World without flaws

If someone from the past were to glimpse his workspace, they would see a masterpiece of technological ingenuity. The central worktable was equipped with motion-sensitive sensors, laser pens for fine detailing, and sound modules for crafting polyphonic compositions. Everything required time to warm up and calibrate. Haim activated the system with a single touch, and a soft hum filled the workshop. The mechanisms sprang to life: the worktable began shifting form, holographic screens slowly emerged above its surface, and the sound blocks loaded their default settings.

“Start-up will be complete in three minutes and forty seconds,” announced the automated assistant, whose voice was far less intrusive than Egbert’s.

Haim decided to use the time to call the CML. He had spoken with Dr. Black all his life. One would think he’d be used to it by now, but for some reason, these morning conversations always left him feeling conflicted.

“Good morning, Haim,” greeted the deep, composed voice. “I’m currently analysing the data Egbert sent me.”

“Great. Nothing serious, I hope?” Haim asked, trying to sound casual.

A brief silence followed.

“Haim, I’d like to speak with you openly. Your readings are concerning, especially regarding your mental state.”

Haim smirked, though his smile felt forced. “Well, I am a composer and an artist, Doctor. Isn’t a little eccentricity part of the package?”

“Eccentricity isn’t the issue, Haim.” Dr. Black finally looked up from his records, fixing Haim with a thoughtful, weary gaze. “But your emotional fluctuations and these ‘dark thoughts’ you’ve mentioned—they are no longer just a part of the creative process. Your neurochemical indicators suggest a possible imbalance.”

“You think I should increase my dose of ‘The Creator’s Drop’?” Haim asked, masking his unease with a joke.

Dr. Black hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed his long, thin fingers to his temples, making slow circular motions. Without opening his eyes, he finally spoke with calm certainty:

“Quite the opposite, actually. I recommend that you temporarily stop taking it.”

Haim’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “But without it, I won’t be able to work, James. You know how much it enhances my creative inspiration!”

“I understand, Haim, but your body is showing signs of dependency. ‘The Creator’s Drop’ is a powerful tool, but its side effects can be destructive. If we don’t adjust your regimen now, it could affect your ability to work in the future.”

Haim felt a fiery whirlpool start to churn inside him. Forcing him to stay composed; he refocused on the hologram of his latest melody, floating above the worktable. Examining the notes helped clear his mind, and he asked in a thoughtful voice, “What do you suggest?”

“Treatment,” Dr. Black said firmly. “We need to restore balance to both your body and mind. It will take time and effort, but it’s necessary if you want to keep creating rather than destroying—both everything around you and yourself.”

Haim frowned. The thought that he already had so little time left and that spending it on treatment for an already doomed body might be pointless, gnawed at his professional composure, honed over years of discipline.

“You do realize that without ‘The Drop,’ I could lose days, even weeks of work?”

“Yes, but I also understand that if you continue, you could lose much more.”

“Doctor, I’m almost 30. I have nothing left to lose!” Haim unexpectedly snapped.

A heavy silence hung between them. Haim closed his eyes, trying to suppress the wave of frustration and anxiety that surged through him.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally said.

“Good. But don’t take too long, Haim.”

Dr. Black ended the conversation, leaving Haim alone with his thoughts and his gradually awakening workshop.

“I’ll think about it…” he muttered under his breath, his eyes returning to the worktable where his tools were now fully activated. “I suppose I’ll start with painting today,” he decided and began dictating to the AI assistant the images that had formed in his mind during the unpleasant conversation.

Sketches of his emotional turmoil began to appear on the screens around him. Haim was relieved to see they weren’t monochrome.

“Excellent. Now let’s build a colour palette for my next masterpiece,” he declared to the entire laboratory. “Are you with me or not?” The question was directed at his AI assistants.

He particularly enjoyed throwing them off with such remarks. The robots hesitated for a moment, their indicator lights flickering as they processed the creator’s ambiguous request. Haim smirked, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms behind his head. As he tapped his foot to the rhythm of his latest musical composition and mentally painted a new seascape, he realized just how much he loved creating. For him, to create was to live. How could he ever give that up?

The robots finally gave up and responded in unison:

“Request not recognized. Please repeat or rephrase your prompt.”

“Ha! I knew you’d give in, you little devils,” Haim teased, reaching for his laser pen.

The Thought Cube

Haim stepped out of his workshop, inhaling the crisp air of Mediopolis. Each breath felt filled with life, yet inside, he found no peace. His body was light, but his thoughts grew heavier by the minute.

He could already imagine Egbert’s disapproving grumbling and decided to delay returning home. Pressing the “Follow” button on his graviform’s control panel, the sleek silver disc obediently floated just above his head. He avoided underground trains—not just because of the darkness, but because of the potential interactions with other city residents. Haim wasn’t an open person. He justified it by claiming that, as an empathetic artist, he might accidentally absorb other people’s emotions, inevitably affecting his work. And as a mature professional, that was unacceptable. Mature… I wonder how people felt at twenty-nine a hundred years ago? The odd thought flitted through his mind.

He strolled toward the nearest park, moving on autopilot as he always did. This place had always been his sanctuary, a refuge from the endless noise of the city and the storm of his own mind.

Without noticing, he transitioned from the paved sidewalk to the park’s natural pathways. That was one of Mediopolis’s features—the city’s landscape seamlessly flowed from smooth streets to lush green havens. Every plant in the park was a product of the symbiosis between nature and technology.

Haim’s gaze landed on the massive crown of an ancient oak, its sprawling branches casting shadows over an entire alley. The leaves shimmered with soft golden-green hues, and the tree emitted a faint cosmic melody. Passers-by would often stop to touch its bark, and the tree would respond with gentle vibrations, as if whispering, I hear you. Can you hear me?

He ran his hand along the trunk, and the tree acknowledged him in return. Feeling the subtle resonance of its melody, he took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled slowly. His thoughts began to align into a structured pattern.

I didn’t take my dose of The Creator’s Drop today, he mused, continuing down the path. And yet… I feel fine. More than fine—I created a landscape draft that meets the highest quality metrics. So why does the doctor think I’m unwell? Why won’t these thoughts leave me alone?

His steps slowed. Before him stretched a meadow, its surface speckled with what looked like tiny gemstones. Light refracted through delicate, transparent flowers, forming miniature rainbows. At the edge of the meadow was an artificial pond, where fish with translucent fins glided effortlessly. Every detail of this world seemed to whisper: Here, you can find peace.

But that wasn’t true for him.

“Dark thoughts...” Haim stared into the clear water. They started when I turned twelve. Before that, everything was different—life was filled with light, energy, inspiration. Now, I often think about things that bring discomfort. What’s wrong with me?

He leaned toward the water, studying his reflection. It seemed strangely unfamiliar—his face, yet somehow not his own.