In a corner of one of the rooms enveloped by absolute silence and pitch-black darkness, a youth with coal-black hair and calm black eyes settled, immersed in the reflection of the light emanating from his computer screen, which was the only window in his darkness.
The silence in that room was not merely an absence of sound; it was a heavy substance, as if it were molten lead filling the corners. The room was drowned in a suffocating gloom, except for the pale blue spot of light emitted by the computer screen, which painted the features of the youth sitting behind it as if he were a phantom emerged from the pages of the novel he was reading. His eyes did not move with the speed of a reckless reader; rather, he was devouring the words with caution, absorbing every letter as if he were decoding the cipher of his own existence.
The final lines of his favorite novel were dancing before his eyes; a novel talking about "a hero, a demon king, and such trivialities." He felt the coldness of the keyboard buttons under his stiff fingertips.
The air in the room was stagnant, carrying the scent of old books mixed with the smell of hot electronic circuits that had been working for long hours without pause.
The whirring of the computer's internal fan stopped suddenly when he pressed the power button with his finger.
The blue light faded instantly, and the blackness swallowed the room entirely. At that moment, he did not feel fear; instead, he felt a kind of strange familiarity with the darkness, as if the gloom were his true garment. He leaned his back against the leather chair, which emitted a long, sharp creak like the moan of a weary soul. He closed his eyes and conjured in his mind every detail he had read—every loophole in the novel, and every movement of the heroes.
His lips parted into a hidden smile, a smile that carried no friendliness, but rather the relief of a warrior who had finally found the trigger that would fire the first bullet.
He whispered in a faint voice, which he himself could barely hear amidst the stillness of the room:
**"Now... I no longer have any excuse. Let the madness begin."**
He rose from his place with slow, measured movements, as if his body were a precisely programmed machine. He headed toward the only wooden table in the corner of the room, where a single white paper sat in the center of the surface, appearing in the darkness like a piece of the moon. It was no ordinary paper; it was a "road map" for souls whose fates were to be tampered with. Names written in precise, cold handwriting, arranged with extreme care that allowed for no error.
He took the pen out of his pocket and looked at the names for the last time under a very dim light leaking from the cracks of the window: **(Moore.. Ayr.. The City Gang..)**.
These names represented to him chess pieces on a board that he alone had the right to move. He did not see them as human beings, but as tools in a grand play of which he was the writer and director. He folded the paper carefully, turning it into a very small square, and placed it in the inner pocket of his coat.
He exited the room. The night air outside was cold and harsh, carrying the scent of imminent rain and the dust of the city that never sleeps—but tonight, it would sleep for a long time. He walked through the side streets, avoiding spotlights and surveillance cameras, walking with the confident steps of one who knows every stone in this city. He was heading toward the main switching station that feeds every lamp, every hospital, and every corner of this vast area.
The place was an old facility, surrounded by barbed wire and massive pillars from which a constant hum emerged—the hum of electrical energy flowing through the veins of the city. At the entrance, in the small, dilapidated guardroom, sat an old guard named **(Miller)**, his face etched with the wrinkles of fatigue and the years he spent monitoring meters that never stopped spinning.
The youth entered stealthily, but he did not try to hide this time. He offered a greeting in a calm, steady voice:
"A cold night, Mr. Miller, isn't it?"
The guard raised his head slowly; signs of surprise then relaxation appeared on him when he saw the youth's calm and outwardly innocent features. "Oh, yes, my son... what are you doing here at this late hour?"
The youth placed a small paper bag on the table, from which drifted the scent of warm, appetizing food. "I was passing by, and I remembered that you stay up here alone in this cold. I brought you something to eat, a simple gift for your efforts."
Miller did not hesitate much; isolation and hunger at this late hour make any offer seem like a miracle fallen from heaven. The man began to eat with appetite, while the youth stood watching him with cold eyes, devoid of any regret or hesitation. The minutes passed with a deadly slowness.
The sound of chewing food seemed very loud in the silence of the room. Miller began to feel a sudden heaviness in his eyelids; he tried to speak, to thank the youth again, but the words vanished on his tongue like smoke. His head swayed right and left, then his body fell slowly over the table, drowning in a deep slumber that the youth had prepared with precision.
The youth smiled again. He moved toward the giant control panel. The small green and red lights were blinking before him like the eyes of a tamed beast waiting for the order to attack. He stretched his hand toward the main switch—the switch that holds the reins of light and darkness. He gripped it firmly and took a deep breath, saturated with the smell of ozone and static electricity.
With one strong, decisive press, he lowered the switch.
At that moment, something like a cardiac arrest happened to the city. The constant hum of the engines disappeared. The lights in the guardroom went out, and then, in a stunning sequence, the city lights on the horizon began to fade neighborhood by neighborhood, as if a giant were extinguishing candles with one angry breath. The world drowned in an absolute silence—a silence broken only by the sound of the wind, which began to intensify and howl against the barbed wire.
The youth looked at the watch on his wrist; the hands were pointing to the zero hour. He looked at the pitch-black darkness that wrapped everything, felt the paper carrying the names **(Moore.. Ayr.. The City Gang)**, then said in a calm and confident tone:
**"We have a very long night today..."**