Adam White wanted to think about nothing, and yet, he thought about everything.

He wanted to be drunk, empty. He wanted to ignore what was happening to him, to think that it was only a dream, a nightmare that would vanish with a magical awakening. He wanted to sedate himself with the strongest ferments that nature offered to cross the borders of consciousness; right as the old shamans had done in the past; just like some did in the nightclubs he frequented in the present.

He looked in the mirror and couldn’t believe the nightmare he was living. But there was the hole in the ceiling and his pants burned; strong evidence that his imagination and the insanity he feared he was suffering from were excluded from his reality.

Because the bags under his eyes didn’t lie; neither the paleness of his face, nor the empty blisters of sedatives in the garbage can, or the unanswered messages that a couple of close lady friends had left on the phone, concerned about his health after learning of his admission to the hospital. If only they knew that it had been nothing compared to what he was now experiencing!

His memory had become a puzzle of a thousand pieces, all scrambled, starting with things as silly as not remembering if he had shaved or not, and continuing with things like doubting if he was really Adam, or if he was really Juzo thinking that he was Adam.

“Now you and I are one entity,” his brother had told him, using his own mouth.

Adam deduced that he had become Juzo—or vice versa; by this point, he didn’t really care who was who—while he had been in that impossible coma Sarah had told him about, sometime between the confrontation with the android and the mercenaries in the park and his return to life in the hospital.

He looked at the small scar next to his heart, a mark that, as the days passed, seemed more to have been made with a small red-hot iron, like a burn, than with the puncture of a needle. Had Juzo’s Binary Proteins entered through there? That must be the explanation for the terrible headaches he suffered.

‘Trust me, those proteins are in our blood. Mine is type R and works like a reactor. Yours is type C,’ Juzo had said that Friday. ‘So, what? Mine would be some kind of catalyst or something?’ he had replied.

The excess static energy—that had forced him to change the loft fuses twice already and activate the switches using wooden rods—was that the end result of the Project, proof that he was now a catalyst for his brother’s proteins?

Creating little white dwarfs with his hands and walking on air. Did that make him the human weapon those bastard scientists were looking to create? It would have been fun to pay them a visit and slam one of those white fireballs into their faces.

Although, on second thought, before doing so, he would have asked them a few questions, like how much longer did he have to live? Was he going to end up reduced to fire and ashes, as the other twins had been during the early stages of the experiment?

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For the time being, his own Photias, those little white suns, were born when he gave the order; of course, one of them could escape his control and gobble him up; although, on the other hand, he had checked the fire he created did not affect him; not directly, at least. The scenario would be different if he, by mistake, dropped one of those bombs on the parquet floor or on his bed. These spheres of his functioned like the true Photias, then? Were they explosive grenades or were they meant to spread like wildfire? Surviving and keeping his home safe meant not pushing his luck; it was better not to use his energy to avoid problems.

One afternoon, tormented by so many unanswered questions, he took the car keys, ready to go out for a drive to clear his head. Suddenly, the image of him at the wheel and his electric flames escaping uncontrollably from his hands and then spreading throughout the car’s cabin assaulted his mind. No. He left the keys and walked out. Walking was his favorite routine to exorcise the demons from him, and now, more than ever, he needed to implement it. He just had to stay away from any electrical sources, just in case. Elevators were out; stairs were the safest option.

After walking several blocks, he realized his feet had gone on autopilot and had led him to the doors of Homam Enterprises. Actually, he would have wanted to go to a park, or to the neighborhood nature reserve, but his unconscious was wise. He needed to take care of something despite his state, and perhaps returning to his duties could help him clear his head.

Looking up to the top of the building, where the late afternoon sun painted the mirrored windows a beautiful orange, he took a deep breath, looked ahead, and opened the glass doors. He entered the nearly deserted lobby; everyone had gone home by that time, so only the security guard and a few late-departing employees saw him enter without his usual ‘make way for the ruler of the world’ attitude. A pale imitation of what he had been a few days ago.

“Good afternoon, Mr. White.” That damn synthesized voice.

Skin standing on end and terror sinking his heart, he turned to find a huge red eye gleaming at his side. How had the android gotten so close to him without him hearing it coming? Was his mind so miles away that he hadn’t noticed it?

“It is good to see you in good condition again,” said the Cyclops. “I wish you a speedy recovery.”

It’s not Broga. Broga is an A60, and this is a freaking D02, just look at the shape of his freaking eye, he had to remind himself and, as if to make sure, he looked at the blue jumpsuit the android was wearing, and the metal plate on his chest that identified him as 9772.Tim. He was one of the company’s automatons; Adam himself had bought and named it a year ago.

“Thanks, Tim,” he replied, trying to calm down, and in a hurry, he moved away from the android.

Seeking to avoid turning Tim into a source of sparks, he tried to escape the automaton and, acting on impulse, ducked into an elevator. As the doors closed, he realized what he had just done and held his breath. He was locked in a cubicle driven by electronic systems; an accidental spark there could...

If I stay calm, still, there will be no accidents, he told himself.

“Good morning, Mr. White,” greeted the elevator board computer thanks to its facial recognition system.

“Seventieth floor,” he announced. He wasn’t going to touch any button on the board, he was determined.

The elevator went up to floors Two, Three, Four... But Adam became anxious, imagined an explosion in the equipment’s fuses, and his heartbeat fastened.

“Computer,” he said. “Please stop at the next floor.”

“Floor Five. End of the ride,” the machine said and opened the doors. “So long, Mr. White.”

Adam jumped out of the elevator and climbed the remaining sixty-five floors to his office via the stairwell. That little journey took him about half an hour when, had he been in better physical condition, he would have done it in a matter of minutes.