Tilting a glittering glass, the man downed watered-down bourbon in one gulp. High-proof or not, the melted ice reduced it to a faint alcoholic whiff, too weak to scorch the mind. Dangling the empty glass, illuminated by a dim lamp, he tapped its rim with his fingertip, signaling the bartender for another.

  The past can’t be changed—obvious. No way to go back. Humans march through the present, their footprints—memories—forming the concept of the past. What’s done is done, unalterable. Even realizing a mistake, the living must press on.

  The present is a one-way spiral locked in a cyclical ring—an ancient globe’s latitude and longitude, a device repeating assigned roles, mimicking, passing to the next. Those tasked bear heavy chains instead of rights or power, stripped of freedom. Humans, stage machinery, scurry within the ring, sustaining an endless spiral—that’s their fate.

  The future is a lucid delusion, a chaotic dream. Gods clinging to the past ignore tomorrow, writhing in madness. Rising to power, the man learned his old friend’s lies were all true. The path he thought he’d chosen was pre-paved, a rail laid out. Fools claiming godhood deny the future, crushing seeds to guard their utopia.

  This world lacks only hope. His friend, who vanished saying that, met an unknown end. Banished from the upper city to mid-city, then choosing the undercity, he likely knew everything. Knowing, he resolved to act alone, falling to the tower’s depths through failure and despair. At best, a heroic idealist; at worst, a fool racing to ruin for ideals. Recalling his friend, the man downed another bourbon, sighed deeply, and pulled a worn paperback from his coat, flipping its tattered pages.

  An epic of crossing limbo, falling to hell, purging in purgatory, reaching paradise. He had no guide through hell, no beloved woman. His sins exceeded purgatory’s cleansing, and no guide could lead to paradise. Yet, reading his friend’s gift, he couldn’t help but remember him.

  The book’s characters and setting were unrelated to their world. Humanity existed only within the tower; outside, monstrous creatures roamed a dead land. Even inside, the lower, mid, and upper cities held stark divides. In the undercity, a life was worth less than a bullet. Compared to the book, the undercity was limbo itself.

  Closing the book, the man rose from the stool, standing by the bulletproof window. Below sprawled neon lights and a dazzling electronic sea. Augmented prostitutes lured men with sultry gazes; chained children were sold as goods. A city of lust, fattening sin like cancer, scattering evil. The undercity pleasure district burned with endless desire, an eternal pyre. Could any sin committed here, any evil embraced, be called rational, righteous?

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  But… sins from here couldn’t taint mid-city. Mid-city’s happiness was Silentium’s priority. Thus, the man—Dick, Silentium’s Chief Director—used Hydro de Benzene to sort sinners from innocents, purging all Silentium staff from the first three floors, arresting them.

  Colleagues, executives, workers—no one could bring chaos to mid-city. Investigations were complete, evidence seized. Dick’s merciless, unwavering will was his weapon, feared by all but the Commander. Those misusing power or demanding undue freedom were mere dust to him, told to speak only after bearing duty. His stern face, sharp eyes, and muscular frame—evident through his suit—marked him as formidable. Only his white hair and deep wrinkles betrayed his age.

  If, by some infinitesimal chance, his friend lived, would he recognize Dick now? Would he slap his shoulder, laugh as always? No—impossible. Hoping for “what-ifs” was futile. He’d seen despair crush hope too often, tasted the bitterness of futility, clenched his fists. Even if alive, his friend—older than him—would be a skeletal husk.

  Reaching for his device to call the undercity security captain, the fifth floor’s door opened quietly.

  A neutral beauty in a dress and a rugged youth in a disheveled suit stepped through. Dick pocketed his device, straightened, and bowed deeply. “Commander Gloria, what brings you?”

  “Dick, is everything on track?” Gloria asked.

  “Yes, sir… all per your will. We’ve located the illicit plant, secured production records, and shipping logs.”

  “Good. I owe you.”

  “It’s my duty.”

  Clapping, Gloria sat on a stool, ordering a gin and tonic. “Danan, sit,” he said, smiling.

  “This the bar you wanted?” Danan asked.

  “Yup. Work to do.”

  “…”

  Danan’s gaze met Dick’s piercing eyes, a cauldron of anger, shock, doubt, relief. Unyielding, poised to strike, Dick approached. “Danan… that’s your name?”

  “Dick, sorry for the delay. Danan’s my friend, brought me here. Right, Danan?” Gloria said.

  “Friend or not, what’s it to you? Got a problem with my name?” Danan retorted.

  “…”

  Silently, Dick forced Danan onto a stool. “Bartender, bourbon for this kid.” He slid a filled glass to Danan.

  “What’s your angle?” Danan demanded.

  “…Kid, you got parents? Grandparents?”

  “Why should I tell you? That’s none of your business.”

  “Talk.”

  “…”

  Dick’s low voice carried unyielding intent, his clouded eyes piercing Danan. No release without compliance—this place crushed outsiders. Reluctantly, Danan said, “An old man raised me… he’s dead. Gave me the name Danan.”

  “…Old man,” Dick muttered.

  Pulling a cigarette case from his chest pocket, Dick shook out a cigarette, lit it with a Zippo, and exhaled purple smoke. “So… he’s really gone,” he said, his face tinged with sorrow, setting the cigarette in the ashtray.