THUD!

  A plastic-wrapped roll of newspaper landed with a dull, wet sound on the marble porch.

  Ciel Evans didn't stop to check his throw. He had memorized the angle and force needed. The modified old road bike continued to glide, its tires hissing as they sliced through puddles left by last night’s rain in front of the iron gate of a local official's residence.

  As a freshman in the Faculty of Engineering majoring in Architecture and Civil Engineering at Carta University enjoying the odd semester break, Ciel should have still been curled up in a blanket, savoring the calm before the storm of assignments attacked. However, this morning arrived not with a promising dawn, but with a silence that was thick, unnatural, and hostile.

  The sky refused to rain, yet the air felt heavy. The atmosphere was saturated with water vapor hanging low, carrying a chill that pierced through his new hoodie jacket. Thin, dirty milky fog—like the breath of a sick dragon—floated low over cracked asphalt, swallowing street lamp posts one by one, like a hungry ghost slowly devouring the city.

  City lights, just extinguished automatically by morning sensors, left a gray urban landscape. Monochrome. Numb. Puddles on the street didn't reflect hope for Ciel’s future, but a pale sky, like thousands of tiny cracked mirrors.

  In the silence of the elite residential complex necropolis...

  Squeak... Squeak...

  His bike chain needed oil. Ciel noted that in his mind.

  He stood on the pedals, shifting his weight to pump the bike to speed through the wall of fog.

  "Yaaawn..."

  Ciel yawned wide. His eyes watered, vision blurred by the film of residual drowsiness. Being a paperboy was a strange way to kill time for a teenager fresh out of high school, but the adrenaline of quiet streets was more appealing to him than staring at a boarding house ceiling.

  Even so, drowsiness remained the enemy. His right hand wrapped in a half-finger glove moved fast.

  SLAP!

  He slapped his own cheek. Hard enough to leave a faint red mark.

  "Focus, Evans," he muttered to himself.

  He forbade drowsiness from conquering him. This was a ghost profession from the last century. In an era where his peers got news from holographic notifications on smartwatches, Ciel delivered physical paper. An irony he enjoyed.

  However, something disturbed Ciel’s instinct radar this morning. Something odd. Like a discordant note in a silent song.

  Usually, at 04:30 AM, this city was a mass concrete grave.

  But as he turned his handlebars into a dense middle-class housing alley, he heard it.

  Laughter.

  "Hahahaha! Take that, stupid monster! He fell!"

  A child's laughter. Cheerful, loud, piercing brick walls. Ciel glanced briefly without slowing down. The house window glowed with artificial blue-white light. A television blared at high volume, playing prime-time action cartoons.

  Ciel frowned. At this hour? Isn't that the seven o'clock schedule?

  He passed the next house.

  "Oh my gosh! He said that?! Hahaha!"

  This time, adult laughter. A whole family laughing freely. Ciel recognized the background sound—the kingdom's most popular sitcom. Why were TV stations airing new episodes at this ghostly hour? Was the broadcast schedule broken?

  He turned onto the main city park road. The fog began to thin, revealing a more surreal scene.

  Several young women—seemingly senior students from Ciel’s campus—were seen there in neon spandex jogging uniforms. But they weren't running. Their feet were glued to the wet pavement.

  They sat huddled, ignoring the cold concrete, staring at tilted phone screens. Their faces illuminated by screen light, glowing as if hypnotized.

  "Crazy! Crazy! Whoa, episode 12 of Prince of Love drama released early! I can't believe it! Should be next week!" one of them shrieked hysterically.

  "Swear?! Play it quick! Can't wait for the kiss scene!"

  Ciel shook his head slowly passing them. They forgot calorie targets. They drowned completely in fictional romance drama, anesthetized in the cold morning fog.

  The strangeness continued. The escalation of oddity crept up.

  On wider roads toward the city center, Ciel saw visual renovation activity. An army of city planning officers in orange uniforms busy working at dawn like panicked soldier ants.

  Rip!

  They tore down 'boring' ads—bank interest billboards, tax warnings, and old politician faces that usually made Ciel sick. Old paper fell to the sidewalk like peeled dead skin.

  And replaced them with something exploding in neon colors.

  Ciel lowered one foot to the asphalt, looking up in awe and suspicion. His bike paused.

  The giant billboard now displayed nature tourism promotions to tropical beaches with insane discounts. Beside it, a building-sized poster featured faces of the most beautiful actresses, smiling wide with perfect white teeth, promoting blockbuster movies with suddenly advanced release dates.

  At the bus stop, glass panes were full of new posters still smelling of glue: Music concerts, light parades, shopping discounts, food carnivals.

  Everything cheerful. Everything fun. Everything... too sweet.

  Like chewing gum forced into a mouth locked tight.

  "Did everyone win the lottery or what?" Ciel mumbled confusedly, pedaling again with discomfort spreading in his stomach. "This morning is weird. Too happy."

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  THWACK!

  The last newspaper was thrown high, soaring over the iron fence of a luxury house at the end of the route. Done. Task complete.

  Ciel stopped his bike, wiping cold sweat on his temple with his hoodie sleeve. He stared at the sky.

  The thin fog earlier had vanished completely in an unnatural way, as if sucked forcibly by a giant vacuum cleaner. The sun shone with strange, stinging intensity. The light was too white, too sharp, like a giant studio spotlight aimed at his face.

  As he was about to turn back toward his boarding house, a horde of high school kids passed him. They walked very fast, almost running. No lethargic sleep-deprived faces typical of students hating Monday.

  Their eyes sparkled wildly. Cheeks flushed.

  "Did you see the announcement on twitter just now?!"

  "Wow! Fan meet at Grassland Mall! This afternoon! 16:00 sharp!"

  "SERIOUSLY?! That boyband just did a world tour! Why back to our small town?"

  "Don't care! I'm coming! Skip last lesson, math can wait! Bye bye algebra!"

  They laughed hysterically, planning academic rebellion for their idols.

  Ciel could only stare at their backs blankly. Laughing gas leak in the atmosphere? or someone drugged the city water supply?

  He stopped in front of a vending machine. Throat dry.

  Clink.

  A cold bottle of mineral water fell. Thud.

  As Ciel bent to pick up the bottle, a group of college students—this time clearly his campus mates judging by the alma mater jackets draped over shoulders—passed him. Expensive perfume wafted, their laughter boomed.

  "No way! Check the campus BEM official feed! Capital artist concert! Pop Diva!"

  "Tonight?! At the Art Hall?!"

  "Tickets must be expensive..."

  Ciel gulped his water, eyes narrowing seeing the female student thrust her phone. One big word blinked neon on the screen, clearly visible from where Ciel stood.

  FREE.

  "INSANE!!!" The students screamed in delight, jumping on the sidewalk exactly like little kids. "FREE! SKIP LAST CLASS! LET THE LECTURER TEACH EMPTY CHAIRS!"

  Ciel lowered his empty water bottle. His hand squeeze made the plastic bottle crunch.

  Free concert. Sudden fan meet. Early movie release. Dawn cartoons.

  Ciel felt hackles rise under his jacket. The world seemed to be treating everyone this morning. A sudden feast too beautiful, too sweet, and too perfect.

  As if... someone was trying hard to make the city residents forget something else.

  Ciel reached into his jeans pocket, pulling out a smartphone with a single hairline crack across the screen—a souvenir from a bike fall last month.

  He needed answers. And he knew who had access to this city's information kitchen.

  His thumb scrolled the contact list fast, passing unimportant classmates' names, until stopping at one name: "Bro Julian (Carta Media Intern)".

  Julian was his senior in high school. An idealistic journalism club mentor, the type obsessed with uncovering school cafeteria scandals, now pursuing his dream career—or nightmare—as an intern at Carta Chronicle, the largest media conglomerate in the region.

  Ciel typed a short message. No pleasantries.

  To: Bro Julian

  Bro, office leak laughing gas? Why headlines this morning all sweet trash? No crime news?

  Message sent. Two gray ticks.

  Ciel leaned against the vending machine, waiting. Usually, Julian took long to reply, especially in morning rush hour. Interns were the lowest caste usually ordered to run around buying coffee.

  However, this time was different.

  Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

  The phone in Ciel’s hand vibrated almost instantly. Ticks turned blue. 'Typing...' indicator appeared, vanished, then appeared again aggressively.

  A reply came. Not one sentence, but a barrage of panicked messages sent consecutively.

  From: Bro Julian

  DON'T ASK.

  Haven't slept 24 hours. Newsroom like hell.

  Total chaos, El.

  Ciel frowned reading the word 'hell'. It contrasted sharply with the cheerful faces of citizens just passing him.

  To: Bro Julian

  Why? Disaster breaking news?

  Pause for a moment. Then Julian’s reply came again, longer this time, as if stealing time hiding in the office toilet to spill frustration.

  From: Bro Julian

  Just the opposite. Can't be disasters.

  Dawn earlier, Director Ratautan descended the mountain. Entered newsroom, slammed door.

  Imagine, CEO who usually just plays golf, suddenly took over Editor-in-Chief chair.

  Ciel’s eyes narrowed reading the name. Ratautan. A figure rarely seen publicly, but rumored to control the narrative of half the continent.

  From: Bro Julian

  All drafts me and research team worked on this week? Criminal investigation reports? Dock corruption case? Crop failure report in south village?

  TRASH. All discarded. Deleted in front of my face.

  Director Ratautan directing all news manually. He wants "Absolute Positive Vibe".

  Next message came in all caps, as if Julian was screaming in silence.

  From: Bro Julian

  WE WERE ORDERED TO TURN 180 DEGREES, EL!

  Instruction crazy: "Make people forget they have problems."

  That's why you see discounts, concerts, celebrity news everywhere. It's all smoke screen. Massive scale distraction.

  Gotta go back. If caught chatting about this, I'm fired—or worse.

  The phone screen went dark after Ciel pressed the lock button.

  He put the phone back in his pocket, feeling the object now heavier than before. The cold on his back wasn't sweat anymore, but realization crawling up.

  Around him, Carta city was partying. Digital billboards across the street now displayed laughing clown faces, promoting free circus. People smiled, lulled, and laughed.

  "Make people forget they have problems..." Ciel murmured repeating Julian’s message.

  Director Ratautan and Carta Chronicle weren't reporting facts. They were injecting high-dose morphine into the city's veins.

  The question now wasn't why everyone was happy.

  The question was: What pain are they trying to cover so desperately that they must change the face of the world 180 degrees overnight?

  Ciel mounted his bike again. His feet pressed the pedals, but this time he didn't pedal to kill boredom. He pedaled with the wariness of prey realizing a predator lurked behind bushes full of beautiful flowers.

  This city wasn't happy. This city was sedated.

  The phone in his hand vibrated again.

  Ciel almost dropped it, nerves still tense from Julian’s message earlier. But this time, the vibration was short followed by a cheerful pop notification sound. A special ringtone he set for only one person.

  He glanced at the screen. His cracked phone wallpaper showed a candid photo of a girl laughing wide holding ice cream.

  Elsie.

  A new message appeared in the notification bar, covering part of the girl's face.

  From: Elsie ??

  Babe! Have you heard? ??

  Tonight in Gant City, the square holding fireworks parade at midnight! Says gonna be super grand!

  Let's watch... since tomorrow sudden holiday. We invite Denes too yeah so crowded? Please? ??

  Ciel read the message twice. The corner of his lip twitched, wanting to smile reflexively reading his girlfriend’s enthusiasm, but the smile died before forming.

  Fireworks parade. Midnight.

  Puzzle pieces in his head arranged neater, forming a horrifying picture.

  Of course. Fireworks.

  What better way to seize the attention of millions of humans than explosions of colorful light in the sky? The beautiful explosion sounds would deafen ears to any screams that might occur, and the blinding light would force everyone to look up—ensuring no one saw what was crawling on the ground.

  Ciel imagined Elsie across there, maybe jumping small in her room, choosing clothes, face radiant due to "good news" fed by media. He imagined Denes, their easygoing best friend, would surely agree immediately because of "free" and "crowd" tags.

  They didn't know. They thought this was a party.

  Ciel’s thumb hovered over the virtual keyboard screen.

  Instinct screamed to type a warning: "Don't go. Lock doors. Something wrong with this city, El."

  But he knew how that would sound. He'd sound like a paranoid madman who drank too much cheap coffee. Elsie would worry, Denes would mock him, and they might go without him anyway—which was far more dangerous.

  If this "distraction" involved the whole city, the safest place for Elsie and Denes was within his surveillance range.

  Ciel sighed long, chasing the fog of worry from his face, and decided to play a role. He had to join this play.

  He typed a reply fast. Short, concise, hiding the rumble in his chest.

  To: Elsie ??

  Yeah, okay. Good idea.

  Tell Denes. I'll pick you guys up later.

  Send button pressed.

  Ciel put the phone in his pocket, then gripped his bike handlebars tightly until his knuckles whitened. Morning sun stung his skin, but Ciel Evans felt cold.

  He would go to that parade. Not to see fireworks, but to see what was hidden behind the shadows of those light explosions.