Gentle music seeped into his consciousness. Haim opened his eyes and immediately squinted from the bright sunlight, which had decided to take a morning stroll right across his pillow. He wasn’t the least bit annoyed. Instead, he simply shut his striking light-blue eyes for a moment and then opened them again with a renewed zest for life.
“Good morning, Haim! I hope you rested well. Your chicory drink is already heating up in the energy capsule,” announced a calm, elderly male voice, carrying a hint of weariness.
“Oh, Egbert, you’re always so gloomy in the mornings,” Haim chuckled, leaped out of bed, and gracefully strolled to the kitchen like a cheetah. A small, silver oval with neon lights floated toward him and spoke in Egbert’s voice:
“Would you like some company?”
“No, at the moment I need to be alone—if you catch my meaning,” Haim replied.
Egbert sighed and murmured quietly, “You shouldn’t leave me behind. It’s easier for me to analyse your physical and mental health when I’m closer to you.”
“For heaven’s sake, if you were with me in such moments, that would be a disaster,” Haim laughed and quickly slipped into the bathroom. Just in case, he checked if the door was properly locked, though he knew Egbert would never violate his privacy—he was programmed that way. “No one wants premature deactivation,” a dark thought flashed through his mind, sending a sharp pang through his chest.
“Are you all right, Haim?” Egbert asked, concerned.
“Yes, everything’s fine. You know me—I need breakfast first, or else my thoughts get all destructive,” Haim replied quickly, injecting a note of light-heartedness into his voice.
“Understood. It seems I should add more protein and carbohydrates to your first meal today,” Egbert said before gliding toward the kitchen.
Haim walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, hoping to drive away the ‘dark’ thoughts—as Doctor Black referred to his destructive tendencies. The cityscape before him was magnificent. It was a world where the mere idea of imperfection seemed like a fairy tale from a distant, nearly forgotten past. The cities didn’t rise from chaos; they seemed to be born from a symphony of harmony and light. Sleek architectural lines blended seamlessly with nature, making it feel as though trees and buildings had grown together. Towers of glass and bioceramics reflected the sky so perfectly that their contours dissolved into the clouds. Each building was unique, as if woven from the inspiration of a brilliant artist.
The streets of Mediopolis were wrapped in greenery, their pathways shimmering softly like the surface of a tranquil lake. There were no cars spewing toxic fumes—such things didn’t exist here. All transportation was invisible: silent underground trains transported people within seconds, while individual graviforms hovered effortlessly above the ground, gliding noiselessly toward their destinations.
Haim squinted and observed the purposeful yet relaxed pedestrians. The citizens looked as if their portraits could grace the halls of classical galleries—each facial feature was striking, every detail of their attire emphasized individuality. Synthetic materials had long given way to organic fabrics grown in laboratories, mimicking nature at its finest. People smiled at one another, and those smiles weren’t masks. In this world, there was no envy, no anger, no distrust. Scientific and cultural achievements were seen as collective victories. No one sought to possess more than they needed, for every need was instantly and effortlessly fulfilled.
Each morning in Mediopolis began with a gentle melody, tailored to each individual’s biorhythms, awakening them with precision. Breakfast was not crafted by chefs but by cyber-servants, who recreated flavours, aromas, and textures with scientific accuracy. They also monitored their residents’ health and promptly sent reports to the Central Medical Laboratory (CML).
The CML was staffed by the best of the best. Only they had managed to extend their professional longevity and avoid cognitive decline at thirty. They continued to battle this problem, but a universal solution had yet to be found. Haim was 29.5 years old. And ever since he crossed the threshold of 29, he had begun experiencing these ‘dark’ thoughts.
“Haim… Haim, if you don’t open the door, I will break it down and call the pacification unit,” Egbert’s tense voice came from behind the door.
Haim opened the bathroom door and gave the cyber-servant a disapproving look. Egbert stopped flashing red and returned to his usual cold, pale-blue glow.
“Calm now?” Haim asked. “Why can’t you get used to the fact that humans aren’t machines? We need different amounts of time to pull ourselves together.” He added nonchalantly, heading toward the kitchen.
Egbert was not a complacent butler. Haim had programmed him to be sceptical, to question his master’s decisions, and to act independently. It was a risky move, but he had never regretted it.
Egbert hovered beside him, quietly listing his research findings on ‘The Ideal Time Allocation for the Basic Needs of a Modern Individual.’ Haim nodded absentmindedly as he reached the kitchen and saw a beautifully set table with a translucent dinnerware set and gleaming silverware. He was a perfectionist in many things, and the presentation of food could set his emotional tone for the entire day. Egbert had never disappointed him, though it had taken significant effort to train him in the aesthetics of fine dining.
Haim always paused before sitting down, admiring the perfect ‘culinary-tableware installation.’ Today was no exception. Satisfied with the arrangement, he finally took his seat. Egbert exhaled in relief.
“Everything is flawless, as always. Perhaps a little too much protein today, but the presentation of the cured fish and cheese rolls is truly delightful,” Haim remarked, lifting a porcelain teacup adorned with intricate, almost elven patterns.
And so, a new day began…
Haim stepped into his spacious workshop, the doors silently sealing behind him. The room, bathed in soft, ambient light, was designed so that every detail inspired and enhanced the creative process. Smooth surfaces, made of a semi-transparent material that changed colour based on the owner’s mood, glowed with a neon aura. Above the worktable, miniature holograms of his latest projects hovered—sound waves shimmering in colour and abstract sketches appearing as if they had come to life.
If someone from the past were to glimpse his workspace, they would see a masterpiece of technological ingenuity. The central worktable was equipped with motion-sensitive sensors, laser pens for fine detailing, and sound modules for crafting polyphonic compositions. Everything required time to warm up and calibrate. Haim activated the system with a single touch, and a soft hum filled the workshop. The mechanisms sprang to life: the worktable began shifting form, holographic screens slowly emerged above its surface, and the sound blocks loaded their default settings.
“Start-up will be complete in three minutes and forty seconds,” announced the automated assistant, whose voice was far less intrusive than Egbert’s.
Haim decided to use the time to call the CML. He had spoken with Dr. Black all his life. One would think he’d be used to it by now, but for some reason, these morning conversations always left him feeling conflicted.
“Good morning, Haim,” greeted the deep, composed voice. “I’m currently analysing the data Egbert sent me.”
“Great. Nothing serious, I hope?” Haim asked, trying to sound casual.
A brief silence followed.
“Haim, I’d like to speak with you openly. Your readings are concerning, especially regarding your mental state.”
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Haim smirked, though his smile felt forced. “Well, I am a composer and an artist, Doctor. Isn’t a little eccentricity part of the package?”
“Eccentricity isn’t the issue, Haim.” Dr. Black finally looked up from his records, fixing Haim with a thoughtful, weary gaze. “But your emotional fluctuations and these ‘dark thoughts’ you’ve mentioned—they are no longer just a part of the creative process. Your neurochemical indicators suggest a possible imbalance.”
“You think I should increase my dose of ‘The Creator’s Drop’?” Haim asked, masking his unease with a joke.
Dr. Black hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed his long, thin fingers to his temples, making slow circular motions. Without opening his eyes, he finally spoke with calm certainty:
“Quite the opposite, actually. I recommend that you temporarily stop taking it.”
Haim’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “But without it, I won’t be able to work, James. You know how much it enhances my creative inspiration!”
“I understand, Haim, but your body is showing signs of dependency. ‘The Creator’s Drop’ is a powerful tool, but its side effects can be destructive. If we don’t adjust your regimen now, it could affect your ability to work in the future.”
Haim felt a fiery whirlpool start to churn inside him. Forcing him to stay composed; he refocused on the hologram of his latest melody, floating above the worktable. Examining the notes helped clear his mind, and he asked in a thoughtful voice, “What do you suggest?”
“Treatment,” Dr. Black said firmly. “We need to restore balance to both your body and mind. It will take time and effort, but it’s necessary if you want to keep creating rather than destroying—both everything around you and yourself.”
Haim frowned. The thought that he already had so little time left and that spending it on treatment for an already doomed body might be pointless, gnawed at his professional composure, honed over years of discipline.
“You do realize that without ‘The Drop,’ I could lose days, even weeks of work?”
“Yes, but I also understand that if you continue, you could lose much more.”
“Doctor, I’m almost 30. I have nothing left to lose!” Haim unexpectedly snapped.
A heavy silence hung between them. Haim closed his eyes, trying to suppress the wave of frustration and anxiety that surged through him.
“I’ll think about it,” he finally said.
“Good. But don’t take too long, Haim.”
Dr. Black ended the conversation, leaving Haim alone with his thoughts and his gradually awakening workshop.
“I’ll think about it…” he muttered under his breath, his eyes returning to the worktable where his tools were now fully activated. “I suppose I’ll start with painting today,” he decided and began dictating to the AI assistant the images that had formed in his mind during the unpleasant conversation.
Sketches of his emotional turmoil began to appear on the screens around him. Haim was relieved to see they weren’t monochrome.
“Excellent. Now let’s build a colour palette for my next masterpiece,” he declared to the entire laboratory. “Are you with me or not?” The question was directed at his AI assistants.
He particularly enjoyed throwing them off with such remarks. The robots hesitated for a moment, their indicator lights flickering as they processed the creator’s ambiguous request. Haim smirked, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms behind his head. As he tapped his foot to the rhythm of his latest musical composition and mentally painted a new seascape, he realized just how much he loved creating. For him, to create was to live. How could he ever give that up?
The robots finally gave up and responded in unison:
“Request not recognized. Please repeat or rephrase your prompt.”
“Ha! I knew you’d give in, you little devils,” Haim teased, reaching for his laser pen.
Haim stepped out of his workshop, inhaling the crisp air of Mediopolis. Each breath felt filled with life, yet inside, he found no peace. His body was light, but his thoughts grew heavier by the minute.
He could already imagine Egbert’s disapproving grumbling and decided to delay returning home. Pressing the “Follow” button on his graviform’s control panel, the sleek silver disc obediently floated just above his head. He avoided underground trains—not just because of the darkness, but because of the potential interactions with other city residents. Haim wasn’t an open person. He justified it by claiming that, as an empathetic artist, he might accidentally absorb other people's emotions, inevitably affecting his work. And as a mature professional, that was unacceptable. Mature… I wonder how people felt at twenty-nine a hundred years ago? The odd thought flitted through his mind.
He strolled toward the nearest park, moving on autopilot as he always did. This place had always been his sanctuary, a refuge from the endless noise of the city and the storm of his own mind.
Without noticing, he transitioned from the paved sidewalk to the park’s natural pathways. That was one of Mediopolis’s features—the city’s landscape seamlessly flowed from smooth streets to lush green havens. Every plant in the park was a product of the symbiosis between nature and technology.
Haim’s gaze landed on the massive crown of an ancient oak, its sprawling branches casting shadows over an entire alley. The leaves shimmered with soft golden-green hues, and the tree emitted a faint cosmic melody. Passers-by would often stop to touch its bark, and the tree would respond with gentle vibrations, as if whispering, I hear you. Can you hear me?
He ran his hand along the trunk, and the tree acknowledged him in return. Feeling the subtle resonance of its melody, he took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled slowly. His thoughts began to align into a structured pattern.
I didn’t take my dose of The Creator’s Drop today, he mused, continuing down the path. And yet… I feel fine. More than fine—I created a landscape draft that meets the highest quality metrics. So why does the doctor think I’m unwell? Why won’t these thoughts leave me alone?
His steps slowed. Before him stretched a meadow, its surface speckled with what looked like tiny gemstones. Light refracted through delicate, transparent flowers, forming miniature rainbows. At the edge of the meadow was an artificial pond, where fish with translucent fins glided effortlessly. Every detail of this world seemed to whisper: Here, you can find peace.
But that wasn’t true for him.
"Dark thoughts..." Haim stared into the clear water. They started when I turned twelve. Before that, everything was different—life was filled with light, energy, inspiration. Now, I often think about things that bring discomfort. What’s wrong with me?
He leaned toward the water, studying his reflection. It seemed strangely unfamiliar—his face, yet somehow not his own.
Why do I feel... different? His thoughts continued. Am I not the same as everyone else? Yes, I have these thoughts, but does that mean I’m sick? Or do I simply see what others don’t? It’s logical, isn’t it? My imagination and abstract thinking are highly developed.
His eyes settled on a fish gliding beneath his reflection. It paused as if studying him before slowly swimming away, leaving ripples on the water’s surface.
Maybe the problem isn’t me, a thought flickered in his mind. What if these “dark thoughts” aren’t a defect, but part of my gift? Why do they want to cure me? What are they trying to fix? His hands clenched into fists, his breathing growing unsteady.
“Why can’t I just be myself?” he whispered, barely aware that he had spoken aloud.
He noticed nearby park-goers casting glances in his direction and quickly retreated. Anxiety pressed against his chest again as he left the pond behind. The path led him into an unusual garden, filled with trees that seemed to exist only in dreams. These species had long vanished from Earth, allowing designers to give free rein to their imagination. The glowing trunks pulsed with liquid resembling molten silver, while their leaves produced a soft chime at the slightest breeze. The air carried a faint aroma, reminiscent of rain and fresh soil.
Haim settled beneath a towering evergreen; its sound was too soothing to resist. Leaning his back and head against the trunk, he let the cool pine scent clear his thoughts. The gentle vibrations from the tree helped him relax. As he closed his eyes, his mind found a steady rhythm, allowing him to analyse the situation instead of tormenting his nervous system.
I wonder if Dr. James truly understands... he pondered. If he takes The Drop away from me, he’ll strip away part of my creative potential. Yes, I created something incredible today, but what about tomorrow? Next week? What if I lose this ability sooner than expected?
In his mind, he visualized a cube floating in space, marking each of its sides with his thoughts. This method of structuring information had always helped him make decisions and develop multiple strategies within a short time.
What if these “dark thoughts” are the price of my genius? He continued. Maybe I should embrace them instead of trying to erase them. But then… why does the doctor say they’re destroying me?
Haim removed his shoes and stretched his legs in front of him. He straightened his back, as if trying to merge with the tree.
Destruction… he mused. What is destruction? Is it good or bad? The doctor said I might destroy myself. How will that affect me? Could it be that through destruction, I will gain something greater?
A deep breath. A slow exhale.
Too many questions…
The imaginary cube in his mind was now fully covered in notes, yet no answers had come.
A beam of sunlight broke through the canopy, warming his face. He opened his eyes, staring into the light. At that moment, he felt the soft vibration of an incoming call on his videophone. Raising his hand, he activated the connection.
“Haim, you’ve been out for three hours. What happened?” Egbert’s irritated voice pulled him from his thoughts.
“Egbert, stop overreacting. I just needed to clear my head in the park. You don’t want me coming home in a bad mood, do you?” Haim teased.
“You could have at least warned me!” Egbert huffed. “I made pancakes with blueberry syrup, melted chocolate suffered in preparation, I picked a book for your evening reading, and meanwhile, you were out communing with trees. You have no regard for me. I’m just a piece of tin to you…”
“Got it, I’ll be home in seven minutes and forty-eight seconds,” Haim said, glancing at the graviform’s display before abruptly ending the call.
He leaned back, resting his head against the tree, closing his eyes for just a moment. Then, suddenly, he straightened up and assumed his take off stance.
“To create is to live,” he murmured, pressing his foot against the hovering disk’s Start panel.
