He paused, the silence stretching taut as a wire. Then his voice cut through again:
"ZamCorp Base One is currently recruiting technicians in the following fields: electrical engineers, electronic engineers, aircraft engineers, and anything related to aviation engineering. Civil engineering."
Each word landed like a hammer blow in Delvin's chest.
"Come and apply at ZamCorp Base One. Thank you for listening, and goodnight."
The hologram blinked out, plunging the square into relative darkness.
Delvin's breath stopped. His heart slammed against his ribcage—once, twice, three times in rapid succession.
The world tilted. Heat flooded through his veins, starting in his chest and radiating outward until his fingertips tingled. His right hand flew to his mouth, pressing hard against his lips as if to keep his soul from escaping.
The ground seemed to shift beneath his feet. His knees buckled. He sank down where he stood, both hands now clamped over his mouth, fingers trembling.
Hot tears spilled over, tracking down his cheeks in silent rivers. His vision blurred. Around him, faces turned—curious, concerned, confused—but Delvin couldn't see them.
He was somewhere else entirely, suspended in a moment he'd replayed a thousand times in his desperate imagination.
Strong hands gripped his shoulders. George's familiar voice broke through the fog, stuttering with emotion. "W-wow! T-the door h-has finally opened for you."
George pulled him up, steadying him. "T-this is your opportunity, brother, t-to soar high."
For years, Delvin had hoped. Prayed. Wished on every star he could see through the polluted sky.
ZamCorp had been the distant dream—the gleaming fortress that promised everything his life lacked. Security. Power. A shield against the shadows of his past. Money. Respect. A future that didn't taste like ash.
And now the door was open.
His pulse thundered in his ears. His tongue felt thick, his throat tight. When words finally came, they scraped out raw and unsteady: "Yes. I've waited for this moment... like forever. It's now here."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Yet it's hard to believe. Seems like the Universe is playing tricks on me. Am I dreaming, George?"
He pinched the tender skin of his forearm, twisting hard. The sharp sting grounded him. Real. This was real.
George's eyes glistened in the dim light, tears catching on his lower lashes. His crooked smile was radiant despite the stutter.
"No, brother, i-it's all real. I get to witness you rise to glory. I-I will be cheering f-for you."
A thousand thoughts ricocheted through Delvin's skull, each one brighter and more frantic than the last. His gaze snapped to his watch—the cracked face barely visible in the shadows. "Push me there, bro. Now. I need you."
George didn't hesitate. His voice came out powerful despite the tremor, energy surging through every syllable. "Y-yes. Let's go, brother."
---
ZamCorp Base One lay on their route home from town—they'd passed it a hundred times, always looking, always wondering.
Now they moved toward it like soldiers on forced march, their footfalls hammering the cracked pavement in rhythm. The night air was cool against Delvin's flushed face, carrying the faint metallic taste of industry and ozone.
One hour later, they stood at the entrance, chests heaving, sweat cooling on their skin. A line had already formed—men and women with the same hunger in their eyes, the same desperate hope etched into their faces.
ZamCorp Base One sprawled before them like a sleeping giant. Five thousand meters by five thousand meters of steel, concrete, and possibility.
Floodlights bathed the perimeter in harsh white light that turned everything stark and shadowless. The facility hummed—a low, omnipresent vibration that Delvin felt in his teeth.
The entrance alone had five gates, each one massive and distinct. Industrial. Impersonal. Beautiful in their brutal efficiency.
Delvin and George joined the queue at the first gate. A security guard in crisp gray uniform directed the flow with minimal words and economical gestures.
To the left of the front gate sat a small gray machine—boxy, utilitarian, like an old ATM but sleeker. Its surface was unblemished except for two buttons: one red, one green. They glowed faintly in the flood of artificial light.
The guard pointed. Delvin's legs felt disconnected from his body as he walked to the machine. His finger hovered over the green button. His heartbeat pulsed in his fingertip. He pressed down.
A mechanical whir. A slip of paper emerged from a slot with a crisp whisper. He grabbed it—the paper warm from the printer, slightly textured. A number in bold black print: 24.
He returned to George's side, clutching the ticket like a lifeline. They waited. Minutes stretched. The line inched forward. Delvin's throat was dry, his palms damp. He wiped them on his pants.
Twenty-five minutes crawled by before an automated voice rang out across the courtyard, clear and emotionless: "Number twenty-four."
Delvin's stomach dropped.
To the right of the gate stood a white glass booth—transparent but tinted, the figure inside reduced to a vague silhouette. He'd watched others enter and emerge, their faces unreadable. Now it was his turn.
His feet moved without conscious command. Each step felt measured, deliberate. He scanned everything: the seams in the concrete, the placement of cameras, the precise angle of the floodlights. Nothing came easy in this world. There was always a catch. Always a price hidden in the fine print.
The booth had a single green button beside the door. He pressed it. The glass slid open with a pneumatic hiss, smooth and swift. The air inside was cooler, sterile, tinged with the faint scent of disinfectant and electronics.
He stepped in. The door whispered shut behind him, sealing with a soft click. His chest tightened.
"Put your hand on the hand scanner."
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere—calm, clinical, devoid of humanity. Delvin's eyes darted around the cramped space. Two steps to the right, mounted on the wall: a bright gray panel with a screen. On the screen, an illustration of a hand glowed green, veins branching out in geometric patterns.
Simple. Obvious.
Delvin placed his hand on the cool surface. The scanner lit up beneath his palm, warmth spreading through the glass. A pleasant chime—ding.
"What is your name?"
"Delvin Dred." His voice sounded strange in the enclosed space—too loud, too real.
"State your age."
He swallowed. His throat clicked. "Twenty years."
"Are you married?"
Talking to a machine was easier than facing human eyes. No judgment. No pity. "No."
"What is your profession?"
Confidence crept back into his voice, straightening his spine. This was his moment. "Electrical and electronic engineering."
Silence. The machine was checking him against the government database—every citizen logged, every achievement recorded, every failure cataloged. The seconds stretched.
Then: ding-dong.
Delvin turned. A shelf had opened in the left wall, smooth and silent, level with his navel. Inside sat an object that caught the sterile light and threw it back in silver flashes.
A wristwatch. No—more than that. Black band, sleek and flexible. A silver-glass face. A single button on the side. It looked expensive. Powerful. Delvin's fingers itched to touch it.
"Please pick up the Granetor and put it on. You will receive information later to notify you whether you have been accepted or not. You can open the door and exit."
Delvin lifted the device. It was lighter than expected, warm as if it had been waiting for him. He fastened it around his left wrist. It adjusted automatically, conforming to his skin. The fit was perfect.
He found the green button by the door and pressed it. The glass slid open, releasing him back into the night air, heavy with humidity and the smell of machinery.
George's face appeared immediately, eyes searching Delvin's expression for any clue, any sign. But Delvin's face gave nothing away—he was still processing, still caught between worlds.
"H-how did it go?"
The question hung in the air. Delvin looked down at the Granetor on his wrist, its surface dark and dormant. "They gave me this. A wrist Granetor. They'll reach out to let me know if I've been accepted at ZamCorp Base One or not."
George's response was immediate, fierce with conviction: "Y-you will absolutely get accepted. You have talent."
Delvin wanted to believe it. He crossed his fingers—an old childhood gesture—and let hope fill the spaces between his ribs.
George's eyes were bloodshot now, glazed with exhaustion. Delvin felt it too—the bone-deep weariness settling into his muscles, the adrenaline finally ebbing. It had been a day measured in lifetimes.
"Let's go home, my friend."
George's smile was small but genuine. Delvin returned it. "Y-yes, yes, brother. Let's go."
---
One hour and thirty minutes later, Delvin collapsed onto his stool. The wood creaked beneath his weight.
He breathed in—slow, deliberate—and then out, feeling his lungs expand and contract. His body ached everywhere: feet throbbing, shoulders tight, neck stiff. Every muscle announced itself.
The day replayed in fragments behind his closed eyelids. He muttered into the empty room, his voice hoarse: "What an eventful day it has been."
'Where do I even start? Eternal Space. Acrymonta—that was his name. I will unlock the gift for you. What gift? During meditation, I felt something... enter. Pour into me like liquid light. What was that? Maybe I was hallucinating. No need to worry. But it felt so real.'
A chuckle escaped him, dry and slightly unhinged.
'Forget that. Focus on the Granetor.'
He examined the device on his wrist. One button. He pressed it.
The hologram burst to life, hovering above the watch face in crisp, glowing detail.
"Wow!" Delvin leaped up, exhaustion forgotten. "This is interesting."
The display resembled the public holograms he'd seen throughout the town, but more refined. Sleek interface. Responsive. Like an iPhone made of light.
He checked the time: 3:00 AM.
'I should rest. My life is full of things I don't understand yet. Rest won't hurt.'
He moved toward his narrow bed—thin mattress, worn sheets—and had just reached for the blanket when the Granetor beeped. Twice. Sharp, insistent. A blue light pulsed on its face.
The hologram activated on its own.
A man appeared in miniature—middle-aged, well-groomed, professional. His voice was warm but measured.
"Good morning, Delvin. You have been accepted at ZamCorp Base One."
Delvin's heart stopped. Then it exploded.
"You will begin your probation on the third of March. You can check out the contract form right on the Granetor hologram. Please take your time to go through the contract thoroughly. It is vital you understand it before you sign it. Thank you so much for your cooperation. Congratulations, and have a great day."
The hologram blinked out.
Delvin stood frozen for three full seconds. Then his body erupted.
He jumped. Danced. Spun in wild, graceless circles. Laughter tore from his throat—loud, jagged, beautiful. "Great! I did it! Thank you, Mother Universe, for remembering me! I am definitely blessed!"
He laughed until his sides hurt, until tears streamed again, until his legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor, gasping and grinning like a madman.
When the energy finally drained, he lay on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling. His voice came out in a whisper, but he spoke aloud anyway.
"Am I going to rest today? Things keep piling up. Don't complain. Be grateful. I'm happy about this. All of it."
He pressed his palms to his eyes. "Let me just rest a little. I'll come back to this. I'm grateful for everything happening to me. It's an honor. A privilege. I can't wait to see what comes next."
A shaky exhale. "It's like I'm dreaming. And please... don't wake me up."
Delvin crawled into bed, pulled the thin blanket over his shoulders, and let sleep take him.
---
Three hours later, an automated voice cut through the silence: "Good morning, Delvin."
Delvin jolted awake, heart hammering. He rolled out of bed, eyes wild, scanning every corner of his small room. Nothing. He dropped to his knees, peered under the bed. Nothing. He flipped the mattress.
Nothing.