Auran waded through the viscous darkness of a nightmare. The dream had played out, and he already knew it was nothing more than a dream, yet the sensations in his body and the emotions refused to let go. At last, familiar outlines of his bedroom began to surface through the gloom. His hand obeyed — he reached for the lamp switch. The light struck his eyes, but Auran didn’t even flinch. Within a minute he was on his feet, heading toward the bathroom.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The reflection showed a man with expressive eyes—dark, attentive, carrying a hint of fatigue, yet with a depth that marked him as observant. His gaze was direct, slightly narrowed, like that of someone who doesn’t rush to conclusions and prefers to study the details first. There was a sharpness in his cheekbones and along his jawline. A few drops of water ran down his face; he saw them but didn’t feel them on his skin.

The figure reflected back was solid and strong, more stocky than lean. Not athletic in the classic sense, but with a sense of strength and stability. He stood confidently, shoulders squared and posture slightly tense—the stance of someone accustomed to relying only on himself. And this inner stubbornness unexpectedly paired with a face that had something cinematic about it, casually, almost carelessly charismatic.

His heart was still pounding wildly, drowning out his thoughts. A trace of sticky fear lingered at his lower back, and he absently scratched it.

He pulled a pair of shorts and a T-shirt from the cabinet, slipped on the shorts, and walked to the door of his apartment. Sneakers stood there in three neat rows: white on top, colorful in the middle, gray and black on the bottom. He lingered for a couple of minutes, choosing which to wear, then quickly slid into the gray ones. Stepping outside, he hurried up the stairs, pulling the T-shirt over his head on the move.

Reaching the roof of his building, he headed to the nearest running track. The tracks were laid out on the broad spiral encircling the tower all the way up. A couple of people were warming up lazily on the roof. He barely had time to notice the strange patterns that dawn light scattered across the metal railings of the tracks before he broke into a run.

After circling the spiral and climbing back up, he returned home. He drank straight from the tap. On the wall screen of his burgundy-and-gold kitchen, the clock lit up: 07:00.

 “Breakfast time, announced a pleasant female voice. What will it be today? The optimal diet or the chef’s special?”

“Chef’s, Auran replied curtly. And the full setting.

He went to the shower. Five minutes later, drying himself as he walked, he stopped at the wardrobe and picked a gray-blue outfit. Dressed, he returned to the kitchen: a beautifully set breakfast in yellow dishes was already waiting. Auran ate slowly, savoring every bite. The meal took as much time as all his earlier routines put together — and a little more.

After breakfast he went down the stairs and stepped onto the plaza in front of the building, where his flipp was already waiting. The semi-transparent sphere with its soft seat and panoramic view looked as if it were woven from glass and air, yet its body was stronger than metal. It could be piloted by voice or by hand — at the owner’s choice.

Auran sat inside.

“To the rabsad”

The flipp rose into the air and merged into the stream of others. Dozens of craft moved like fireflies in a swarm: each one gliding smoothly, as if to a single breath. Auran skimmed through his schedule, made a few edits to texts, then ordered:

“Manual”

The panel before him came alive with thin light-drawn lines. A steering wheel slid out, smooth and silent. Auran grasped it with pleasure.

Minutes later, the flipp landed on a meadow scattered with colorful half-spheres, each two or three times the height of a person. People strode purposefully along the paths, while groups sat on the lawns and slopes, their faces serious in discussion.

With long, quick steps, Auran headed for the largest aquamarine half-sphere. It loomed like a giant drop of glass, glowing softly inside. The walls were translucent: silhouettes could be seen, but faces dissolved in shifting colors, as though they spoke from within a water bubble. At his approach, the surface vibrated lightly and opened to let him in.

“Hey, everyone!”

“Hi!” voices replied.

“That was a great stream. How did you set up the random switching of the tribune shots? It looked like you had at least seven heli-cams.”

“No, only three. But I had a plan. Behave yourselves, and maybe I’ll teach you too.”

They talked about the hexathlon tournament Auran had covered. The hexathlon combined six disciplines: running, speed and depth swimming, skyskating, archery, and weightlifting. It was the sport of the aidmen — the rescue forces of Pallada.

After some chat, Auran said his goodbyes and called his flipp. The navigator indicated it could only land at the far platform. He welcomed the chance to walk: the weather was perfect, a cool breeze touched his skin, the sun was warm but not exhausting — clouds drifting by gave it pause. The lilac-colored sand of the path sprang gently underfoot.

A beautiful girl was walking toward him. She turned her face to the sun from time to time, squinting and smiling with delight. In her dark-pink eyes the rays flickered like tiny sparks. Auran knew her: her name was Kaura. They had crossed paths once at an ecology conference and spoken a little.

As they passed, he greeted her and, caught by the glow of her eyes, asked how she was.

“ I’m fine, Kaura answered. And you?”

“Better than anyone!”Auran replied. He longed to say more, but nothing came to mind.

They parted ways. He didn’t notice how, walking on toward his flipp, he too began turning his face to the sun from time to time.

On the flipp’s screen appeared a list of Tirvania’s best restaurants. Spinning a finger idly, Auran tapped one, and the craft set course, merging into a flow. He reviewed his latest report, then leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head, and watched the rare flipps flying high above. There were very few. He wondered: too lazy to pilot? Fear of heights or speed? Or simply no time?

He himself usually preferred manual control. According to the flipp’s statistics, he spent 76% of his time at the helm. Now his thoughts wandered to the data all these devices collected.

Dinner was a pleasure, and afterward he stayed in the restaurant to kill time before training. He studied the layouts of upcoming arenas and mapped out heli-cam placements and paths. Finishing the last plan, he jumped up and headed for his flipp. Minutes later, he was in the gym, where his coach awaited. The reporter loved grueling workouts and trained to exhaustion.

His eyelids grew heavy; he nearly nodded off in the flipp on the way back. By the time he reached his building, he dragged himself up only the last two flights before shaking it off and forcing his pace back to normal. Kicking off his sneakers at the door, he went straight to the bedroom, stripping as he walked, and collapsed face-down onto the bed.

Auran closed his eyes, fatigue pulling tight over his body. Sleep crept in quickly, echoing with the morning’s nightmare. He couldn’t recall what he had seen in the dark, only the sticky weight that clung after him. He tried to shake it off — failed. And just before slipping under, he thought: “It will be easier in the morning.”

 And, for some reason, he didn’t believe himself.