The Beginning

Dominion project

The clock read 23:18. Derek stared at himself in the mirror, his eyes bloodshot and heavy with exhaustion, but something else lingered there too—apathy, maybe, or that quiet rage that builds up over time and turns to numbness. He rubbed his hands slowly through his shoulder-length, curly black hair, then reached for the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray on the scratched oak dresser. It burned low, a faint orange glow in the dim room, sending up slow tendrils of smoke that curled like ghosts toward the ceiling. He was going to be late—but what did it matter? The data was practically worthless now, and the people who wanted it were vultures more than clients. Let them sweat. Let them wonder.

Outside, the scream of sirens pierced the quiet, echoing through the neighborhood's narrow alleys and cracked pavement. Red and blue lights strobed across the walls of Derek’s bedroom, catching the edges of things: the cluttered desk, the cracked screen of his second monitor, the black leather jacket draped over the back of the chair. His eyes flicked to the dresser top where his favorite photograph lay—an old print, edges curling, of a girl laughing, her head tipped back, long braids cascading into the swirling nest of wires and silver of a neural processor chip. A strange fusion of beauty and circuitry. He took another drag and stepped to the window.

The night air outside was sharp with the scent of ozone and garbage. Derek slipped on his jacket and stepped out onto the porch, silent as a shadow. Down on the overgrown lawn, two police officers were pinning a man to the ground, their knees grinding into him as he struggled and spat curses. He looked like he hadn't eaten in days, his limbs all angles, his clothes hanging off him like old paper. One officer barked something and clicked the cuffs tight while the other held the man down. Derek watched without blinking, smoke trailing from his lips. This city ate people like that. Sometimes slow, sometimes fast. He leaned against the railing, the night pressing close, the data stick in his jacket pocket suddenly feeling heavier than ever.

He stepped off the porch, the wooden boards creaking beneath his boots, and moved across the overgrown grass without a glance at the officers. They were too busy now, dragging the half-conscious man toward the back seat of the cruiser, the man's legs barely lifting, scraping the ground like dead weight. One officer muttered something under his breath—probably a complaint, probably something worse—but Derek didn’t hear it, or didn’t care to. The scene was routine, part of the city’s rhythm, like rats in the gutters or the buzz of transformers above rusting alleyways.

Clouds drifted thick across the sky, swallowing the moon whole, casting the neighborhood into a heavy, gray murk. Only the streetlamps cut through the dark, weak yellow pools of light, making everything beneath them look sickly and still. Derek pulled the collar of his jacket up against the chill as he reached the edge of the sidewalk. A gust of wind stirred the trees and carried the faint stench of oil and rot with it. He raised his arm and hailed a cab, the flickering "Off Duty" light blinking as the car slowed reluctantly. He didn’t blame the driver—this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood you slowed down in, not unless you had to. Rain was coming, he could smell it in the air, electric and cold. He didn’t feel like getting wet tonight. He got in, closed the door, and shuddered, a sudden chill ran through him.