As if on cue, the neon lights outside dimmed, leaving the room encased in a palpable, throbbing gloom—a parallel pulsing within his mind. The absence of sound was the loudest scream, a silence that even the selfish strap could not fill.

Jace simply nodded, accepting his fate, and returned his gaze to the strings—determined to find a melody amidst the inevitable crescendo of despair. He played his final song, a dirge for the stars that had long since faded, as the world quietly went on outside.

In the end, it was not the strap but the silence that consumed him whole—leaving only echoes behind.