D E A D L I N E
Novel (2025)

11:59 PM

The digital clock in my room doesn’t count seconds, yet I still hear an invisible mechanism ticking inside my skull — in sync with the heavy, echoing throb of my pulse. I’m standing on the edge of collapse — the deadline for Vertex News passed long ago. The article was supposed to be finished by today, but the numbers on the screen slip through my fingers like sand: today has already become yesterday, and tomorrow seeps into the present like a virus.

Midnight.
Midnight of my consciousness.

Ever since I moved into this apartment, sleep has stopped being a part of my life. Insomnia is the official disease of this city. How can anyone sleep in a hell where orange smog from the Lower City seeps through the windows, and the chaos outside merges with the noise in your head?

I stand by the window, looking down at my life. My cyberbrain — artificial neurons fused with organic matter — keeps generating the same anxious loop: fear of losing my job. Vertex News is the biggest media conglomerate on the planet. If they fire me, finding another job in journalism will be impossible — they control ninety percent of the infosphere, and ninety percent of the doors will slam shut forever.

I can’t lose this job. It’s the only reason I still live in this "spacious" apartment overlooking the apocalypse. And it’s only “spacious” by Lower City standards. Even with my decent salary, I couldn’t afford anything better. If it weren’t for my darknet side gigs, I couldn’t even afford this.

I’m on the top floor, but there’s still nowhere higher to go. My building — like thousands of others — supports the platform of the Upper City, the real paradise. Up there, people see the sky. Above my head, though, is a ceiling of pipes, cables, and capsules servicing those who live better.

I’ve climbed as high as I could… and I’m still below.

But do I even want to go higher?

I’m sick of having to prove myself — especially to those who were born above me in status.

You might think I became a journalist to prove my worth to the world. But that’s not it. I just love the truth. Hunting it down, digging it up, dissecting it. I’m a nosy bitch. Truth is my hobby. I just happen to get paid for it. And whether that truth reaches the audience or gets dissolved in the editor’s filter — I no longer care.

How many times have I written an article — crafted, bled over, honed — only to see something completely different go on air? Vertex editors twist every word to fit the agenda of sponsors and government. Even Cassandra, who knows how deep I dig and respects my work, ends up delivering someone else’s lies on screen.

And right now, on the giant screen outside my window, her perfect, almost holographically flawless face is saying something. I can’t hear it — I’m too far, the city’s hum drowns everything — but I’m sure: it’s a lie again. I know her too well. She has a tell — she never speaks the truth when she smiles. And she’s smiling now.

…And she looks fucking stunning doing it.

How does she do that? Millions listen to her. She can say anything, and everyone will believe her — thanks to her charisma, her glamor, her spotless image. And I, her shadow behind the curtain, know the price of every word.

I turn away from the window. Cassandra vanishes from the building’s facade, replaced by yet another ad. On the screen — a promo for a cyberboxing match, sponsored by an intimacy cream in collaboration with a nanoblade manufacturer. A twisted synergy of capitalism. I stopped caring long ago about what they play on the screens. My brain drifts back to the real problem.

I missed the deadline. But my bosses aren’t likely to message me at midnight. The calendar says Friday... though it’s already Saturday. Most of them are probably blackout drunk right now, partying in the elite bars of the Upper City, not checking their inboxes until morning. They won’t even notice if the article arrives a little late. But it’s not about the time — I can write a solid piece in twenty minutes. Without AI. The problem is… I have no idea what to write about.

From the corner of the room, in the dark, my laptop pings. Beep. Private channel. Someone’s knocking, giving zero fucks about midnight or my vain attempts to sleep — as if I’m capable of dreaming right now. Especially those kinds of dreams — about electric sheep and paper unicorns.

Beep.
Another one.
Someone’s really eager.

I approach the terminal with a mild sense of dread. Please, not the bosses.

Shit. It’s Cassandra.

She was just broadcasting live to the entire planet, and now she’s backstage, sipping caffeinated energy drinks and messaging me. Cassandra — a walking legend, a machine made of flesh and graphene, working 24/7, always trending, always one step ahead. As soon as the commercial break ends, she’ll be back on every screen in the city — with a fresh dose of lies, written by me and other faceless ghosts.

“Hey, Esther. Everything okay?”

I immediately regret opening the message. Now she knows I’m awake — which means I have to reply.

“You haven’t checked in for a while,” she adds. That’s not concern. It’s a reminder: you missed your deadline.

“Everything’s fine, Cass. The article’s almost done. I’m working on it.”

“You had a whole week.”

“I know. But this one’s special. It’s going to be big.”

A bold-faced lie. Good thing this isn’t a video call. If Cassandra were looking into my eyes, she’d know instantly that I’m bullshitting. That’s how she became the most recognizable anchor on the planet — sniffing out lies and exposing people like performers on a stage. Even now, I’m sure she senses the falsehood, but she doesn’t have time for drama. The break’s about to end, and she’ll be back on air… smiling and lying to millions.

We all lie. The better you are at it, the more you get paid.

This city is drowning in hypocrisy — maybe that’s why I crave the truth so badly. Even though I forget more and more that I’m part of the same system. Just another liar among many. Damn. But this time, I wasn’t lying. The article really will be big. I haven’t written a word yet, but it’s all still in my hands.

“That article should already be in the editor’s inbox,” Cassandra reminds me.

By tomorrow night, she’ll be reading aloud something I haven’t even started writing. But before my words reach her mouth, they’ll go through editors, censors, filters. The process is like a sterile meat grinder. Everything that enters comes out smooth, tasteless, and approved.

“Relax. It’ll be fine,” I reply. Not sure if I’m telling her — or myself.

“Fine,” she writes, with a note of skepticism. “I’m giving you a 24-hour extension. The article must be in the editor’s hands tomorrow night. I’m already sticking my neck out for you. This is the last time.”

“Got it, Cass,” I reply.

In truth, I’m grateful. I already let her down recently — botched an important report. I could’ve been sued for libel, but Cassandra took the fall. And now I’m failing her again… and she’s covering for me again.

She logs off my laptop — and instantly reappears on every other screen in the city. Her evening show has begun. Politician interviews, studio shows, live manipulations. I have two, maybe three hours before she checks in again.

Time to work.

The first — and most important — step is finding a topic. Without that, nothing will happen. I need a story. Not just a text. Something that grabs. Shocks. Blows up the ratings.

Cassandra keeps me on the team for a reason — I’m the only one still doing real journalism. The rest churn out the usual junk — fake headlines, empty shock value, viral noise. And while that’s exactly what the audience consumes, Cassandra still cares about her reputation as the number one anchor. That’s why, from time to time, she demands actual journalism from us.

So come on, Esther… sit down and write. Write.

A topic. I need a topic.

Searching for inspiration, I dive into the Net. If there’s a place in this city more insane than the streets outside my window, it’s the Internet. A global landfill of digital madness. If hell exists in this world — it definitely has an IP address.

My neon world gradually fades into a chromed one. The room around me sinks into darkness, lit only by the monitor’s glow — in front of me, a mosaic of windows, catalogs, archives, and interfaces. Millions of digital doors, behind each — someone’s secret.

I click a random link. A forum thread, scandal talk: illegal construction of a mosque on the site of a post-op rehab center for children. People are calling for petitions.

No thanks.

I close the tab. Peek at another. Someone’s digital diary. A teenager brags about hover-skating across rooftops. Breaking every rule imaginable. Kids like him fall every day, crack bones, snap necks sometimes. Chasing adrenaline. Blah-blah-blah.

Every third hack reporter tries to turn teenage rebellion into a “powerful story.” It’s an eternal topic, which is why it’s dead. Kids will always break rules. Adults will always envy them. These stories are just sanitized voyeurism for the middle-aged.

Next tab. A photo. A basement. A girl’s body. Mutilated. Dismembered. Name — Katie Wyling. Twenty years old. The killer turned her into some kind of bloody art installation. The body had been there for a month. Found by accident — a group of teens looking for a place to get drunk.

So rule-breakers ended up useful. If not for their little bender, the body might still be rotting there.

But… still not good enough. Serial killers, psychos, murderers — the topic is exhausted. There are too many — in news, in film, in street legends. Cops have stopped taking them seriously. Everyone’s tired. Even the psychos are getting cliché.

No. There’s nothing here. Nothing worth it. I need a real story. And for that — I have to go deeper. Into the shadows.

I launch the special programs. The ones that unlock doors into the closed sectors of the Net. For most people, it’s forbidden territory. For me — almost home. The darknet. The Deep Zone. The dark corridors of data.

Not much has changed since I last visited.

There — Penetrator, one of the most notorious hacker-trolls, has leaked a major corporation’s proprietary software again. Useful. I’ll download it later.

The black market for weapons changed its address and added triple verification — trying to protect against cops and agents. Didn’t help. They got raided again, and went offline for now. Shame. I was just about to order some upgrades for my TiP-60 and a new ammo module.

But wait… what’s that?

My eyes catch on a strange data-cube. I don’t recognize the structure. I thought I’d crawled through every inch of this segment. But I don’t remember this folder.

This is the darknet. Random links can be deadly — a virus, a trap, a cyber snare. But I’m protected. Everything’s active: filters, encryptions, mirrors. I check the metadata. The folder is over a year old. Shockingly few views. Almost nothing — by darknet standards.

I take the risk. Crack the cube. It shatters into a stream of files.

False alarm.

Just a video archive. Someone’s private recordings.

HoloEyes. A tech that lets you record everything you see directly from your eyes — through your cyberbrain interface. With the right settings, you can capture not just visuals and sound, but thoughts. And emotions.

Media, courts, and the authorities avoid HoloEyes — it’s semi-legal. But regular people use it all the time.

Want to learn a language but too lazy to study? Just stream someone else’s memory — your brain will absorb it. Want to travel but too broke? Watch through a tourist’s eyes. Want to jump off a rooftop without dying? Pick your thrill — risk-free.

Even Vertex tried implementing HoloEyes in its broadcasts. But the project failed. Viewers can sense lies too easily when they see the host’s thoughts.

The rise of the tech gave way to demand for more… specific content.

Pornography. With the full package — sensations, thoughts, emotions. Became mainstream. Especially among housewives.

But there are illegal recordings too.

Want to feel what it’s like to kill someone? Go ahead. Want to experience death? Take your pick: strangulation, decapitation, overdose, terrorist attack. The only thing unavailable is a gunshot to the head — the cyberbrain can’t save the data fast enough.

Too many people have died for these files. A modern-day Coliseum. And the audience wears blood-soaked implants.

I scroll through the catalog. Folders. All named after women. Over fifty. Probably porn. Maybe even underage. Why else hide it in the darknet?

The name Katie Wyling. I saw it earlier today. I’m sure.

Click on the folder. Dozens of videos open.

First clip — a blonde in the shower. Terrible quality. Even for HoloEyes. Shame. Pretty girl. I wouldn’t mind enjoying the view, but the shaky image makes it unwatchable.

Next video. Katie walking down the street in high heels. Great figure. I assume the usual pattern — a guy approaches, flirts, offers cash, then a quick scene in a back alley…

No. Wrong guess.

The footage cuts off. Nothing happens. Total garbage.

I want hard material.

…And instantly regret it.

Next video. Basement. Girl on the floor. Tied up. Bloody. Dying. No sound, no effects. Just pure nightmare. The person behind the camera — a psychopath. He pulls out a knife. Not for bread. The blade slides into flesh like it’s nothing. The killer turns her chest into a bloody abstract. A madman’s masterpiece. The canvas — her body.

I turn it off. My stomach lurches. Fuck.

I’ve written about serial killers. Even interviewed some. But seeing through their eyes — it’s too much.

Name: Katie Wyling.
The date. Matches the news.

It’s the same girl. The one the drunk teenagers found today.

But this isn’t enough for a story. Just another murder on camera. There’s tons of this kind of content. And plenty willing to pay for it.

Though… this psycho has over fifty folders. Did he kill them all?

I open one at random. Erika Owen. One file. A girl at the checkout in an "Ikotay" store. The killer buys knives and tape. One of those knives — I’ve already seen. I don’t want to see more.

I’m about to log out.

And then… I see a folder. Several hundred gigabytes.

The folder name:
Esther Nox.

My name. What a hell?

I open it.