Entrance
© 2025, Hasan Aydoğdu
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Legal Notice: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to real people (living or deceased), events, or places is purely coincidental.
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ENTRANCE...
Pragia’s asphalt was a marvel of a stain-resistant polymer that wouldn’t absorb spilled blood. The road gliding beneath the tires was as smooth as a criminal’s conscience. An artificial silence hung over the city; there were no honking horns, no shouting, not even the birds seemed to whisper to avoid exceeding the decibel limit set by the city council.
The interior of the black patrol car, code 44-B, belonging to the Normalization Unit, smelled of cheap mint candies and expensive gun oil.
Colton Zane was behind the wheel. His hands gripped the steering wheel at the nine-and-three o’clock position; his posture was so perfectly formed that a sculptor could have carved him in marble under the title “Sense of Duty.” His face was rigid from bearing the same expression for years. He was neither happy nor sad. He simply existed.
Sawyer Brody, sitting in the passenger seat, had reclined his seat in violation of regulations, watching the giant screens atop the skyscrapers through the panoramic glass roof of the vehicle. The screens were displaying not real-time stock market data, but the results of the plebiscite.
“Look at this, Colton,” Sawyer said, smacking his gum. He pointed his finger at the giant LED screen outside.
“78% of the public wants people who litter in parks to have their *‘Partial Citizenship Rights’* taken away. Can you believe it? Only 78%. The remaining 22% probably enjoy eating cigarette butts.” Colton kept his eyes on the road. “People want a clean environment, Sawyer. It’s a legitimate demand.” “Come on,” Sawyer laughed. He pulled his sunglasses from the glove compartment and put them on. “People don’t want a clean environment, my friend. People want that little sadistic pleasure of punishing someone who breaks the rules. When they open the plebiscite and press the ‘YES’ button, they feel like little gods . That’s the point.”
Colton didn’t answer. Sawyer might be right, but saying it out loud was dangerous. The vehicle’s voice recording system was disabled – Sawyer illegally shut it down at the start of each shift with some kind of software – but habits aren’t easy to break. Colton instinctively reached into his pocket, his fingertips feeling the small metal cross there. It was his little act of rebellion.
In Pragia, God was the main server in the Data Processing Center; but Colton still believed that prayers ascended to heaven faster than servers.
The car was passing through the “Silver Zone,” a middle-class neighborhood with a crime rate of 0.01%. The sidewalks were so clean you could safely eat a sandwich that had fallen on the ground. People were walking. All stylish, all in a hurry, all... well-behaved. No one was laughing loudly, no one was loitering in the middle of the street. Because “loitering” was a crime against productivity, and no one wanted their score to drop.
Sawyer placed his tablet on his lap and began scrolling. “Katherine is driving me crazy again,” he muttered. His voice had shifted from its earlier sarcastic tone to a pitiful one. “She wants that duplex in Zone B. She says it has a sea view from the balcony. As if looking at the sea will unlock the meaning of life.”
“It’s an expensive neighborhood,” Colton said in a flat voice.
“Absolutely. My credit isn’t enough. I need extra premium, Colton. I need a good, healthy, young target with intact organs. The kidney premium I got from that con artist last week barely covered my expenses.”
Colton’s stomach clenched, but his face didn’t move. For Sawyer, a man’s worth was measured by the black market price index of his liver. And the terrible thing was, Sawyer wasn’t a bad person. He was just doing what the system taught him: Guilty equals Spare Part. Just then, the silence in the car’s dashboard was broken. It wasn’t a crackling sound from the radio or speaker. There was no room for noise here. Only a gentle, melodic “Ding” sound was heard. And a red frame appeared on the “heads-up” display on the windshield.
CODE: 808 - SYSTEMATIC EXPLOITATION (THEFT) OF PUBLIC RESOURCES TARGET: MARCUS TRENT (34) LOCATION: SILVER DISTRICT, BLOCK 14, APARTMENT 8. PLEBISCITE DECISION: 92% CULLING APPROVAL. STATUS: ACTIVE AND URGENT.
Sawyer straightened his chair in one swift movement. The weariness in his eyes had vanished, replaced by the gleam of a hunter. He immediately checked the target details on his tablet.
“Bingo!” he shouted cheerfully. “Marcus Trent. He’s a fund manager at an insurance company. He’s been siphoning off pennies from clients’ accounts and transferring them to his own. A total leech.” Sawyer looked at the screen more closely and whistled. “Thirty-four years old. Non-smoker, clean alcohol history. Gym membership. Colton, this guy’s lungs are worth at least twenty thousand credits!”
Colton turned the steering wheel to the right. The car sped up with the hum of the electric motor. “Twenty thousand credits,” Colton repeated. His voice was cold. “He has two little daughters, Sawyer. It’s in the file.”
Sawyer paused, but only for a second. Then he shrugged. “It’s better to know they’ve been ‘normalized’ by heroic cops than to find out their fathers were thieves. Plus, the state takes care of those kids. Our orphanages are like colleges, you know.” “I know,” said Colton. His knuckles gripping the steering wheel turned white.
The vehicle glided silently to the front of Block 14. The building, made of white ceramic and glass, stood like an obelisk reaching towards the sky.
The security scanner at the door recognized the police car and flashed green, raising the barriers. In Pragia, the police wouldn’t need to break down the door; smart home systems automatically opened the doors when the police arrived. Escape was impossible. They got out of the car. Colton checked his “Normalize Gun” (a type of high-caliber, silenced weapon that could biologically terminate a target in seconds) in his belt.
The air was warm and smelled of artificial flowers. Sawyer adjusted his jacket and grinned. “Let’s go and terminate that guy’s citizenship contract. I need to get one step closer to my wife’s balcony overlooking the sea.”
Colton looked up as he walked towards the building’s coded door. A curtain stirred in the 8th-floor window. The man inside, Marcus Trent, had probably just received notification of his own death sentence from the Plebiscite proceedings.
What was she doing at that moment? Was she hugging her children? Or was she trying to escape?
He couldn’t escape. Democracy had made its decision. The majority had found it “costly” for Marcus to breathe.
“You go first,” Colton said, his voice having a metallic tone. “I’ll hold the elevator.”
They entered the building’s lobby. The marble floor was so shiny that Colton saw a monster in his own reflection. But a monster in uniform, clean-shaven, and respectable.
He pressed the elevator button.
Ding.
The gates opened. The path to hell led upwards.
The elevator car, powered by gravity-defying magnetic technology, silently ascended along the spine of Block 14. Its interior was entirely mirrored; amidst these endless reflections, Colton Zane saw his own face hundreds of times, never satisfied with any of the expressions. Sawyer Brody, however, didn’t care about this visual spectacle, typing on his tablet with the speed of a piano virtuoso.
“Look, I’m telling you, Colton,” Sawyer said, without lifting his head from his tablet. “This guy’s data is incredible.”
The Trent family has been regularly subscribing to ‘Organic Food’ for the past three years. This means the man doesn’t have a single gram of trans fat in his veins. Do you know what that means? It means his liver will be up for auction in the ‘Premium A+’ category.”
Colton took a deep breath as he watched the numbers on the elevator floor indicator increase. Colton could imagine several possible scenarios in situations like this, like a movie. And he’d predetermine the roles he’d play. He never placed much importance on money. After a certain point, everyone could eat and wear similar things. The rest was meaningless ostentation. The people of Pragia had already passed that limit.
Sawyer smiled, his teeth gleaming in the elevator’s white light. The elevator stopped on the eighth floor with a gentle jolt, as if it had landed on cotton. The mechanical female voice announced, “Destination Floor Reached. Please observe Public Safety Protocols,” as the doors slid open.
The hallway was a sterile white, in keeping with the general aesthetic of the public opinion polls, but the faint scent of wealth—a mixture of lavender and fresh furniture polish—hung in the air. The door to apartment number 8 was unlocked. In this country, the moment a citizen is listed on a “Red Notice,” their property rights are suspended, and their smart lock system automatically grants police access. The LED light above the door blinked green, signifying “ENTRY FREE.”
Colton reached for his gun but didn’t pull it out. He just wanted to feel its presence. He went in first.
Inside, in contrast to the chaos outside, it was like a simulation of a peaceful Sunday morning. The spacious living room was covered from floor to ceiling with glass, offering panoramic views of the Silver Zone. But this tranquility was abruptly shattered by the tragedy unfolding in the center of the room. Marcus Trent slumped on the edge of his beige Italian armchair, his head in his hands. Beside him lay clothes and a few toys scattered on the floor, presumably from an attempt to pack an escape kit. His wife, Elena, paced back and forth, refreshing the screen of a tablet.
Sawyer entered with the ease of a guest. The sharp sound of his boots on the hardwood floor broke the deathly silence of the house. “Marcus Trent,” Sawyer called, his voice like that of a cheerful radio announcer. “I’m glad to find you at home. Usually, people like you try to hide in the ventilation shafts or something, which soils our uniforms.”
Marcus lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot. “Please,” he said, his voice hoarse and weak. He tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t support him. “There’s been a mistake, officer. I only made a temporary liquidity transfer in the funds. I was going to replace the money. I swear I was going to replace it!”
