It was a rainy evening in London.
In theatres across Great Britain, Gene Conti's End to Odyssey was playing.
In a corner of a dazzling nightclub, in an alcove, sat a man with a promiscuous face. His attire was simple—a tucked-in white shirt, black dress pants, and leather shoes.
His collarbone, visible through his open buttons, gave off a wet lustre.
Gene ran his fingers through his hair. They were slick and wet.
His gaze studied his surroundings.
Young men and women, carefree and inebriated, were enjoying themselves. Their hair was frizzy and puffed up. Their attire was snazzy and colorful.
To Gene, it all looked a bit off, as if the idea was right but not the execution.
It was a familiar sight. Everything in the world was like that. Nothing was quite right.
All the colors were in the wrong places. That was why it was so necessary for him to put things right, to fix the colors.
