Vince spent the whole day worried. If he got replaced or suspended, then he would have to struggle even for daily needs. He didn't know what the poor people on the streets ate — and he didn't want to find out.
The day passed in a flash. By evening, he drove out of the city and crossed the same toll plaza as always, the sign that marked the end of the city area.
From there, his home was still six to 8 miles away.
After driving for half an hour, he finally reached home. The house was heavily guarded, with robotic arms installed at every corner of the property. Once he entered through the gate, he automatically slipped into his usual routine: taking a shower, cooking simple food, reading a bit, drinking some alcohol, and then going to sleep.
There was nothing new in his life. No innovation, no excitement. Just the same repeating schedule every day — because Vince didn't know how to live any other way.
He was about to go to sleep when his eyes drifted back to the book lying near the edge of the room.
Dimension Travelers.
The cover was slightly bent from the fall, its surface dull under the room's white light.
"Let's look inside," he thought.
He picked up the book and opened it to the last page he had marked earlier, continuing from where he had stopped.
The soul is formed from fifth-dimensional elements that influence and bind the four-dimensional framework of the material world. What people call 'power' is merely the interaction between these layers. Sometimes, to access the soul, one does not need belief or talent—only perception. To feel the fifth dimension is to acknowledge that existence is incomplete.
Vince paused.
The writing was dramatic, almost pretentious. The kind authors used when they lacked equations but wanted authority.
"Tch," he muttered.
Still, something about the wording lingered—not the idea of power, but the implication that reality itself was unfinished.
He closed the book and placed it on the shelf without another glance.
Whatever the author was selling, it wasn't useful. Not in this world.
Vince lay down on his bed. Metal safety fences rose slightly from both sides, cold and utilitarian—installed after too many nights of rolling off in half-conscious exhaustion. If he owned a sleeping pod, like the executives did, such precautions would have been unnecessary. But that was a luxury for people whose bodies mattered less than their productivity.
The lights dimmed automatically.
His thoughts slowed.
Tomorrow would be another cycle—work, data, survival. No purpose, no deviation.
As sleep claimed him, the room remained silent.
Inner City, Western Square
A scrap-covered, rusted electric car stopped in front of a bar called Grilled Bar. The vehicle's battery wheezed as it shut down, as if even the machine was tired of surviving.
Inside, the music was louder than the laughter. Loud enough to drown thought. Loud enough to make time meaningless.
The dancers moved without rhythm, bodies pushed past exhaustion, repeating motions learned long ago. Ten or twelve customers occupied the room—some slumped over tables, some staring into empty glasses, others simply eating in silence. Outside, people starved. Inside, alcohol flowed freely.
It was not coincidence.
It was policy.
A man entered the bar. He wore a cap pulled low, his body fully covered despite the heat. He didn't look at the dancers. Didn't look at the customers. He walked straight to the counter.
From his pocket, he placed a token on the bar.
It looked like an old coin—metal darkened by age. Engraved on its surface were crossed swords beneath a skull.
The bartender saw it and smiled. Not warmly. Not nervously. Professionally.
Without a word, he pressed a hidden panel beneath the counter. At the far end of the bar, part of the floor slid open, revealing a lift descending into darkness.
The man stepped inside.
The lift moved down.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then forty.
Then more.
When the doors opened, the air was colder.
A bunker stretched out before him—vast, clean, and quiet. At least twenty thousand square meters of reinforced concrete and steel. Rows of terminals glowed softly. Technicians worked in silence. Armed guards patrolled with mechanical precision.
This was not a hideout.
It was infrastructure.
The man walked without hesitation and stopped in front of a door marked with the same symbol as the token.
He entered.
Inside stood a tall black man wearing segmented armor that protected only vital areas. Practical. Efficient. His curly hair was cropped short, his beard thick, his nose broad rather than sharp.
The visitor removed his mask.
Small eyes. Asian features. Calm expression.
The armored man laughed softly.
"You took a huge risk, Chairman Dong," he said. "But don't worry. After this episode, we won't need to worry for a long time."
Dong smiled faintly.
"This is the last time, Delbo," he said. "If this is discovered, consider me already dead."
He reached into his pocket and placed a small pendrive on the table.
"Security details of Will Strong. Full movement schedule. Clearance keys for the Graviton Artificials supercomputer."
Delbo's smile widened.
"Efficient as always."
Dong turned away.
"Don't waste my time," he said. "And don't fail."
He put his mask back on and left the room.
Minutes later, above ground, the rusted electric car merged back into traffic. At the next intersection, a heavy transport truck drifted out of its lane and crushed it without slowing.
There was no fire. No blood.
By the time authorities arrived, Chairman Dong was already gone—another shadow absorbed by concrete and neon.