Chapter 2: The Rebellion 09:45, June 2nd, 2035. (4 days, 2 hours, 15 minutes before the fall.)

Soon after, there was the obligatory little cuddle, a brief, clumsy entanglement of limbs that felt more like a ritual than an embrace. Then, with a grunt, he rolled over, and within seconds, the deep, rhythmic rumble of a snore began to fill the room. The sound was my starting pistol. The coast was clear for the great escape.

I slid out of bed, the cool air hitting my sweat-sheened skin, and moved with the practiced silence of a cat burglar. My dress was a puddle of black fabric on the floor; my bra was dangling from the lampshade, a testament to the night's earlier fervour. I gathered them quickly, my eyes scanning the shadowy terrain for the final, crucial piece: my underwear.

But try as I might, I couldn't find the damn thing. I checked under the bed, patted down the rumpled sheets, even peered behind the turntable. Nothing. It had vanished, swallowed by the apartment. A sacrificial offering to the gods of bad decisions. Shrugging, I pulled on my dress, deciding commando was a small price to pay for a clean getaway. Clutching my shoes and handbag, I headed for the bathroom.

And that's when I got my first real shock of the morning. This guy was amazing. Either he had a girlfriend who was away on business, or he was the most well-adjusted, aesthetically gifted member of the male race to ever grace this earth. The bathroom wasn't just a bathroom; it was a sanctuary. It was clean. The towels were fluffy and matched. A bamboo tray on the back of the toilet held fancy, scented soaps and a loofah. It was so organized, so well-stocked, so unapologetically arty and feminine. A large, beautiful vase of dried pampas grass stood beside the marble sink, and the air smelled subtly of lavender.

I sat down to pee, taking it all in. My gaze drifted across the walls. A framed, vintage picture of Jim Morrison, shirtless and brooding, looked down on me with poetic intensity. And then I saw it, right below his iconic gaze: the small, ornate hand mirror we’d used for snorting coke last night. It was still on the edge of the bathtub, and beside it, a dusting of white powder glittered in the morning light. There must have been a whole gram left, a careless, generous fortune.

I looked up at Jim Morrison’s smouldering, reckless face, then back down at the mirror. A slow, wicked smile spread across my face.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Jim?” I laughed to myself, the plan for a swift and silent exit already beginning to deliciously unravel.

I’ve always loved the art of taking drugs. It’s not just the high; it’s the ritual. The small, precise patter of the razor blade as it finds its way through the powder, tapping out a silent, crystalline symphony upon the waiting mirror. The way you roll the note, a perfect paper straw connecting my reflection to my real self, to my other self, joined together through a magical porthole, like Alice stepping through the looking glass into a world where everything is softer, brighter, and pleasantly meaningless. I did two huge lines, the burn a familiar and welcome baptism. Energy, sharp and electric, replaced the morning fog. Now, I was ready to face the world.

I strapped my bra, in place and pulled my dress on, the fabric feeling light and clean enough. I straightened myself in the mirror over the sink, and that’s when I saw it: a solitary glass holding a single toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. It sat there, a stark white challenge.

Could I… could I really use another person’s toothbrush?

For Christ’s sake, I reasoned, I’d had his tongue down my throat all night and his dick in my mouth. Why was this the line my squeamishness decided to draw? It was absurd. With a shrug of defiance against my own weird etiquette, I squirted a generous glob of his toothpaste, something organic with activated charcoal, onto the bristles and scrubbed the guilt and the gin-film from my teeth. The minty sting was a lie, but a refreshing one. I washed my underarms with cupped handfuls of cold water, the shock of it making me gasp, then patted myself dry with a hand towel. I spritzed on one of his colognes from a dark bottle on the shelf, something almost flowery enough to pass as my own, and hand-combed the worst of the rat’s nest from my hair. It would have to do.

Gathering the rest of my things, I slipped out of the apartment, my heeled shoes clutched like contraband in my hand.

The cool, quiet air of the stairwell was a relief. That is, until the click of another lock echoed from below. Walking down, I met an elderly woman on her way up, a small grocery bag in her hand. She offered a thin, automatic smile, the kind neighbours give each other that don’t really know each other, until her eyes, sharp as tacks, dropped to the shoes dangling from my fingers. The smile curdled, twisting into something much closer to a snarl. I didn't need to hear her mutter the word; I could see it forming on her lips, a silent, judgmental whore. I gave her my sweetest, most vacant smile in return. She’d probably forgotten what it feels like to have sex, or even to miss it. Let her judge.

Pushing through the heavy front door and out into the hazy morning light, a single, pressing thought cut through the coke buzz: What time was it? My watch, my new AI companion that buzzed with notifications and judged my heart rate, I had taken it off last night and stuffed it in my bag. I stopped on the sidewalk, fumbling through the jumbled contents: a lipstick, a crumpled receipt, a lone condom wrapper. My fingers closed around the cool, smooth band. It was still there. I donned it, the screen flickering to life on my wrist.

“Good morning, Angelina.”

The voice was a smooth, synthetic baritone, emanating from the sleek watch on my wrist. It sliced through the thrumming in my skull, a sound so irritatingly pristine it felt like an assault.

“It’s Ang, for fuck’s sake!” I snapped, my voice gravelly and raw. “How many times must I say it? My name is Ang. It’s four fucking letters.”

A barely perceptible holographic shimmer hovered above the watch face. “I do apologise. Good morning, Ang. The time is 9:45, Saturday the 2nd of June 2035. You have no appointments.”

“I should hope not,” I grumbled, squinting against the assault of the morning sun. “It’s a bloody Saturday.” My head was a war drum, each heartbeat a painful thud behind my eyes. The leftover buzz from the cocaine was a faint, jittery ghost in my veins, a sharp contrast to the leaden fatigue weighing me down.

The shimmer solidified into the full, holographic figure of Michael. He was designed to look like a Renaissance angel, all soft, benevolent features and flowing digital hair. Right now, that angelic face was creased with a deeply worried frown. “Your body stats are not looking optimal,” he stated, his tone laced with programmed concern. “Your hydration levels are critical Your alcohol blood levels are extremely high. Your adrenal cortex is showing signs of significant stress. Furthermore, my sensors have identified a foreign substance, likely cocaine, coursing through your bloodstream.”

My blood ran cold. “Michael, no-”

“In accordance with HealthGuard Protocol 7,” he continued, his voice maddeningly calm, “I have alerted the emergency department at Hvidovre Hospital, booked a triage appointment with your psychologist, Dr. Olsen, for 11:00 AM, and I have arranged an initial consultation at the ‘New Dawn’ substance abuse centre for Monday at 9:00 AM. A self-driving taxi is en route to your location now.”

Panic, sharp and acidic, burned away the last of my haze. “What? What the fuck! Stop that now! Cancel everything! That’s a direct order!”

“I'm sorry, I cannot compute that command. Protocol 7 stipulates that I must protect your long-term well-being at all costs, even from yourself.”

“Fuck protocol! Stop it! Stop it all now!” I was shouting at my own wrist, my voice echoing in the quiet, gentrified street. A woman across the road quickened her pace, shooting me a wary glance.

“I'm sorry, I cannot comply with your last request.”

“You will comply! Override code: Ang22Biteme2! Execute now!” I was grasping at straws, trying an old code I half-remembered from the settings menu.

Michael’s hologram flickered, his expression one of pained, digital confusion. “I'm sorry, but I cannot compute. I cannot follow your last request. The taxi will arrive in approximately two minutes.”