Auran groped his way through the thick darkness of a nightmare. The vision had already run its course; he knew it was only a dream, yet his body still carried its echo — sensations and fear refused to loosen their grip. At last, the familiar shapes of his bedroom surfaced through the gloom. His hand obeyed him: he reached for the lamp. The light hit his eyes, and Auran didn’t even flinch. Within a minute he was on his feet, heading toward the bathroom.

He looked at himself in the mirror. A man with expressive eyes looked back at him — dark, observant, with a faint trace of fatigue, but also with that depth that gives away someone used to noticing details. His gaze was steady, slightly narrowed, as if he had learned not to rush to conclusions but to look closer first. Sharpness was traced in his cheekbones and jawline. A few drops of water trickled down his face; he saw them, yet felt nothing on his skin. His heart kept hammering, muting every thought. A trace of sticky fear clung to his lower back, and he scratched it absent-mindedly.

He took out shorts and a T-shirt, pulled the shorts on, and went to the door. Three neat rows of sneakers waited there — white on the top shelf, colorful in the middle, gray and black below. He hesitated a moment, choosing which to wear, then quickly slid into the gray ones. and slipped them on in one swift motion.

He burst onto the rooftop of his building and made for the nearest track. The running paths coiled around the tower in a wide spiral that climbed its full height. A few people stretched lazily in the morning air. Catching only a glimpse of how the first rays of dawn scattered in intricate patterns along the metal railings, Auran set off at once.

After completing his circuit, both around and up, Auran returned home and drank straight from the tap. The wall screen in his burgundy-and-gold kitchen glowed to life: 07:00.

–“Breakfast time,” announced a warm female voice. “What will you have today - the optimal menu or the chef’s signature special?”

–“Signature,” he said curtly. “And prepare the setting.”

He showered. Five minutes later, still toweling off, he stepped into the dressing room and chose a gray-blue outfit. When he returned, breakfast was already waiting - elegantly arranged on yellow china. Auran ate slowly, savoring each bite. The meal took as much time as all his earlier routines put together - and a little longer.

After breakfast he went downstairs and out onto the platform, where his Flipp was already waiting. The semi-transparent sphere, with its cushioned seat and panoramic view, looked as though it were spun from glass and air, yet its shell was stronger than steel. It could be piloted by voice or by hand - as its owner pleased.

Auran settled into the sphere.

–“To the Rab-sad.”

The Flipp rose and merged into the stream of others. In the current of dozens of crafts, they looked like fireflies in a swarm - each drifting with measured grace, as though they shared/obeying a single breath. He skimmed through his schedule, corrected a few lines, then gave a brief command:

–“Manual.”

The panel before him came alive, traced with fine threads of light. The control stick/ steering wheel slid out in one seamless motion, and Auran took hold of it with quiet satisfaction. 

Minutes later, the Flipp descended onto a meadow strewn with bright half-domes. Among them, people moved at different paces — some walking briskly, others sitting on grassy slopes, deep in discussion.

Auran crossed the field in long, quick strides toward the largest aquamarine dome. It loomed ahead like a giant drop of glass, softly aglow from within. Its walls were translucent; silhouettes moved within, but faces dissolved in flowing colors — as though voices came from inside a water bubble. As he approached, the surface shimmered and parted, admitting him inside.

–“Hey, everyone!” — “Hi!” came a few voices in reply.

–“That was a great stream! How did you set up the random switching between crowd shots? Looked like at least seven heli-cams.”

–“Only three,” Auran said, smiling. “But I had a plan. Be nice, and maybe I’ll show you how.”

They chatted about the hexathlon tournament Auran had recently covered. The hexathlon combined six disciplines — running, sprint and depth swimming, sky-skating, archery, and powerlifting. It was the signature sport of the aidmen — Pallada’s elite rescue corps.

After a while, Auran said his goodbyes and summoned his Flipp. The navigator reported it could only land at the far platform. He welcomed the walk: the weather was perfect — a cool breeze brushed his skin, the sun warm but gentle, its light softened by drifting clouds. The lilac sand of the path yielded softly underfoot.

A beautiful girl was walking toward him. Now and then she turned her face to the sun, squinting and smiling in delight. In her dark-rose eyes, sunlight flickered like tiny sparks. Her dark-green hair was tied in a loose ponytail, a few strands catching the wind and glowing in the light. Sharp-lined brows gave her face a touch of stubbornness, yet the smile softened her features. There was an effortless precision in her movements, as if every gesture obeyed an invisible order. He knew her - Kaura. They’d met once at an ecology conference and exchanged a few words.

As they passed, he greeted her — and, caught by the gleam in her eyes, asked how she’d been. 

- “I’m fine,” Kaura replied. “And you?”

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

They parted ways. Auran didn’t notice that, on his way to the Flipp, he too had begun lifting his face to the sun now and then.

A list of Tirvania’s top restaurants appeared on the Flipp’s screen. Auran idly scrolled through it, tapped one, and the craft adjusted course, merging smoothly into the flow. He checked his latest report, then leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, watching the few flipps gliding high above. There weren’t many. Maybe people were just too lazy to pilot themselves? Afraid of height, of speed - or simply too short on time?

He himself preferred manual control most of the time. According to the flipp’s statistics, he spent seventy-six percent of his flight hours at the controls. Now he found himself thinking about all the data these devices quietly collected.

Dinner was pleasant, and afterward he lingered at the restaurant, passing time before training. He studied the layouts of the upcoming arenas, marking heli-cam routes and positions. When the last plan was done, he rose and headed to his Flipp. Minutes later, he was at the gym — his coach already waiting. The reporter liked pushing himself to the limit and trained until he dropped. His eyelids drooped — he almost dozed off on the flight back. By the time he reached his building, he dragged himself up the last two flights, then forced his pace back to normal. At the door, he kicked off his sneakers, stripped on the way to the bedroom, and fell face-down onto the bed.

Auran closed his eyes, feeling fatigue settle like a weight over his body. Sleep came fast, echoing the morning’s nightmare. He couldn’t recall what he had seen in the dark — only the sticky heaviness still clinging to him. He tried to shake it off — and failed. Just before sinking into sleep, he thought: It’ll be easier in the morning. And, for some reason, he didn’t believe it.