The day started like any other, a blend of monotony and self-imposed isolation. Chris woke to the sound of rain tapping against the penthouse windows, a steady, rhythmic patter that should have been soothing but only served to deepen his sense of disconnection. He shuffled out of bed, his feet dragging against the polished floor, and rubbed at his unshaven face.
“Good morning, Chris,” VeronicA’s cheerful tone greeted him the moment he entered the kitchen. “Your coffee is ready.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, waving at the nearest speaker. He didn’t bother to look at her display as he grabbed the steaming mug from the counter. The smell was strong, rich, just the way he liked it.
The holo-display above the table lit up automatically, showing a morning news broadcast. A bright-eyed anchor smiled as she began delivering the headlines. Chris ignored most of it, letting the words wash over him as background noise while he nursed his coffee.
But one phrase pierced through his haze of indifference:
“Terrorist attack in Deyor’s Outer Wards.”
Chris blinked and glanced at the display, where footage showed plumes of black smoke rising into the sky. The scene cut to a shaky handheld camera capturing panicked crowds fleeing as emergency vehicles screamed past. Buildings in the background were scorched, their windows shattered, and the streets were littered with debris.
“VeronicA, what’s this about?” Chris asked, his voice tinged with curiosity more than concern.
“There was a bombing in the Outer Wards early this morning,” she replied, her tone factual but edged with something close to worry. “Details are still emerging, but initial reports suggest it was the work of a domestic insurgency group.”
Chris snorted, shaking his head. “Figures. Place’s been a powder keg for years. This’ll just make things worse, eh?”
“It’s already escalating,” VeronicA said, switching the display to a live feed. The camera panned over a chaotic scene: riot police clashing with civilians, flames licking at the edges of storefronts, and angry chants echoing through the streets.
Chris frowned, taking another sip of coffee. “Doesn’t take much to set people off these days, does it?”
“Given the socioeconomic conditions in the Outer Wards, unrest was inevitable,” VeronicA said. “This incident may serve as a catalyst for broader instability.”
“Catalyst, huh?” Chris muttered, staring at the screen. “Makes you wonder what the hell’s wrong with people, eh? Why they can’t just… I dunno, get along?”
“Human behavior is influenced by a complex interplay of factors,” VeronicA said, her voice softer now. “Fear, anger, desperation—these emotions can drive people to act in ways they might not otherwise.”
Chris sighed, setting his mug down. “Yeah, well, it’s not my problem. Let the city sort itself out.”
He turned away from the display, retreating to his office, as if putting physical distance between himself and the news would make it less real.
The hours dragged by, each one blending into the next, slipping by in a blur of half-hearted activity. Chris busied himself with his usual distractions—tinkering with old drones, scrolling through endless feeds of irrelevant information, moving from room to room, avoiding his office and the lingering guilt of unfinished projects. But the image of the rising smoke lingered in his mind, an unwelcome intruder in his otherwise controlled existence.
“You’re unusually quiet today,” VeronicA observed as he tinkered with one of the drones, his fingers fumbling with its tiny components.
“Am I?” he replied without looking up.
“Yes,” she said. “Normally, you’d have made at least three sarcastic comments by now.”
Chris chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess I’m not in the mood, eh.”
“Understandable,” VeronicA said, her voice softening. “The news is unsettling.”
He glanced at the nearest speaker, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not about to psychoanalyze me, are ya?”
“Would you prefer that I didn’t?”
“Depends on what you’re gonna say.”
She paused, her silence deliberate. “You’ve been restless lately, Chris. Disconnected. I think the news has stirred something in you, even if you don’t want to admit it.”
He sighed, setting the drone aside. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m just tired of hearing about how the world’s falling apart, eh? Feels like every time I turn on the news, it’s more chaos, more misery.”
“Perhaps,” VeronicA said. “But ignoring it doesn’t make it go away.”
Chris frowned, her words cutting deeper than he cared to admit. He grabbed his mug and stood, pacing toward the window.
The rain had stopped, leaving the city below glistening in the weak afternoon light. From this height, the chaos of the streets seemed almost serene, the sounds of sirens and shouting muffled by distance.
“Anything else I should know about?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the skyline.
“There have been additional explosions reported in the Outer Wards,” VeronicA said. “And the protests are spreading to other districts.”
Chris’s grip tightened on the mug. “Spreading, eh? That’s not good.”
“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “As a precaution, I’ve taken the liberty of implementing safety measures. The penthouse is now locked down, and I’m monitoring all entrances and exits. All windows are locked and increased surveillance home wide.”
Chris turned to her nearest display, his brow furrowed. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit, eh? That crap’s happening miles away. We’re sixty-four floors up, for crying out loud. Nobody’s storming the gates.”
“Perhaps,” she said, her tone calm but firm. “But it’s better to be prepared. The situation is unpredictable, and I’d rather err on the side of caution. Your safety is my priority.”
He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. “Damn thing’s more paranoid than I am.”
“Would you like me to disable the measures?” she asked.
Chris hesitated, then shook his head. “Nah, leave it. If it makes you feel better, knock yourself out, eh.”
“Thank you, Chris,” she said. “I’ll keep you updated on any developments.”
By late afternoon, the storm had cleared, leaving the city bathed in a strange, golden light. The protests grew louder. Chris could see them now in the distance, even from his lofty perch. Columns of smoke rose from scattered fires, their black tendrils curling against the twilight sky. The streets below pulsed with activity—people running, shouting, clashing with police. Chris stood outside his home, on the exposed patio with his arms crossed. He couldn’t hear the chaos, but he could feel it, a low thrum of tension that seemed to vibrate through the glass.
He watched as a police drone zipped past, its red and blue lights flashing. Far below, the streets buzzed with activity, the usual rush of pedestrians and vehicles interspersed with the occasional uniformed officer.
“Busy day down there,” he remarked.
“Yes,” VeronicA replied. “The authorities are attempting to contain the situation, but tensions remain high.”
Chris grunted, turning away from the window. “They’ll get it under control. They always do, eh?”
“Not always,” she said quietly.
He paused, glancing back at the display. The live feed now showed protests spreading to other parts of the city, the crowds growing larger and more volatile. Placards and banners waved in the air, their slogans demanding justice, equality, change.
Chris shook his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. “Same old song and dance, eh? People shoutin’ into the void, thinking it’ll make a difference.”
“Sometimes, it does,” VeronicA said. “Change often begins with a single voice.”
“Yeah, well, good luck to ‘em,” he said, picking up his mug. “Not my problem.”
He retreated to the couch, settling in for another evening of mindless entertainment. The holo-screen flickered to life, displaying a selection of movies and shows. He scrolled through the options, his finger hovering over titles but never selecting one.
“Chris,” VeronicA said softly, her voice coming from the TV’s speaker.
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
He paused, his gaze fixed on the screen. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You seem… distracted,” she said. “More so than usual.”
Chris sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Just tired, eh. Ain’t slept right in weeks.”
“Perhaps you should try again,” she suggested gently. “Rest is important, especially in times of stress.”
He snorted, shaking his head. “Stress? What’ve I got to be stressed about? I’m just sittin’ here, watchin’ the world burn.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortably true.
VeronicA didn’t respond, and Chris was grateful for the silence. He leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes as the distant hum of the city filled the room.
Outside, the unrest continued to spread, creeping closer to the heart of Deyor. But Chris remained oblivious, cocooned in his penthouse, walled away from the chaos below.
By the time Chris settled in for the night, the city below was a patchwork of flickering lights and rising smoke. The holo-display continued to broadcast live footage, but he barely glanced at it. He stretched out on the couch, his mind clouded with unease he couldn’t quite shake.
“Play something relaxing, eh,” he said. “Something to drown out the noise.”
“Of course, Chris,” VeronicA said, her voice as soothing as ever.
Soft piano music filled the room, its gentle melody wrapping around him like a warm blanket. He closed his eyes, letting the notes wash over him.
But even as he drifted toward sleep, the image of the burning city lingered in his mind, a haunting reminder that the chaos was closer than he wanted to admit.
And outside, the smoke on the horizon thickened, creeping ever closer.