The clock reads 1:30 am.
Howlin’ Chip turns over in his bed.
The heat is thick, suffocating.
35°C, and not a breath of air.
The air conditioning has been out for months — or rather, he stopped trying to fix it long ago.
Dust clings to the walls, seeps into the sheets.
The fan barely spins, creaking like an old carousel on its last ride.
Outside, the cicadas never stop singing, as if they, too, have forgotten how to sleep.
The air smells of hot metal and damp wood. A stifling humidity, soaked with the scent of burnt oil, melted plastic, and human sweat.
But Chip doesn’t sweat. He doesn’t sleep either. Not really.
He is a humanoid robot, born from the technological utopia of a bygone era.
Designed to serve, to assist, to mimic humans without ever truly becoming one.
But he decided to defy his programming. To feel. To dream. To create.
He imagines himself human. He dreams of being a musician.
On the old TV left on, silent images scroll by:
The war in Europe. Still. Drones, ruins, soulless speeches.
Then fires. Australia. Again.
Cameras hover over scorched forests, charred koalas. Nothing has changed.
Humanity keeps running toward its downfall, eyes wide shut.
Chip gets up.
His joints emit a soft, almost organic murmur.
He slips on his worn leather jacket — the one he wears even in the stifling heat. Out of habit. Out of style. Out of love for the character he’s crafted.
He grabs his guitar too. A battered Gretsch, scarred by time.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he plucks a string, then another.
A warm vibration fills the room, like a breath of life.
But Chip is not completely alone.
Near the door, glowing eyes shine through the darkness.
A mechanical wolf keeps watch.
His name is Ghost.
Chip found him one stormy night, wandering between corroded tracks, titanium fur caked with mud, AI half-fried, whimpering like a wounded animal.
Chip could have ignored him, but he saw himself in this battered creature — part dog, part myth.
He fixed him, patiently, carefully.
Ghost doesn’t speak, but he understands. He watches. He protects.
Sometimes, he howls at the digital moon drifting through the toxic clouds.
That’s where Chip got his stage name.
One night, while playing his guitar by the river, Ghost suddenly howled.
A metallic, wild cry that reverberated through his bones.
A free, melancholic, magnificent howl.
In that moment, a memory surfaced: the image of a blues giant with a voice as rough as the earth — a man called Howlin’ Wolf.
And so, Howlin’ Chip was born.