The doors of Room A1 slid open with a sharp hiss, and the Right Hand rushed in. Its footsteps pounded across the highly polished floor, while in the background, the futuristic machines of AAA's main laboratory glowed a vibrant blue. Cable bundles were invisibly embedded in the walls; everything seemed sleek, sterile, and at the same time absurdly expensive—the heart of the entire organization.
But amidst all this modern precision sat Alex. Deeply sunk into a massive massage chair, the leather clinging to him like a second skin. The machine operated silently, only a faint vibration permeating the room. In front of him: a black glass table, on it a half-full carafe of red wine.
"SIR!" the Right Hand shouted, out of breath. "A city... it was completely pulverized! Simply... wiped out!"
Alex didn't react immediately. He calmly reached for the wine glass and poured himself a drink, the bright clinking of the drops in the glass seeming like a mockery of her hysteria. He raised the glass, turned it in his hand, smelled the deep aroma—and drank. Only then did he slowly raise his eyes, completely serene.
"And?" he asked with feigned disinterest.
His right hand clenched his fists. "Should we send troops?! Maybe someone survived, maybe we'll find traces, anything!"
Alex laughed dryly, without any fire, just a cold twitch of the lips. "Traces?" He put the glass down, sinking deeper into the massage chair as it worked on his back. "Everything was lasered away. Pulverized. Burned, vaporized, erased."
He reached for the carafe again, poured more. "But... do as you wish." He took another sip, the wine shimmering dark red in the light of the lab displays. Then he looked at her, his eyes half-closed, his voice little more than a bored command:
"Just... don't bother me. I need to think."
His right hand bit its lip, remained silent, and slowly withdrew.
Alex leaned back, glass still in his hand, while the machine massaged his neck. The world could be burning, but he savored the moment.
With a quiet whir, Alex reached for the slim remote control on the side of the massage chair. A press of a button – and on the opposite wall, a huge flat screen slowly descended from the ceiling. The glass front briefly reflected the neon lights of the lab, then the surface came to life with a rich flash.
He tilted the glass, letting the wine run over his lips as his fingers flicked through the channels. A garish cooking show, a trivial talk show, an action movie in the middle of a nonstop roar. All boring. He sighed, flipped on the channel.
Until he came across the news.
A serious presenter, wearing poor makeup, struggled to maintain his composure as images of a gigantic crater flashed in the background. The camera panned over smoking rubble, over an entire city that no longer existed.
"...what happened here is still completely unclear," said the presenter. "Some experts are talking about a failed military experiment... others are already speculating about extraterrestrial activity."
He laughed, inappropriately, nervously. "But of course, we consider that highly unlikely."
Then a column appeared on two scientists. One explained dryly:
"The energy level of the detonation doesn't correspond to any known weapons technology. There are no radioactive traces whatsoever. From a purely physical perspective, this wasn't a nuclear strike. It's still unclear and unexplainable what exactly happened here."
The second, younger scientist nodded seriously. "There are theories about dimensionally distorted energy. If that's true, then it would be... not of this world."
Alex leaned back, glass in hand, as the massage chair whirred and kneaded his back. A sneer escaped his throat, quiet at first, then louder.
"Idiots," he muttered, raising his glass again. "Dimensionally distorted energy... ridiculous."
He sipped his wine, the news continuing, but he was barely listening. The grin remained on his lips as the red drop in the glass caught the neon light.
Alex swirled the wine glass around, only half-listening to the anchorman. The man in the suit was just transitioning to the next topic, his voice once again deliberately casual, almost ridiculously inconsequential.
"And now for the weather forecast for the coming days," he said with a forced smile. "We're expecting a high-pressure system from the south, temperatures up to 23 degrees Celsius, scattered rain showers in the west—"
Alex closed his eyes, leaned deeper into the vibrating massage chair, the wine trickling over his tongue. He savored the absurdity: global conflagrations outside, sunshine forecasts in here.
But suddenly the presenter's voice fell silent. The image flickered. He looked at the camera, his mask of composure instantly falling away. His eyes were wide open, his voice faltering.
"We... we just... received new satellite images," he stammered, visibly nervous. "The data comes directly from the European Space Operations Center. Apparently, it was accidentally fed into our live feed..."
Alex put down his glasses. His eyes narrowed.
Pixelated black and white images flickered on the screen. Then they sharpened: high-resolution satellite images. A gigantic spaceship, shimmering, impossibly large, hung above the Earth.
The images continued to skip. You could see the tremendous energy concentrated beneath the ship – and the next moment, the entire city, the entire area, crumbled into dust and light in a single blow.
No fire. No explosion. Simply... obliterated.
The presenter opened his mouth, about to say something – but suddenly the feed cut out. The picture flickered, the transmission faded into a gray static.
Silence.
Alex stared at the black screen. The machine continued to hum against his back, the wine glistened in the glass, but the room now seemed frostily silent.
With an annoyed sigh, Alex pushed the back of the chair forward. The massage stopped, the humming subsided. He stood up lazily, his glass still half-full in his hand. As he walked to the door, he carelessly tipped the remaining wine into a large potted plant at the edge of the room.
"Well, treat yourself," he muttered mockingly. "You might as well try it."
The automatic door hissed open. Alex stepped into the corridor and strolled toward the main lab. Neon lights reflected coldly on the glass floor, the walls hummed softly with the flow of machines.
As he entered the lab, he opened his mouth to make a comment—but the staff beat him to it.
"Sir!" a young woman exclaimed excitedly. "We... we saw it! The footage! And... a squad of two hundred men is already en route to investigate the situation."
Alex stopped, raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, a gray-bearded veteran in a lab coat intervened.
"The military would never let them through," Alex said dryly.
"That's been taken care of," the old man replied immediately. "We've provided them with fake access codes, tactical deployment licenses, and the necessary identification. To the authorities, they look like regular special forces. No one will stop them."
There was a moment of silence. Then Alex nodded slowly, for the first time with a hint of genuine satisfaction.
"Good," he said simply.
The staff stared at him—surprised, almost shocked, that the brief word had even come out of his mouth. But Alex didn't flinch. Without adding anything else, he calmly turned around, his hands clasped behind his back, and left the lab as if he had just completed a minor task.