Collapse put on his armor made from metal rich in silicate. The curves of the armor that wrapped around his muscular chest converged in the center. His legs, as muscular and well-shaped as his arms, moved rhythmically. With each breath he took, he felt a weight rising and falling in his chest.
Considering he was on the guest list for the Crystal 7 channel, he figured he ought to act cooler. As he walked toward the live broadcast room, the wide smile that undermined his masculinity, vigor, and liveliness still lingered on his face. Inside the room, which had been specially prepared with lights and other equipment, sat an agent from Code 43.
The revolution that had swept the entire country years ago had erased everything until only Code 43 remained.
Code 43 was the universal authority for everything — eating, drinking, and if you stretched it, even using the toilet. You couldn't plant a single tree, let alone build a building, unless it was both architecturally permitted and approved by Code 43. Known for his statement, "I'm not a dictator, just a voice of order," Code 43 had become untouchable. Criticize him even slightly? You'd be arrested. Thinking of suggesting something about his outfit or stance? Best to drop that thought. For your own sake.
When Collapse entered the live broadcast room, the Code 43 agent turned his head.
Agent J. was thirty-four years old. Just thirty-four. His classic self-description involved only the numbers three and four. He had adopted a philosophy that age defined everything. As soon as his father died — at age sixty-two — Mr. J had updated his motto:"I've lived thirty-four years. That's more than enough."
Collapse looked at Agent J with utter disgust.
Though Agent J had a long record of misconduct, his rank had made him untouchable — no different than any other government officer who thrived on status. His face bore as much ego as a man carrying a gun, and perhaps, if you looked closely, a dash of nihilism too. Collapse felt oddly certain the man was a godless being. Not that he had anything against atheists — he just liked making such observations.
Agent J clapped his hands and smiled, "Well, look who we have here."
Camera flashes burst. As if they were shooting a mountain landscape for the first time.
The host raised his hand and announced, "Right in front of you: Collapse Gentel!"
Collapse pursed his lips, already imagining the fake applause track that would be added later. Inside the room were orange chairs and bundles of cables wired into various equipment.
"Good evening, everyone," said Collapse, masking the disinterest in his voice.
Mr. J added, "Good evening to the most talked-about man of recent times!"
Collapse wrinkled his nose like a past Nobel laureate annoyed by media nonsense, then sat squarely where the cameras could fully frame him.
The host was wearing a gold-colored suit that shimmered like a disco ball nonstop.
J. couldn't take his eyes off the host. He didn't seem even remotely interested in the actual topic.
"And now Collapse Gentel will answer questions from Crystal Social Media," the host said, placing a plain white laptop onto the coffee table. It had no visible brand. And of course, it couldn't. Collapse fixated on trying to recognize the brand anyway. He muttered under his breath,"Huuke."And thought, "The Chinese are gone, but their products remain."
The host asked, "Mr. Collapse, are you ready for the first question? Or would you like to introduce yourself first?"
With a completely expressionless face, Collapse said,"I'm Collapse Gentel. I'm 26, a swimmer, and the world champion in armored diving. That said, there's no real reason for people to be interested in me. These days, someone becomes famous just for having a missing tooth."
"Oof!" said J. "That was harsh, Mr. Gentel."
"Apologies. I suppose I was being a bit sharp," Collapse replied with an ironic tone.
J. crossed his legs and interlocked his fingers. A latest-model Hackter watch adorned his wrist. His leather shoes sparkled under the stage lights like morning dew. He kept glancing down at them, almost gathering confidence from the sight. Even the way he tied his tie seemed to say:"I know women. All they care about is power and money."The graying strands in his hair added:"Been this way for years."Collapse's brain registered it all meticulously.
The most frequently asked question for Collapse was how he had won the swimming medal at the last second.
When he casually answered, "By coincidence," both the agent and the host scoffed.
Secretly mourning his father, who had invested heavily in Crystal 7, J cut in, clearly annoyed by Collapse's rushed and dispassionate answers."Excuse me, just excuse me — you mean to say you didn't have some trick up your sleeve that turned the race in your favor at the last moment? Come on now, we're all friends here."
That line — "we're all friends here" — made Collapse realize J meant the entire country. He thought J was a stupid, two-faced, rotten man. In his mind, J had probably tried to hit on his girlfriend — and Collapse imagined pulling a Hack Dolder, a common dual-barrel weapon found on every city car, and firing it at him. Then he rewrote the scene in his head. Their eyes had locked. There was mutual hostility. A rivalry — and jealousy.
He had broken a few noses in the past — but he had never actually fired a Hack Dolder. Not because he hesitated to shoot — but because he had already decided not to.A fling wasn't worth ruining his entire life over. It never had been.
The host leaned toward the laptop and frowned.
J, smug as ever, didn't even bother to look at the screen and sipped his coffee while Collapse's sharp focus ignited like a flare.
"DNA taken from the woman's body found at the base of the tower has confirmed the identity. The deceased was Grace Huyger — a known competitor in rapid horse racing. The public is now asking: how did this young woman die?"
Collapse pressed his lips together and shifted his focus away.
As the host looked away from the screen, a hush fell over the crowd gathered at a city bar. Everyone started exchanging strange looks. Only one man sat alone at a table — and the glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor.
"Huyger?" said Meyer, seated on a bar stool.
"Grace Huyger... That surname. Could she be... his daughter?"
"I lost my first child. My daughter."— The phrase echoed faintly in his head.
Was it a dream? Or a hallucination?
He closed his eyes to reality. When he opened them again, the bar was empty. Police officers working for Code 43 had entered. They moved quickly, professionally. Their sharp eyes scanned the room.
Even if Meyer still had ID on him, it was outdated by decades."It's over," he thought.
The officers began their search. Meyer looked down at the shattered glass. The fragments seemed to form a shape. Like a bullet tearing through his mind.
"Was the dead girl really Huyger's daughter?"He kept whispering the same question.Everything had turned into a tangled mess.