Rewrite in the style of NAME_1: I looked down at myself. I was human again.

Once we'd owned an apartment at the heart of the New Bronx. It was a nice place, light and roomy, with state-of-the-art Virtual walls. Since my metamorphosis, I can't use it anymore, but I keep it anyhow, leaving it unoccupied. Unchanged, in fact, since NAME_2's death. I just like to know it's there.

Now I was back in that apartment. I was alone.

I went to the drinks cabinet, poured myself a malt, and waited. I can still drink, of course, but I've discovered that much of the pleasure of liquor comes from the tactile sensations of the bottle clinking against the glass, the heavy mass of the liquor in the base of the glass, the first rush of flavor.

Being injected just isn't the same.
