<h2>Subtern</h2>


    The night had been restless. Haim tossed and turned in his wide bed, which suddenly felt uncomfortably rigid. The sheets wrinkled beneath him, the pillow was too high, and the blanket was either suffocating heavy or entirely insufficient. He kept shifting positions—lying on his side, rolling onto his back, curling his legs—but nothing helped. For the first time in his life, he became acutely aware of a paradox: the more you think about falling asleep, the further it drifts away.


    The darkness of the room felt unnaturally dense, almost tangible. For the first time in a long while, he had no ambient lighting—Egbert had decided that a change in sleep conditions might be beneficial. Lying on his back, Haim stared at the barely discernible ceiling. He had never allowed himself to so carelessly explore his fears before, but now… Now he simply observed his own sensations.


    His fear of the dark had followed him since childhood. It wasn’t panic-inducing terror, but rather an unsettling sense of helplessness, a creeping anxiety as his mind filled with images of what might lurk beyond the shadows. He recalled how, as a child, he feared the dark corners of his room, convinced that unseen eyes watched him from the blackness.


    He wanted to halt the relentless flow of thoughts, but all he could do was close his eyes and ignore the emotions.


    If I start overthinking, Egbert will notice, he reminded himself. Taking several deep breaths, he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.


    For the first time in years, Haim slept for less than eight hours. This was an unacceptable deviation from his routine—every minute of sleep was carefully calculated according to the Central Medical Laboratory’s guidelines. Upon waking, he immediately knew he wasn’t at his best. The sensation worsened when a strange yet oddly familiar word surfaced in his mind: insomnia.


    Jolted by the thought, he quickly got ready and left the house, ignoring Egbert’s grumbling.


    The decision to walk to work was spontaneous. His usual route via graviform felt too predictable, too restricting. A deep craving for change stirred within him.


    Morning in Mediopolis greeted him with soft light and the gentle hum of urban life. The roads were paved with smooth, colour-shifting tiles that adapted to the time of day, giving the illusion of walking across a living surface. He decided to focus on the tiles and attempt to step on them in spectral order. Around him, people moved at an unhurried yet deliberate pace, paying him no mind.


    Every movement of the city’s inhabitants seemed calculated and precise, as though their lives operated within a perfectly synchronized mechanism. Some jogged in specialized suits with holographic displays tracking their physical activity. Others appeared to be conversing alone, though their subtle hand gestures revealed they were engaged in silent dialogues through built-in communicators in their clothing. Maintenance drones glided noiselessly along the streets, collecting invisible particles of dust, while tiny airborne monitors hovered discreetly, overseeing the city’s ecosystem.


    No one noticed the oddly smiling man who hopped from one tile to another in a self-made game. He entertained himself this way until his gaze locked onto the entrance of the Subtern—the underground transit system. Smooth, pristine white steps led downward to transparent doors that opened into the station. People entered effortlessly—some with luggage, some with children, and some lost in thought. For them, it was such a natural routine that they hardly registered how quickly they vanished beneath the surface.


    A shudder ran through Haim.


    “Down… underground,” he muttered, stopping in his tracks.


    That thought always unsettled him. Of course, there was nothing dangerous about the Subtern. He had studied its safety protocols in detail: how the platforms were structured, how the trains functioned, why it was the most secure mode of transportation. The reinforced safety belts, the impact-resistant screens—everything was engineered from the strongest materials. And yet, this “infernal carriage” triggered in him an undeniable fear.


    He had seen informational videos designed to alleviate citizens’ concerns. Apparently, he wasn’t alone—many people experienced apprehension about using the Subtern, just as there were sceptics of graviform transport. These videos showcased sleek monorail capsules with ergonomic passenger seating, soft lighting, and perfect ventilation. The people in the footage always appeared content—some read, some listened to music, some chatted with fellow passengers. There were also high-speed trains designated for long-distance travel, reserved for individuals of higher social rank within the creative elite. Haim knew little about them, as access to such information required special clearance. But none of it mattered—his mind rejected the very concept of underground travel. He simply couldn’t grasp how something like that could function. His brain refused to accept it as reality.


    “No, today is not the day to take risks,” he decided, tearing his eyes away from the descent. Images of ancient catastrophes flashed through his mind. Tightness gripped his chest, a sharp spasm making his eyes sting.


    “What is this?” he whispered, stopping by a bench. He inhaled sharply, his breaths uneven. The sensation was strange, as if every fibber of his is rebelled against an unseen threat.


    Could this be a result of adjusting my Creator’s Drop dosage? He wondered, slowly regaining control. I should discuss this with Dr. Black.


    Regaining his composure, he jumped onto his graviform and soon arrived at the Art Gallery. After passing through security, he nearly sprinted to his studio, collapsed into his chair, and pressed the call button.


    “I was expecting your call, Haim…”


    <h2>Driving to madness</h2>


    "I was expecting your call, Haim," James said in a calm, detached voice.


    "You say that too often," Haim smirked, trying to mask the wave of tension washing over him.


    "Perhaps because it’s true," Black leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his long, interwoven fingers. His gaze grew piercing. "Did something happen?"


    Haim fell silent, staring at his own reflection on the screen. He shifted in his chair, allowing the material to embrace his exhausted body, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes for a moment.


    "Nothing special," he finally replied, aiming for a casual tone. "I just wanted to discuss this morning."


    "Alright, let’s start with the simplest question," Black spoke softly. "How did you sleep?"


    Something inside Haim tightened.


    "Egbert must have reported it already," he thought.


    "Less than eight hours," he answered wearily.


    "This isn’t the first time," the doctor noted, his tone growing slightly stricter. "Do you feel tired?"


    "A little," Haim admitted, averting his gaze. "But that was to be expected, right?"


    "Perhaps," Black tilted his head slightly as if evaluating the response. "Did you take The Drop yesterday?"


    "For God’s sake, James, you’re the one who usually administers it!" Haim snapped. "Or did you also sleep less than eight hours and forget?"


    Haim noticed that the doctor smirked—but only with his eyes.


    "And how do you feel?" Black continued as if there had been no outburst.


    "Unusual, but not critical," Haim allowed himself a small smile. "You know, I even started a new landscape sketch."


    "That''s good," Black said, though his voice carried a note of caution. "What about the dark thoughts? Have they surfaced?"


    Haim froze. He had expected this question, but it still felt like a hidden strike.


    "No, everything’s fine," he lied, making sure not to blink.


    The doctor remained silent for a few seconds as if scrutinizing every word.


    "Interesting," he finally said. "Typically, skipping a dose leads to emotional fluctuations. Are you sure you’re not hiding anything?" Black’s gaze shifted to some notes on his desk.


    "Why would I?" Haim responded with a slight challenge in his voice.


    "Why? To protect you," Black said, fixing him with a sharp, almost X-ray-like stare.


    A wave of heat washed over Haim’s entire body. He shifted slightly in his chair, but not a single muscle twitched on his face.


    "You know, Haim, I’m not here to harm you."


    "Of course," he nodded, struggling to suppress his anxiety. "But sometimes it feels like you want to get inside my head—literally."


    "It’s my job," the doctor countered. "You are important to us."


    "''Us''—meaning who, exactly?" Haim''s voice grew softer yet tenser.


    Black frowned.


    "You know our society is something greater, and we are all part of that greater whole." He repeated the propaganda that echoed through Mediopolis twenty-four hours a day.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Haim felt his fingers tighten around the armrests of his chair.


    "Sometimes it feels like there is a difference," he said, pausing. "Especially concerning my thoughts."


    "You have a right to personal space," Black nodded. "But I need to ensure that this space isn’t destroying you."


    "It’s not," Haim stated firmly, locking eyes with the doctor.


    Silence hung between them like an invisible curtain. Haim had always wondered what exactly Black was thinking. But the doctor was so steady in his speech and emotions that it unsettled him. Unlike Haim, whose thoughts and feelings were as open as a book?


    "Are you sure you can handle this?" Black finally asked.


    "And you?" Haim retorted, rising from his chair. "Are you sure I need your control?"


    Dr. Black didn’t answer immediately. His gaze became heavy, as if he was searching for answers within himself.


    "We both know you are on the edge. If you keep shutting down, there will be consequences."


    Haim looked at him for a moment, and then turned his gaze away.


    "Maybe. But as long as I continue to create, you have nothing to worry about. That’s all that counts."


    He ended the call before the doctor could reply.


    Haim removed his hand from the communicator panel, but the tension gripping his body refused to fade. He sat motionless, as if trying to process every word that had just been spoken.


    Dr. Black always spoke in a steady, measured tone, as if his voice had been calibrated to lull anxiety. But this time, his words rang in Haim’s mind like the toll of a bell, growing louder with each repetition.


    "You are on the edge."


    The edge. The word itself triggered an unpleasant sensation, as if he truly stood at the precipice of an abyss, with nothing but unstable ground beneath his feet.


    Suddenly, his hands began to tremble slightly.


    "Why am I reacting like this?" he thought, trying to steady his breathing. "They’re just words."


    But inside him, another emotion was beginning to swell—aggression. A dull, suffocating rage without an outlet. He couldn’t direct it at the doctor; Black was merely a part of the system. He couldn’t turn it inward; that would mean admitting to weakness.


    Haim abruptly stood up, his body taut with tension.


    "The edge..." he whispered through clenched teeth.


    His gaze fell on the floating canvas in his studio. It was an unfinished abstract landscape he had created the day before. Just hours ago, he had admired the sketch—but now, everything about it felt wrong. The lines were too straight, the colours too dull, the concept hollow.


    With a beckoning motion, the canvas drifted toward him. Haim grabbed his precision stylus and began to make changes. His strokes were rapid, erratic, and aggressive. Each mark slashed across the surface, dismantling the composition he had meticulously crafted.


    He stopped and looked at his hand. His fingers trembled faintly, echoing his inner turmoil.


    "This isn’t right," he thought. "I always control my movements. I need to be calm."


    He took a deep breath, but the anxiety only tightened its grip. The air in the room felt thick and heavy. Running a hand over his forehead, he felt his fingers press against hot skin. The sensation was so vivid, it nearly deafened him.


    "Why is this happening now?" He struggled to focus, but his thoughts buzzed like bees in a disturbed hive, dragging him back to Black’s words, his own doubts, and the unease that had taken root since seeing the Subtern entrance.


    He moved to his desk and began searching frantically. Finally, in one of the compartments, he found his "treasure"—a sheet of watercolour paper and a set of coloured pencils. Long ago, back in school, he had received them from an experienced artist during a class trip to the Art Gallery.


    "Everything is fine," he muttered aloud, trying to drown out the chaos in his head.


    Haim decided to sketch something simple to clear his mind. Straight lines, geometry—those had always helped him regain control. But the moment he pressed the pencil to the page, a sharp pain shot through his body.


    "Damn it!" he gasped, throwing the pencil onto the table.


    He clutched his ears and shut his eyes. The sound of the pencil scraping the paper was so unbearably loud, he struggled to breathe. His chest tightened as if an invisible band had cinched around it. His breathing turned ragged, and for a moment, he felt as if all the air in the room had vanished.


    Forcing himself to his feet, he stumbled toward the window. Flinging it open, he gulped in the crisp midday air. Outside, Mediopolis stretched in perfect lines and flawless forms. This view usually calmed him—but not today.


    "Why am I feeling this now?" he thought, staring at the city. "I always have control."


    But control was slipping through his fingers like sand.


    "Is this just the effect of skipping The Drop?" he tried to reason. "Or did its absence awaken something deeper—something buried in my mind?"


    "Dr. Black, you think I’m on the edge?" he mused sarcastically, looking at the city skyline. "I think you’re wrong, Doctor. I already stepped off the cliff—and now I’m flying."


    That thought sent a ripple of fear through him, which quickly turned into rage—then wild, untamed laughter. Haim clenched his fists, feeling his nails dig into his palms, and burst into a manic laugh.


    With a single leap, he flew from the window to his desk and seized a pencil again. His movements were no longer mechanical and precise as usual—this time, he surrendered entirely to his emotions. The pencils snapped under the force of his furious strokes, but he simply bit them down to the graphite and continued drawing


    "No, this isn’t right—there’s not enough life!" he shouted, tears streaming down his face. "No, I won’t give in so easily!" His voice shifted from a growl to a maniacal laugh, like a villain revelling in his own madness. And then, the painting was finished. He collapsed onto the floor, his back against the wall, his gaze locked onto the ceiling as his thoughts slowly began to quiet.


    "What is wrong with me?" he wondered, feeling his body gradually relaxes.


    "Or maybe… this is exactly how it’s supposed to be?" he muttered into the empty room before sinking into a deep sleep.


    <h2>Darker Than Black</h2>


    James removed his glasses and placed them carefully on the desk. Leaning back in his chair, he interlocked his long fingers and rested them against his chest. His gaze was directed toward the ceiling, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.


    Everything about his appearance spoke of precision. Tall and slender, he might have seemed fragile at first glance, but that illusion disappeared the moment you looked into his black eyes – piercing, as if they could see into the depths of the subconscious. His jet-black hair was meticulously styled, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face: a high forehead, a straight nose, and sharply defined cheekbones. His pale skin seemed untouched by sunlight, and his thin lips rarely curved into a smile.


    He wore a dark turtleneck, black trousers, and his ever-present white lab coat—a barrier that separated him from the rest of the world. It was flawlessly pressed, without a single crease. Even his glasses, with their thin silver frames, seemed an intentional part of his carefully constructed image.


    The office around him was as immaculate as he was. Clean lines of furniture, cold lighting, perfectly arranged monitors—everything reflected his character. On the desk, neatly stacked medical files were the only signs of activity, except for a single glass of water, bearing the faintest trace of where his lips had touched.


    "Haim is already lost to the system," he murmured, almost to himself.


    His voice was quiet, yet tinged with regret. James stood, unlocking his fingers, and paced the room. His steps were measured, barely audible on the soft carpet. Stopping before a massive screen that covered nearly the entire wall, he studied the data displayed—graphs, charts, endless numbers. Among them, one name stood out in bold: Haim.


    "One of the most unconventional experiments," he said, his long fingers brushing the screen.


    He rarely allowed himself emotion, but something in his expression shifted. Perhaps a trace of sadness or regret, though even those were buried beneath his mask of professionalism.


    James recalled the first time he had met Haim. Back then, he was just a young but already defiant artist, his work standing out among the other subjects. James had seen something in him that others had overlooked. Maybe that was why he had chosen him for the experimental program. But now, everything had changed—Haim was slipping beyond control. His thoughts had become too chaotic, his actions unpredictable.


    "Genius and madness…" Black mused, walking past a row of glass cases filled with medical equipment.


    He stopped at the window, gazing at the city sprawled before him. Mediopolis, bathed in the glow of the setting sun, its sleek lines and perfect symmetry creating the illusion of harmony. This artificial creation of humanity always stirred conflicting emotions within him. His face returned to its usual calm mask as he moved back to his desk, picked up his glasses, and carefully put them on.


    "Report to the council, or wait?" he asked himself, settling into his chair in a pose reminiscent of Rodin’s The Thinker. His voice remained steady and cold, but deep inside, James knew— the system did not care how many or which creators it discarded. But he… he was about to lose a valuable subject, one who could have changed everything.


    His thoughts were interrupted by his assistant, Lola, who, as always, burst into his office unannounced, radiating untamed enthusiasm. Black sighed, forcing a welcoming smile onto his face. She had stormed into his "kingdom of darkness" with her usual boundless energy. Her chestnut curls bounced with every step, and her round glasses had slipped slightly down her nose.


    "James, you won’t believe this!" she exclaimed, barely crossing the threshold.


    She wore a dark green knitted dress that perfectly complemented her figure. A genuine smile played on her full lips, and the rosy flush on her cheeks accentuated the freckles that gave her a youthful, carefree appearance. Black’s expression remained neutral, but his sigh betrayed his exhaustion.


    "Lola, perhaps next time you could knock," he said softly but with a hint of reproach.


    She pretended not to hear, plopping down into the chair across from him with a bright grin.


    "Just imagine! I almost managed to stabilize neuron activity during cloning!" she announced, pulling a tablet from her bag.


    "Well… yes, almost," she admitted with a sheepish smile. "But you know, science is all about trial and error!"


    He said nothing, merely watching her enthusiasm. That was Lola in a nutshell—spontaneous, energetic, but driven by a genuine passion for her work.


    "Lola, you have a talent for speaking with such confidence that, at times, it actually gives me hope," James remarked dryly.


    She frowned, immediately sensing his tone.


    "James is something wrong?" she asked, leaning forward slightly.


    Black raised an eyebrow, keeping his usual composed demeanour.


    "What makes you think that?"


    "You look… tense," she said cautiously, setting her tablet down on the desk.


    He didn’t respond right away, carefully choosing his words and tone. Leaning back in his chair, he settled into his usual professorial pose before finally speaking.


    "It’s work, Lola. It’s rarely simple. Not all results bring satisfaction."


    She studied him closely, as if trying to read the emotions on his face.


    "You know," she began, her voice soft and almost reassuring, "even you need rest sometimes."


    Black allowed himself a faint smirk.


    "And this is coming from someone who spends nights in the lab?"


    Lola laughed, tossing her head back slightly, her curls cascading over her shoulders.


    "Well, you always remind me how important balance is. Now it’s my turn to remind you."


    "How noble of you," he said with a trace of mockery.


    "It’s not nobility," she countered. "It’s empathy. And honestly, you could use some."


    He frowned slightly, but there was no accusation in her words—only concern. Many believed Black struggled with understanding and expressing emotions. And perhaps they were right. But only he knew that such control came with time—time that no one around him would ever live long enough to experience.


    "Well, Lola, if you think your optimism is contagious, I’m willing to test that theory."


    "Perfect," she winked. "Now, tell me—what’s on your mind?"


    Black hesitated, studying her over the rim of his glasses. She was involved in the research on Haim’s condition, but was it time to share the latest developments? For now, James preferred to analyse the situation on his own, so he chose to keep her in the dark a little longer.


    "Perhaps later," he finally replied. "But thank you for your concern."


    Lola sighed, but her smile remained.


    "Alright. Just remember, I''m always here if you need someone to talk to."


    She stood, gracefully adjusting her dress, and left as effortlessly as she had entered.


    Dr. Black watched her go, and for a brief moment, his eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a sly smirk.


    That’s an idea, Lola. That’s an idea, he thought smugly, activating the surveillance feed of Haim’s workshop.


    "Mother of God," James exhaled, clasping his hands over his mouth in shock.