For Ester Cornelia, who taught me to never give up.
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The operating room is still, save for the hum of machines and the steady beep of heart monitors. The team around me, handpicked and trained for months, are silent, waiting. I don’t hear their nervous breaths or feel their anxiety. I have no space for it. I only hear the rhythm of the twin’s lives in my hands. One wrong move and I condemn one of these girls—or both.
But that won’t happen.
I’ve been in worse situations, though none as public as this. The UK Prime Minister’s twin daughters, attached at the liver and lower chest, a vascular network more intricate than any I’ve seen. They’ve trusted me with their lives. Me. Not because of sentiment or hope but because I’m the best. And that’s all that matters.
The lights above reflect sharply off the polished steel instruments. Scalpel first. My fingers steady, my heart beating at a calm 65 BPM. A team of thirty, and yet I am the only one who can make this cut. The precision here is absolute. It has to be. Sever the wrong vessel, and we lose control of the entire situation—no room for error.
The scalpel touches their fused skin. The girls are sedated, their tiny bodies barely moving, completely unaware of the gravity of this moment. In their position, maybe ignorance is a gift. The cut begins slowly, tracing the line where their bodies meet. The skin splits easily, and the assistive robot guides my hand, stabilizing the instrument for deeper precision.
“Prepare for the vascular dissection,” I say, the command short and clipped.
A nurse echoes the order, her voice trembling. I hear the crack in it, but I don’t react. I know they feel the pressure—knowing that a single mistake will be splashed across every media outlet, dissected by every critic—the Prime Minister’s daughters. Headlines are waiting to happen. But not because I fail. No. The headlines will talk about how I pulled off the impossible. That’s the story they’ll write.
I move deeper, the scalpel slipping through soft tissue until we hit the liver—the real test.
The liver. It’s the most dangerous part of this separation. Their veins are intertwined like vines, connecting them at life’s core. One slip, and they’ll bleed out faster than we can react. But I’ve studied their scans for weeks. I know this anatomy better than I know my own body. I’ve prepared for every contingency, every possible complication. The difference between me and every other surgeon in the world is simple: I’m never surprised.
I glance at the clock. Forty minutes in, and we’re right on schedule.
I can feel the tension in the room. They’re waiting for me to give them something—assurance, comfort. I give them none. I am here to do a job, not to reassure nervous hands. I don’t need to look up to know the Prime Minister is pacing in the observation deck, watching through the glass as his children’s fate rests on the edge of this scalpel.
They told me not to think about that, to distance myself from who they are. But I never needed the reminder. Their identities are irrelevant to me. Whether they’re nobodies from a village in the middle of nowhere or the daughters of a world leader makes no difference to me. All that matters is the result. The outcome is what defines me.
I clamp a vein, the assistive robot mimicking my exact movements. Every breath in the room holds, waiting for me to release pressure. I make the final incision to separate the livers, and immediately, blood pulses into the open cavity. Controlled. Expected. My team rushes to suction and control the flow, but it’s nothing that wasn’t accounted for. The bleeding is intense, but I’ve handled worse.
“Suction,” I bark as the team works seamlessly around me. Hands pass instruments, and the robot assists with retractors, opening the wound as I move from the liver to the lower thoracic structures.
One more critical phase, and we’re done.
But it’s in these final moments that a surgeon’s hand can falter. The moment you think it’s over, that’s when mistakes happen. I’ve seen surgeons fall to that arrogance—believing they’ve beaten the odds just to lose everything. I don’t make that mistake.
“Connect the bypass,” I command as the team works quickly to stabilize each twin’s blood flow. Their hearts, independent for the first time in their lives, beat separate rhythms. A flutter on the monitor catches my eye, but the anesthesiologist is already on it. Minor arrhythmia. Not unexpected. I keep cutting.
Minutes stretch into hours as the final layers of tissue are separated. The bodies now lie side by side, not as one, but as two distinct lives.
I step back, finally. The final suture closes their newly independent bodies, and the tension leaves the room like a sudden vacuum.
“Operation complete,” I say, my voice flat, professional. No need for celebration. Not yet. I glance at the clock again—five hours and twelve minutes.
We did it.
And not because of luck, hope, or prayer. We did it because I’m the best doctor in the world.
“Vitals stable,” the nurse calls out, her relief palpable.
They’ll call me a hero. The media will praise me. The Prime Minister will owe me everything. But it won’t matter. It never does.
I don’t need their praise.
I only care about the result.
The moment I step back, the doors to the operating room fly open. The Prime Minister charges in, breaking every protocol, his face a cocktail of panic, fear, and the verge of tears. His polished exterior, the stoic leader of the United Kingdom, is gone. In its place, a father desperate to see if his daughters are still breathing.
His eyes dart to the operating table. The girls, separated now, lay under careful watch, alive—because of me. Relief floods his face, and he nearly stumbles toward them, barely keeping himself upright.
I don’t watch for long. I’ve seen that expression countless times—the same blend of gratitude and disbelief, whether it’s in the eyes of a factory worker or a billionaire. Their emotions hold no value to me.
I step away, peeling off my gloves, watching the blood slide off with the latex. I wipe my hands clean, the sterilizer cold against my skin as it washes away every trace of the operation. Every drop of blood. Every reminder of what was at stake.
For them, this is a moment of salvation. For me, it’s just another day, another success, another result that reinforces why I’m here.
As I step into the hallway, I pull out my Nimbus—a sleek, metallic device with no visible screen or buttons. With a flick of my wrist, the phone activates, and a holographic display materializes in the air before me. The translucent blue interface hovers just above my hand, glowing faintly. The screen is purely light—no physical form—yet its response is immediate, reacting to my every movement with precision.
This is no ordinary device. It’s the kind of technology reserved only for members of the Premier Society. A symbol of privilege, power, and untouchable status. It doesn’t just communicate; it connects me to the only thing that truly matters in this world.
I swipe across the holographic screen, the display shifting in front of me. A leaderboard materializes, filled with names—hundreds of them—scrolling in real time. Each name is followed by a set of points that shift constantly, updating by the second. The absolute best in the medical field—surgeons, specialists, innovators—fight for the top, endlessly chasing results, procedures, and breakthroughs, vying for the chance to be recognized as the most important life-savers on the planet.
But I only care about the name at the very top.
Dr. Callan Valor.
I lead by tens of thousands of points, far ahead of the closest names in the medical world. They try, year after year, surgery after surgery, hoping to close the gap. But the distance between me and them is an ocean they’ll never cross. I’m not just ahead—I’m untouchable. Even now, after hours in the operating room, the best doctors in the world scramble beneath me, their names flickering as their rankings shift, desperate to climb.
But I’m unmoved.
If I wanted, I could step away for a year, maybe two—take my time, stroll along the beaches of Lombok, watch the sunsets without a care—and no one would come close to catching me. Let them fight over second place. Let them compete for recognition that will never amount to mine. They’re chasing shadows.
A notification flashes on the Nimbus holographic display. A subtle chime accompanies the message: 50 billion credits just deposited into my account. I could buy an island or two with that. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
My ambitions are far greater than just islands or estates. I want more. I want everything.
I glance at the leaderboard again, moving into a different category. Until I see his name.
Adrian Voss, the number one venture capitalist. He’s the richest man on Earth, and he didn’t get there by saving lives or innovating technology. He did it by knowing how to play the game—manipulating markets, seizing opportunities, making sure he always had control. Voss doesn’t just sit on top of the financial world; he owns it.
I’m still far from him, from that pinnacle of wealth and power.
Being the number one doctor in the world isn’t enough. It never was. I want more than titles and praise. I want to be the richest, the most powerful. And no one—not even Adrian Voss—is going to stop me from taking that title.
To achieve that kind of wealth, I need to keep working. Ambition doesn’t rest, and neither can I.
I glance down at my Nimbus again. This time, a list of medical procedures scrolls in front of me, carefully curated by my assistant. Three operations. Three options. Each with its own price.
The first on the list: Katherine Shaw, wife of General Marcus Steele, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for the USA Army. Her condition is dire—severe degenerative spinal disorder. The disease is rapidly eroding her vertebrae, compressing her nerves, causing her excruciating pain and near-total immobility. I could fix it, repairing the damaged spinal tissue using a process called neuroregenerative grafting, which involves injecting synthetic stem cells directly into her spine to rebuild and regenerate the affected areas. It’s complex. It’s delicate. It’s not a procedure that just anyone can perform. But I can.
They’ve offered me 10 billion credits for it.
I’ll keep it in mind.
The second one barely gets a glance. Some kid with a tumor lodged in his brainstem. Complex, but the kind of thing I can do in my sleep. The pay? A million credits. Barely worth my time.
My assistant keeps doing this—handing me a mix of high-profile and low-priority cases, all for the sake of accumulating more score points on the leaderboard. Points aren’t what I care about, though. Let the other doctors climb their way up with procedures like these. I’ve earned the right to be selective. I can’t afford to waste hours on cases that won’t bring me closer to my goal.
The third case is the one I’ll accept.
Alexis Dreyer, a Hollywood actress whose face graces every screen from Los Angeles to Tokyo. A small cut. On any other person, it would be a non-issue. But on her, it’s a crisis. Her publicist says it’s urgent—her career depends on her face being flawless, and the industry doesn’t tolerate imperfections. I can make it perfect again. I always do.
She’s willing to pay me 20 billion credits for the privilege.
I don’t need to think twice. I take it.
I walk toward the teleporter, its polished metallic frame gleaming under the sharp lights of the hospital hallway. This device, this marvel of instant travel, is one of the many privileges that come with being at the top. It wasn’t Malleus who created it, though. No, the teleporter is the work of Milady Madelyn, the genius. She designed it to revolutionize global travel, tearing down borders, compressing time, and making the world a smaller, more accessible place.
Back then, anyone could use it—literally anyone. That was her vision—instant travel for every human, from the lowest janitor to the highest surgeon. She built it with noble intentions, thinking it would unify the world. But Malleus had different plans.
Malleus isn’t just some AI. It’s the central system that runs every aspect of the hierarchy of human society. The judge, the gatekeeper, the ultimate authority on who deserves what. Created to evaluate humanity based purely on results, it controls everything. Malleus doesn’t ask why—it only asks what. What have you done? What have you produced? What have you achieved? Anything less than perfection? You fall.
To Malleus, there’s no room for effort or untapped potential. You either deliver results, or you’re irrelevant. It doesn’t understand concepts like mercy or fairness—only pure efficiency. If you’re a nobody drifting through life without adding measurable value, then you don’t belong anywhere near the top. In Malleus’ world, the weak and the unproductive are cast aside, left to scrape by in the lower ranks, barely surviving. To Malleus, survival itself is not a birthright; it’s a reward. Only those who prove their worth through tangible achievements are deemed fit to thrive.
It was Malleus that decided hierarchy should be determined by the importance of one’s profession. It doesn’t care about emotions, struggle, or effort—only what you bring to society. The higher your profession ranks in importance, the more privileged your life.
For example, doctors—like me—are ranked among the highest. In Malleus’ system, a doctor’s contribution to society is critical: saving lives, advancing medical science, and keeping humanity intact. I’m at the pinnacle—Number One—in a profession that ranks near the top of the hierarchy.
Meanwhile, those who clean the floors or flip burgers? Janitors, fast food workers, manual laborers—they’re at the bottom. Malleus sees them as replaceable. They’re assigned the lowest numbers and the lowest privileges. To Malleus, their contribution to society is minimal, and their lives reflect that ranking. They live in overcrowded, decaying districts, barely surviving on scraps of opportunity. That’s why they are called the lower-society.
It’s not personal. It’s not emotional. It’s just Malleus’ cold logic.
Malleus decided that the teleporter wasn’t for everyone. Efficiency, it reasoned, was paramount. Giving everyone access slowed the system, made the world messy. So, with its cold logic, it rewrote the rules. Now, only the top ten in each field—those who contribute the most—can use it. Anyone else? They’re locked out. Worse, they’re erased. A single step inside this machine if you’re unworthy, and Malleus will turn you into ashes before you can blink.
Right now, I’m standing in the best hospital in London, but in the next ten minutes, I need to be in Los Angeles. Alexis Dreyer’s face won’t fix itself. Being the number one doctor in the world grants me that kind of freedom. Instant movement. Effortless. One step, and I’m across the globe, while the rest of them crawl through airports or sit in traffic, trapped by the limitations of ordinary life.
They should know their place.
The teleporter hums softly as it comes to life, scanning me, checking my credentials and rank. Malleus knows who I am. It acknowledges my place at the top, granting me access. I step forward, watching the London hospital dissolve into the bright skyline of Los Angeles—all in seconds—because that’s the privilege of being the best.
When I arrive, the luxury operating room unfolds before me in all its sterile perfection. The walls are smooth, curved, and white, like the inside of a polished shell. Soft ambient lighting casts a warm glow, creating a space that feels more like an exclusive hotel suite than a medical facility. State-of-the-art technology hums quietly in the background—automated robotic arms, precision laser scalpels, and touch-screen monitors built into the walls, each one linked to a vast network of data and tools. Every surface gleams, reflecting the enormous cost that only the wealthiest could afford.
In the center of the room, Alexis Dreyer sits on a plush, reclined operating chair, its fabric a deep blue that contrasts against the sleek white surroundings. It’s ergonomically designed, cradling her like a throne, a far cry from the standard hospital chairs most people are subjected to. Overhead, a large, circular holo-screen displays her vital signs in real-time, though she seems utterly unconcerned by it.
Her attention is elsewhere.
Alexis’s eyes are glued to her luxury smartphone, the screen glowing as she scrolls through a series of video clips—her latest promos. It’s a montage of perfume ads and high-end fashion campaigns, all featuring her as the star. Her fingers move with a practiced flick, fast-forwarding any scene where she’s not the focus. She only pauses when her own image appears on screen, watching intently as she smiles, poses, and effortlessly radiates perfection. The moment the spotlight shifts to someone else, she skips ahead, searching for the next moment when all eyes are on her.
Despite the scar on her face, her image on the screen remains flawless.
Judging by the absence of Nimbus on her hand. It seems she’s not the best in her field after all. Someone else has taken that spot, it appears. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have time to watch the petty games they play for attention. All this celebrity nonsense—it’s just stupid shit to me. I’m not here to entertain myself with their fleeting moments of fame.
I’m here for one thing: results.
Alexis barely looks up as I approach, her eyes still glued to her phone.
“About time,” she says, her voice dripping with impatience.
“I’ve been sitting here forever. Do you have any idea how important my schedule is?”
I glance at the timer on the screen above her head. She’s been in the room for all of three minutes.
“Three minutes,” I say flatly, pulling on my gloves.
“I’ll try to make up for the inconvenience.”
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t bite.
“This is a complete disaster, you know that? My face—” she gestures dramatically to the small cut along her cheek, “—is everything. And now, because of some idiot driver, I look like this.”
She leans forward as if daring me to disagree.
“I need you to make it perfect again.”
I examine the cut. It’s shallow, barely visible now, but the vanity in her eyes tells me that this isn’t just about the wound. This is about her image, her status.
“I can fix it,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“But it’s not exactly life-threatening, Ms. Dreyer. It’s a small cut. You’ll survive.”
She huffs, crossing her arms.
“Small? I can’t ‘survive’ with a scar on my face. Do you know what this means for my career? For my brand?”
She’s practically shaking with indignation now, her words growing louder.
“Every camera in the world is pointed at me, and I can’t afford to look less than perfect.”
I meet her gaze without flinching.
“I’ll make sure you’re flawless again.” I glance back at my instruments, keeping my hands steady, my voice professional.
“But perfection takes time. And you’ll need to be patient.”
“I’ve been patient. Too patient. I don’t have time for your slow process—I need this done now. I can’t have people thinking I’ve gone into hiding.”
I can feel the entitlement dripping from every word she says. I straighten, making sure she knows I’m not someone to rush.
“Surgery isn’t something you can rush, Ms. Dreyer. If you want perfection, you’ll need to let me do what I do best. But if you’re in that much of a hurry,”
I look straight into her eyes.
“I’m sure there’s someone else who can give you a nice band-aid.”
She scoffs, her mouth opening in a mix of indignation and disbelief.
“A band-aid? Are you kidding me? I came to the best—”
“And you’re getting the best,”
“But the best doesn’t rush for anyone. Not even you.”
Her eyes flicker with frustration, but I hold her gaze, unshaken. She sighs dramatically, throwing her head back against the chair.
“Fine. Just... do it quickly. I’ve got an event in two days, and I can’t have anyone seeing me like this.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, stepping toward the instruments.
“You’ll be camera-ready. But keep in mind, I decide when it’s done. Not your event schedule.”
Alexis says nothing, but I can feel her glaring at me as I prepare the tools.
She finally mutters, “You’d think for 20 billion credits, you could hurry it up a little.”
Without looking up, I allow myself a small, pointed reply.
“For 20 billion credits, you’re getting a face that even you won’t find a flaw in.”
It took about five minutes to fix her face.
The procedure itself was almost laughably simple, especially compared to the kind of work I normally do. The cut was shallow, the tissue damage was minimal. I worked with a precision laser scalpel, targeting the damaged skin at the microscopic level, stimulating the cells to regenerate and heal faster than any natural process could. The dermal nanobots I applied did the rest, weaving the skin back together seamlessly, erasing any trace of the scar that once marred her so-called perfect face.
In such an easy task, I watched the result on my Nimbus: 20 billion credits added to my account in real-time.
As I step back, Alexis grabs a small mirror and inspects her face with obsessive scrutiny. For a moment, the room is silent except for the faint hum of equipment. Then her expression lights up.
“Wow,” she says, her voice filled with awe. “I knew you were the best, but this—” She turns her head, studying every angle of her reflection.
“It’s perfect. No, better than perfect.” She looks up at me, all traces of her earlier frustration gone.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“Thank you, Doctor Valor. Seriously. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
I nod, slipping off my gloves and sanitizing my hands with practiced ease.
“Of course, it’s perfect. It’s my work.”
“You make it sound so easy, but I know this kind of thing takes skill. Real skill.”
I shrug slightly, allowing myself a faint smile.
“It does. But to be fair, this wasn’t exactly a challenge.”
She blinks, clearly not expecting the blunt response.
“Not a challenge?”
“No,” I say, keeping my voice measured but letting my ego slip through.
“This kind of procedure? Five minutes of work for me. The scar was minor; honestly, any decent surgeon could handle it. The difference is that I don’t leave a trace. When I fix something, it’s like it was never damaged to begin with. That’s why you came to me.”
Her eyes widened, reflecting the admiration I’d seen a thousand times.
“You’re right,” she says, almost breathless.
“I didn’t think anyone could make it look like this again.”
“I didn’t just fix it, Ms. Dreyer. I made it better than it was before.”
She smiles, almost reverently now.
“I guess that’s why you’re the number one doctor in the world.”
She nods, her eyes shining with admiration as she rises from the chair. She is no doubt already planning her next appearance, her next moment in the spotlight.
“Well, thank you for this, Doctor,” she says, rising from the chair, her eyes still lingering on her reflection in the mirror.
“I’ll come to you next time. I need the best.”
***
I’m now in my Aerocar, one of Milady Madelyn’s earliest inventions. It floats effortlessly above the city streets, suspended by near-silent repulsor technology, gliding smoothly through the air as though gravity itself were a mere suggestion. The design is sleek and minimalist, the polished obsidian surface reflecting the glow of the city below, curving in all the right places, giving the car a seamless, almost organic look.
The glass canopy wraps around the cockpit, giving me a panoramic view of Los Angeles beneath me. The engine hums so quietly that the only sound is the soft whisper of wind against the body. Inside, the black leather seats mold perfectly to my form, and the holo-panel is as intuitive as breathing.
Only the number ones can use this technology. It’s a privilege meant for the few. But unlike teleporting—cold and instantaneous—I sometimes prefer to take the long route. To glide above the city in my Aerocar, to feel the gentle passage of time, to see everything beneath me.
Los Angeles sprawls beneath me, a dystopian jungle of neon and steel, its skyline dominated by towering megastructures and digital chaos. This city isn’t just built on ambition and fame anymore; it’s a neon beast, alive and pulsing with the hum of electric dreams and corporate greed. Skyscrapers stretch like jagged teeth, their surfaces covered in luminous panels that flash ads and propaganda on a constant loop. Faces, products, and slogans scroll endlessly across the shimmering facades, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the streets below.
But as my gaze dips lower, the city changes. The streets below are a tangled mass of flickering lights and shadowed corners, where the neon glow can’t quite pierce through the layers of smoke and grime. Down there, in the belly of Los Angeles, is where the real city lives—a twisted maze of decaying architecture, tangled wires, and billowing steam rising from cracked asphalt. Crowded markets, shady alleys, and graffiti-splattered walls weave through the chaos like veins through a beast’s heart.
The ocean, once a symbol of California’s freedom, is barely visible now—swallowed by sprawling industrial docks and rusted platforms, a distant glint at the city’s polluted edge. What was once a horizon has been overtaken by factories belching smoke into the night sky, the water’s shimmer tainted by oil slicks and waste.
And above it all—me. Drifting through the night like a ghost, suspended in the glittering heights, far removed from the noise and desperation below. Up here, I’m untouchable.
I settle into the Aerocar’s luxurious interior, setting the destination for home. San Francisco isn’t far—30 minutes from here, though it would take five hours for anyone on the ground. I lean back, letting the smooth glide of the Aerocar carry me while the dashboard hums as it brews a fresh cup of coffee. Just as I bring the cup to my lips, the dashboard flashes, the soft ring of an incoming call cutting through the quiet.
I glance at the holo-screen: WHO Chief.
I tap the screen, and the face of Dr. Richard Ames, head of the World Health Organization, appears. There’s no small talk—there never is with him. His expression is serious, urgent.
“Dr. Valor,” Ames begins, his voice sharp. “We’ve got something big, and we need you. The project’s nearly complete, but it’s stuck—none of our top specialists can crack it.”
I stay silent, letting him continue. He’s desperate; I can see it in the lines on his face and the way his voice carries just a hint of tension.
“We’ve developed what could be a cure-all, a polypill. It’s designed to combine treatments for multiple diseases in one pill—diabetes, hypertension, viral infections, cardiovascular issues, even early-stage cancer. The science behind it is revolutionary, combining statins, ACE inhibitors, antiviral agents, and gene therapy compounds into one formula. The idea is that this single pill could manage—and even cure—multiple chronic diseases at once.”
He pauses, but I don’t react. I’ve heard pitches like this before—big promises, bigger failures.
“The problem is, we’re at the final stage, and the solution… well, it’s beyond what anyone’s been able to do,” Ames continues. “The pill needs a final delivery system—something that can safely cross the blood-brain barrier and simultaneously target multiple organ systems without triggering a catastrophic immune response. All of the top ten in their respective fields have already tried to solve it. And they’ve all failed. Miserably.”
I take a slow sip of my coffee, savoring the flavor as I process his words. Crossing the blood-brain barrier is one of the toughest challenges in medicine—few treatments can make it without causing serious complications. In addition, there is a need for a system that can target multiple organs at once, and it’s clear why everyone else has failed.
“Let me guess,” I say finally, setting my cup down. “You want me to do what none of them could.”
Ames nods, the faintest hope in his eyes. “We need you to finish this. If you can crack it, this pill could change everything—millions of lives saved. The global impact would be massive.”
I let the silence hang in the air for a moment, knowing he’s waiting for my response. He knows who I am. He knows what I care about.
Ames takes a deep breath. “We’re offering you 100 billion credits upfront. Plus full royalties on the pill’s global distribution.”
I raise an eyebrow. 100 billion credits. The number lingers in the air between us. It’s more than just a staggering figure—it’s enough to change everything.
If I take this deal, I won’t just be the best doctor in the world. I’ll be the richest person on Earth. Richer than Voss.
The thought flickers in my mind. Adrian Voss—the number one venture capitalist, the man who sits at the top of the global financial hierarchy. He’s ruled that space for years, untouchable. But with 100 billion credits…
I can take his place and finish my plan.
“Send me the full details,” I say finally, watching Ames’s face relax with relief. “I’ll take a look.”
He nods quickly. “You’ll have them within the hour.”
I end the call and set the cup back on the dash, letting my thoughts settle. The polypill might cure millions, maybe even change the face of medicine forever.
But for me? It’s my ticket to the top.
I don’t care about their diseases. I care about what they’ll pay me to cure them.
I arrive at what some might consider a “humble home,” though anyone with a hint of sense would call it what it is—an architectural marvel of sleek luxury. The mansion sits proudly on top of a hill, a minimalist fortress of steel and glass that reflects the city lights of San Francisco like a prism. Its lines are clean, sharp, and geometric, giving it an air of understated dominance. A sprawling garden of engineered greenery surrounds the entrance, every plant genetically optimized for low maintenance and perfect symmetry, blending nature and technology seamlessly.
The driveway is lined with a row of soft, automated lights that flicker to life as I approach. They guide the Aerocar to its charging bay, the sleek vehicle slotting itself into place with effortless precision. Its energy cells sync seamlessly with the charging points embedded in the ground. The whole process is smooth, like the mansion itself—a place where efficiency and elegance are one and the same.
Inside, the design is a masterclass in futuristic sophistication. Polished marble floors stretch out in every direction, their surfaces embedded with microfibers that adjust the color to match the time of day, shifting from a cool steel-gray in the evening to a warmer ivory during the day. The walls are lined with dynamic digital canvases that shift their displays based on the room’s mood—a blend of kinetic art and advanced algorithms creating a living gallery.
A massive living area unfolds before me, its centerpiece a floor-to-ceiling glass wall framing a breathtaking view of the cityscape below. Smart windows automatically tint themselves to filter out the glare from the sunset, casting the room in a soft, ambient glow. The furniture is the epitome of modern elegance—sleek, all clean lines and muted tones, designed not just for comfort but to make a statement about taste. Hidden panels in the ceiling diffuse light at angles that create the perfect ambiance, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a curated vision of the future.
But as I move deeper into the living room, I notice something out of place. The edge of the Eames lounge chair, usually angled just so, has been nudged slightly out of alignment. The minimalist coffee table, a fusion of carbon fiber and glass, is an inch off its usual position. I pause, my eyes narrowing. Most wouldn’t notice, but I know my space and every detail is precisely where it should be. Perhaps the cleaning robots were a bit too thorough today, or maybe they malfunctioned. I make a mental note to run a diagnostic later.
As I take in the room, I’m greeted by the polished, crisp voice of my AI assistant, Elys. Her tone is warm but professional, a blend of human-like inflections designed to be as seamless as the home itself.
“Welcome home, Dr. Valor,” she says, her tone warm but professional. “Would you like me to warm up the shower and prepare your dinner?”
This AI isn’t like the basic ones you find in lower society homes. This is a top-tier assistant reserved for the top one percent. Her name is Elys, short for Elysium, and she’s far more than just a voice. She manages everything. Temperature control, security systems, personalized lighting, media, and even more mundane things like cooking meals and preparing my clothes for the next day.
She’s always a step ahead.
“Shower at 38 degrees, and I’ll take dinner in an hour,” I say, moving through the living room.
“Understood, Doctor. The shower will be ready in five minutes. I’ve also prepared a prime cut of wagyu steak, seasoned and ready for you. Shall I pair it with the usual wine selection?”
“Make it something stronger,” I reply as I head toward my office.
The lights in the hallway adjust to my presence as I walk. Doors slide open automatically, and as I pass by, I can feel the air temperature adjusting slightly, ensuring I’m perfectly comfortable no matter where I stand.
Elys speaks up again as I approach my study. “I’ve also updated your financial accounts. Your balance is steadily increasing from recent procedures, and I’ve projected that with the polypill project, you’ll surpass the net worth of Adrian Voss within months.”
A faint smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Good. Keep an eye on it.”
My office is a fortress of productivity. The holo-desk glows softly, waiting for me to review the polypill project data that WHO will send soon. The AI assistant controls everything, and I hardly have to lift a finger. I sit in the ergonomic chair that adjusts itself perfectly to my posture, and as I lean back, the desk screen comes to life with charts, projections, and updates.
Directly behind my chair is a massive, custom-designed wardrobe—an imposing piece that seems out of place in a modern office but serves its purpose. Its polished oak doors gleam under the soft lighting, hiding within it a collection of tailored suits and jackets, each meticulously arranged according to color, style, and occasion. The top shelf holds an array of precision tools disguised as cufflinks, tie pins, and other accessories—hidden gadgets for the rare occasions when a different kind of finesse is required.
The walls of my office are adorned with a series of meticulously mounted taxidermies—a nod to the creatures I have conquered, both metaphorically and literally. A black panther, its eyes fierce and unyielding, is positioned to the left of the room, a silent guardian watching over my every move. On the opposite wall, an eagle with wings outstretched mid-flight, its beak open in a triumphant cry, seems ready to launch itself from its perch. And beside my holo-desk, a silver fox stands alert, its cunning eyes almost too lifelike, as if plotting its next move. Each of these creatures is a testament to precision, strategy, and control—the very principles that guide my life.
All the while, Elys continues to work in the background. The shower hums to life, reaching the perfect temperature. In the kitchen, automated systems begin preparing my meal with precision that would rival the finest chefs.
This home—it’s more than just a place to live. It’s an extension of my power. Every inch of it is designed to make my life more efficient, more seamless. A place where I don’t have to think about the mundane.
Because my time is too valuable for that.
I sit in front of the desk screen for a while, skimming through my investment portfolios and emails, though there’s no real urgency. I don’t miss things. Everything’s been handled, as usual, perfectly. Still, it’s always good to stay ahead. I glance over stock movements, noting an encouraging rise in one of my biotech ventures, and dismiss a few unimportant messages with a flick of my hand.
As I go through the clutter of corporate memos and routine updates, I pause on a notification from my personal assistant—a two-week notice of resignation. She’s stepping down—moving on to something else or perhaps just needing a break. I scan the details quickly, noting the polite but final tone of the message.
I don’t feel much about it, really. It’s nothing I can’t fix. Assistants come and go—competent ones aren’t exactly rare when you’re at the top. I’ll find another one in no time, someone just as efficient, someone who understands that I require excellence.
Satisfied, I push back from the desk, the chair adjusting automatically to my movement. It’s time for that shower.
Like the rest of the house, the bathroom is a masterpiece of modern design. The shower walls are made of dark stone, and embedded tech monitors and adjusts water temperature in real time. Steam rises from the glass enclosure as I step inside, and the hot water hits my skin in a perfect cascade.
As the warmth sinks in, Elys’ voice hums through the shower’s speakers.
“Dr. Valor, regarding the polypill, I’ve been cross-referencing available data on advanced delivery systems that could potentially cross the blood-brain barrier while targeting multiple organ systems simultaneously.”
I close my eyes, letting the heat relax me, though my mind stays sharp.
“And?”
“I’ve accessed the latest medical research papers from all major databases,” Elys continues. “There’s some promising work involving lipid nanoparticles as carriers, along with advancements in CRISPR-based gene-editing technology. However, based on current data, none of the available methods provide the level of precision required for a broad-spectrum polypill.”
I let her go on for a moment, though I already know where she’s heading. CRISPR and lipid nanoparticles—standard fare. But this problem needs something beyond the ordinary.
“Lipid nanoparticles won’t work,” I say, the water pounding against my back.
“They’ll trigger an immune response too easily in some patients. The delivery system needs to be smaller and more efficient. Something that can slip through unnoticed.”
Elys pauses, no doubt searching her databases for something better.
“There’s research into quantum dots—tiny enough to bypass most biological defenses and penetrate the blood-brain barrier. But the studies are still preliminary. No human trials yet.”
“Of course not. Because no one wants to take that risk. But I will.”
“Are you suggesting utilizing quantum dots for the polypill’s delivery system, Doctor?” Elys asks.
“I’m more than suggesting it,” I reply, reaching for the soap.
“It’s the solution. Small enough to evade the immune system, programmable to target multiple areas of the body, and versatile enough to carry the necessary compounds. It’s risky, but with the right application… it’ll work.”
Elys processes for a moment.
“Quantum dots have shown promising results in animal models. Scaling this for human trials would be a significant leap. It would bypass the final barrier that has been preventing the pill’s global rollout.”
I nod, rinsing the soap off as the water temperature shifts a degree cooler, exactly how I like it.
“It’s the only way forward. I’ll outline the plan for WHO when the time comes.”
“I’ll prepare the necessary documents and simulations based on the quantum dot model. Would you like me to contact your team to begin sourcing the materials?”
“Not yet,” I say, stepping out of the shower and into the perfectly warm air.
“Let them wait for me to present the solution. I want them to see exactly why they couldn’t do it without me.”
“As you wish, Doctor.”
On a sleek, automated valet stand beside the shower, a fresh set of silk pajamas is already laid out, waiting for me. The deep navy fabric glistens under the subtle lighting, every crease perfectly pressed, the material cool to the touch. It’s as if they’ve just been tailored moments ago, prepared by unseen hands anticipating my every need.
I slip into the pajamas, the silk sliding effortlessly over my skin. The sensation is luxurious and familiar, the kind of comfort only possible when every detail is meticulously planned. Everything in this house operates with the same seamless efficiency—my life, choreographed to perfection.
I sit back down at my holo-desk, the soft glow of the screen reflecting on the surface. In front of me, a perfectly cooked wagyu steak, its marbled fat glistening under the warm lights. The aroma alone is enough to make most people pause, but for me, it’s routine. Elys, of course, prepared it with precision. Next to the plate sits a glass of Château Margaux, an obscenely expensive vintage. I take a sip, savoring the rich, earthy flavors, then turn my attention to the data packet Ames promised me.
It’s already here.
I swipe a hand over the holo-desk, and the information bursts into life in front of me, a cascade of text, charts, and clinical reports. The polypill—the supposed medical breakthrough that will change everything.
I scan through the details. The pill’s development is already far along. Each layer of the polypill is meticulously designed to target specific systems in the body, each drug released in a controlled sequence.
Core Composition: The pill contains statins, ACE inhibitors, antiviral agents, antiparasitics, and anti-inflammatory compounds. It’s engineered to handle the most common chronic conditions—diabetes, hypertension, cardiovascular disease, and viral infections—all in one shot. It can even target early-stage cancers by inhibiting abnormal cell growth.
Delivery System: As I suspected, the current delivery mechanism isn’t enough. It struggles with crossing the blood-brain barrier and can’t efficiently reach multiple organ systems at once without triggering immune responses.
Potential Impact: The reports show projections of what could happen if the polypill works. A universal treatment for many of the world’s most pressing diseases, dramatically reducing healthcare costs and increasing life expectancy across the globe. Tens of millions of people with chronic conditions could switch from complex, multi-drug regimens to a single pill.
The implications are staggering. Millions of lives saved. Diseases that have plagued humanity for centuries, eradicated in a matter of years. The polypill would be revolutionary—if it works.
Elys speaks as I scroll through the data. “The scope of this project is remarkable, Doctor. According to WHO’s models, the polypill could increase global life expectancy by at least ten years, reducing mortality rates for common diseases by over 50%. Its impact on healthcare systems would be enormous.”
I nod, glancing at the figures. “It would simplify everything. One pill for everything—the ultimate medical shortcut.”
“Its application in regions with underdeveloped healthcare infrastructure would be particularly significant. Populations that currently lack access to consistent medical care would benefit the most, assuming distribution is equitable.”
“Assuming,” I smirk. “That’s never how it works, though, is it? Even if WHO wants to distribute this globally, the top countries will hoard the supply. They always do.”
“A valid observation, Doctor. Wealthier nations would likely prioritize their populations first, leading to global discrepancies in access. However, the potential to eliminate some of the deadliest conditions is still unprecedented.”
I take another sip of wine, mulling over the thought.
“Unprecedented, yes. But let’s be honest, Elys. The true breakthrough isn’t just curing diseases—it’s who controls the cure.”
“Control of the polypill would undoubtedly confer significant influence, Doctor. Whoever oversees its distribution would wield considerable economic and political power.”
“Exactly. And WHO knows that. That’s why they need me to get this across the finish line. They know I don’t fail. And when I succeed, I’ll be the one holding the keys to it all.”
“Indeed. The success of this project could shift the balance of power in both medicine and global economics.”
I take a bite of the steak, savoring the taste as I review the final challenge—the quantum dot delivery system I’d already outlined in the shower. It’s the missing piece. Once implemented, the polypill will have the precision needed to safely bypass all obstacles, targeting the brain, heart, liver, and lungs in one go.
“This pill could save the world,” I say, half to myself.
“And make you wealthier than anyone on it,” Elys adds, her voice smooth as ever.
But then, a soft bell chimes through the house—a sound that isn’t connected to any of my usual notifications or alarms. I freeze for a moment, my eyes narrowing. No warning from Elys, no alert from the security system. Odd.
Without me having to ask, a live-camera feed from the front entrance flickers onto my holo-desk. The display shows the front door of my mansion, wide-angle and crystal clear. But there’s nothing there. No visitor, no delivery. Just an empty frame.
“Strange,” I mutter, my fingers tapping lightly on the desk.
“Doctor, you have no scheduled appointments today,” Elys chimes in, her tone carrying a trace of confusion that seems almost human. “And according to my security protocols, there have been no breaches or unauthorized entries. The entire perimeter is marked as cleared. You are safe.”
I glance at the screen, then back at the taxidermied eyes of the eagle across the room, its gaze somehow feeling more watchful than ever. “Safe, you say,” I echo, more to myself than to her. It’s unsettling—Elys is rarely, if ever, mistaken about anything.
My home is more than just a fortress; it’s practically a military installation. Outside these walls, a small army of security personnel patrols the grounds, armed with the latest in surveillance tech and weaponry. Each one is trained to handle any threat imaginable, and the house itself is rigged with sensors that could detect the slightest anomaly—a twitch, a breath, a whisper of movement.
Any gangster, mercenary, or would-be assassin would find breaching this place more difficult than breaking into a nuclear silo. I’ve seen my fair share of attempts thwarted by this system. Each failure etched deeper into my confidence that nothing gets through here without me knowing about it first.
And yet, there’s this nagging sensation at the back of my mind, a subtle alarm that no amount of technology can silence. A sense that something’s off, something just beyond the reach of logic. For all the assurances of safety, for all the layers of protection, a doubt lingers like a shadow that won’t fade. Something doesn’t feel right.
My jaw clenches, and for a split second, I’m on the verge of barking an order to Elys. But I catch myself. If there’s even the slightest chance that the intruder has already slipped past my defenses, I can’t afford to let them know my next move.
I glance at the taxidermied black panther staring down at me with unblinking eyes, forcing my tone to steady itself. Calm. Controlled. I lean over my holo-desk, fingers moving swiftly over the glowing interface, typing commands instead of voicing them. I instruct my entire house system to switch into silent recording mode—cameras, audio, motion sensors, the works. Every single inch of this place will document whatever happens next.
“Record all activities,” I type, each keystroke deliberate. “Lock down escape routes, notify security.”
My fingers dance across the screen again, sending a silent ping to the guards patrolling the perimeter. A message flashes back: Confirmed. Security en route. ETA: Two minutes.
Two minutes. In that time, I’ll know if this shadow lurking in my home is a mere nuisance or something more dangerous. Something that’s slipped through my meticulously designed defenses like a ghost. I need to play this right; there should be no sudden movements or hasty actions that might tip off whoever’s already inside.
Because if they’re already here, then they’re listening. Watching. And I need to be one step ahead.
I turn slowly toward the large wardrobe behind my desk, the one where I keep all my gadgets and tools—my insurance against situations exactly like this. My fingers twitch slightly, betraying the urgency I’m fighting to suppress. I take a breath, steadying myself, and move quickly but quietly in front of the wardrobe.
With a precise motion, I pull open the doors, expecting the familiar sight of my hidden arsenal, the cold gleam of my carefully curated instruments of defense. But the air seems to freeze in my lungs when I see what’s actually there.
Instead of my rack of gadgets, a figure stands in the shadows, dressed in all black. His posture is calm, unnervingly still. A balaclava covers his face, leaving only his eyes visible—dark, unblinking, and fixed on me with a deadly focus.
And in his gloved hand, he holds a gun, pointed unwaveringly at my chest. The muzzle of the weapon feels like a black hole, sucking the air out of the room, reducing everything I thought I controlled into nothing.
All the high-tech defenses, cutting-edge security, and gadgets I rely on are useless. My sanctuary, my fortress, now a cage with this intruder standing at its heart.
The shot rings out before I can process the threat, a deafening bang reverberating through the quiet hallway. The impact slams into my chest, and the world explodes in pain. My body jerks backward, hitting the floor hard. A searing agony radiates from my chest, sharp and relentless, sending shockwaves through my system.
I’ve been shot.
The entry wound is high on my left side—just below the clavicle, dangerously close to the subclavian artery. If that artery’s been nicked, I’ve got maybe ninety seconds before I bleed out completely. My breath is already ragged, and I can feel my lung struggling to expand. Hemopneumothorax, no doubt. Air and blood rapidly fill my pleural cavity, compressing the lung itself. I can already feel the pressure suffocating me, each breath like trying to inhale through shattered glass.
Tachycardia—my heart’s hammering, trying to keep up, trying to compensate for the sudden drop in blood pressure. My skin’s going cold, clammy—a classic sign of shock. The adrenaline is kicking in, but it’s only buying me a little time—a few minutes, at best. I need to stabilize, stop the bleeding, or I’m done for.
My mind races through the possibilities. Pressure on the wound won’t be enough if that artery’s compromised. I need a thoracotomy to relieve the pressure and a way to clamp that vessel. Not exactly a procedure I can perform lying here on my own blood. The ETA for my security team is under sixty seconds—too long if I don’t take immediate action.
And why the hell is Elys quiet? She should be flooding this room with emergency alerts, initiating defensive protocols, contacting backup. Her silence is a glaring anomaly, a betrayal from the one system I built to protect against exactly this.
Someone’s tampered with her. Cut me off from my own fortress. Whoever orchestrated this knew exactly how to neutralize my defenses. They’ve stripped me of every advantage, leaving me bleeding out on the cold floor of my sanctuary.
But I’m not done yet. Not if I can help it.
I force air into my lungs, each breath a battle, my vision blurring at the edges. Through gritted teeth, I manage to spit out a question. Not because I need to know who he is, but because I need to buy time—seconds, milliseconds even—for my security to reach me.
“Who are you?” I rasp, my voice barely more than a whisper, tinged with pain and desperation.
“Your consequences,” comes the reply, the words twisted into something monstrous by a low, guttural growl. A voice distorted beyond recognition, almost mechanical—a voice changer, perhaps. Cold, unfeeling, inhuman.
My heart races faster as the barrel of the gun shifts, the muzzle aimed squarely at my head now. In the distance, I hear the pounding on the door—my security team is finally here—my lifeline, just a few feet away, separated by walls and seconds.
But those seconds stretch into an eternity as the intruder’s finger tightens on the trigger. A deafening crack fills the air, a thunderous roar that drowns out everything else. The last thing I feel is the shockwave of impact before the world goes black.
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To be continued...