Building class “MidLux.” An ashtray and three rooms. The apartment was designed for four people, a complete family. The window was slightly open; large drops of rain fell on the windowsill. It had been raining for two months now.

The coffee machine switched on quietly. The curtains opened. With a click, the record on the player began to spin. The sleeve lay beside it. A bare torso, white shirt, green background, and red letters. Play by the American musician Moby, whom he loved dearly.

His eyes opened, letting in the dull light of an autumn morning.

— Good morning, Mr. Ontario! — poured a warm female voice from the speakers, the music lowering behind it. — The time is 9:04, the perfect wake-up hour based on your sleep phase. How do you feel?

— Morning, Semi, — answered a rough male voice, eyes fixed on the ceiling. — Record in the dream log: Carousel, mice. Neon signs. Proceed to the daily briefing.

— Excellent! I see you’ve had an unusual dream! Today the temperature outside is 20 degrees, strong wind, heavy rain. Going out is strictly not recommended. The next Raubus will arrive at 10:00. The morning news on your kitchen screen will include Radical News, EyeScreen News, and Norwegian Clock for October 12. I’ve compiled the highlights — they’ll be ready by breakfast time. Also, at 8 a.m., you received a letter from the Department of Attention. Shall I read it?

“Department of Attention?” The thought echoed through his nervous system. His heart skipped.

— Yes, read it, — he said, now composed.

— Perfect! Synthesizing speech.

Strange Activity.

12/10 8:04 a.m.

Good morning, Mr. Ontario. I’m contacting you regarding experiment code CLVsA.

As a member of our company’s scientific collective, you know that every experiment is carefully monitored by the Department of Attention to ensure confidentiality and safety.

Since August 31, we’ve noticed unusual activity on the site. For the past month, we’ve been searching for the cause in the code and the seals. Unfortunately, the issue appears deeper — possibly tied to the simulation itself. For diagnostic purposes, we’re sending a specialist who will serve as your assistant until we identify the root of the problem.

Thank you for your diligence and cooperation,

Megan, Head Director of the Department of Attention at EyeScreen Company

An Empty Fridge and Expensive Paintings.

Water hissed from the tap. A plate clinked. On it — slices of orange, yogurt mixed with granola. Knife and fork. Beside them, a cup of coffee — his favorite flat white. He finished the meal in under ten minutes. Every morning went by in haste, but that was how he entered the rhythm of the day. Besides, it was Monday, and preparation for the week wouldn’t hurt.

The apartment, like people, looked ordinary from the outside but carried its own brushstroke within. A spacious bathroom, two toothbrushes on the counter: one used, one new. Leaving the washroom, the left led to the kitchen — more like a furniture store. The fridge always empty, utensils in drawers. Lonely forks, spoons, and knives. Two of each. Only the price tags were missing to complete the look.

The living room merged with the kitchen, yet unlike it, contained all of his public-private life: two stark black-and-white paintings of shadows in a desert, both by a well-known artist among the initiated. Both autographed. Light from the panoramic windows fell across the rug. A gray crescent-shaped sofa stood in the center. On the table lay books. He almost never sat there and never touched them. But the setup — admittedly — was impressive, and guests reacted accordingly.

As he put on his shoes, he looked in the mirror and stuck out his tongue at his reflection.

There was a forest once. Now only Raubus and soot.

Leaving, he said goodbye to his voice assistant, Semi

///
Reader, whoever you are. The notes left in these notebooks may die on that shelf forever. I don’t know when you’ll find them, or if they’ll ever reach the world. But if they do, try not to understand me, nor the words I use to describe the world I saw — or heard of. There will be no signed works left after me. Try, despite the words, to understand the people I write about. This isn’t fiction or fantasy. Everything written here will become true again only if you can justify every act and every unspoken thought. Every word. It’s the eternal labor of souls unworthy of being written about.

I’m trying to say that in that moment, something flared inside Ray’s soul — something he thought he’d long suppressed. Saying goodbye to the computer, he felt a choking loneliness.
///

Corridor. Doors on both sides, numbered. Where the elevator stood — a sign: “1003–1050.”

He lived in 1012, its windows facing beyond the city wall. Where freedom was. Where the forest used to be.

The elevator climbed quickly. 1-2-3… 9. 10. A chime, the doors opened. “Good morning, Mr. Ontario,” said another voice — stricter, mechanical.

Leaving the lobby, he immediately saw the Raubus pulling up to the tunnel. They had been in the city for years and monopolized all transport. Cheap fares, since they generated electricity by burning mazut. Ecology had vanished long ago. He didn’t care — cheap was enough.

The Girl with Burning Eyes and the University of Culture.

When the doors shut behind him, he spotted an empty seat. Few people rode this late — the workaholics were already clocked in. He wanted to curse the cult of overwork, but it was thanks to them that his apartment lights stayed on. Leaning against the back of the cheap plastic seat, he pulled a book from his briefcase — a real one. In this age, they were rare.

The pages shielded him from the faces of the others, which pleased him. Most of them worked in the neighboring building — the Institute of Culture.

Distracted for a moment by a fleeting, ungraspable thought, his gaze fell on a girl — about nineteen. Dyed gray hair, a thin striped shirt, moss-green sweater, and jeans. The lights of the tunnel flashed across her eyes. There was life in them — untouched, daring, dreaming life.

Her phone crackled under her hands. From her sudden smile, it was clear she’d been waiting for it. Her nails tapped frantically across the glass, typing something.

Maybe she’d gotten a job offer? Maybe her exam results had just arrived? The thought disgusted him — too narrow. He wanted to believe otherwise. That what mattered to her wasn’t grades or achievements.

What if that morning, she’d confessed her love to a friend? And now, finally, came the reply. The tears glimmering in her eyes said it all. The answer was yes.

Soon she would reach the university, sit in class, and write to him:

Let’s meet today. I’ve waited so long, and I can’t anymore.

Cheap Paradise.

They’d meet in a quiet café, tucked away in the passages. Their warm little corner. They’d laugh, recall moments gone by. They’d regret — he, for fearing rejection; she, for not writing sooner.

Late that evening, he’d take her home, and she’d kiss him on the cheek — brief, but long-awaited. He’d drive off with a soft smile.

After four months of such meetings, they’d move in together. Since they’d been friends since high school, there’d be no awkward introductions to parents. Her mother — loud, brimming with dull cheerfulness. Her father — silent, a working man, caring only about his job and the burning bills. He loved his family and would endure anything for them, his body wearing down so that his daughter, standing on his back, could glimpse a real life. And he expected no gratitude.

The boy’s parents took no part in his life; he was left to himself. From that came his freedom — and rebellion.

Their shared life would be full of happy moments. Their hearts would always beat in unison. In their second year together, he’d propose, and she’d embrace him, saying yes.

But another year later, they’d start fighting over trifles. One day, he’d quit his job and start living off her income, layering cheap EyeScreen pleasures over alcohol. She’d begin working part-time in small diners, stop studying, start surviving. Day after day would blur together. Yet in her eyes, a spark would still burn — hidden behind the thick veil of Maslow’s pyramid.

One night, he’d crash his car. The ambulance would come, and he’d be placed in intensive care. After nine hours of fighting for his life, the doctors would put him into a deep coma.

She’d stand beside him, drifting to sleep, holding his hand. Her tears would fall on his palm. By morning, she’d finally fall asleep beside him.

The signal chimed — next stop. EyeScreen Headquarters.

The girl turned left, toward the Raubus bound for another city. And Ray — now simply Mr. Ontario — went right, toward the EyeScreen office, whose windows faced the University of Culture.