Collapse put on his armor made of silicate-rich metal. The contours of the armor, which wrapped around his muscular chest, met at his breastbone. His legs, as muscular and well-formed as his arms, moved rhythmically. He felt a weight in his chest as it rose and fell heavily with each breath he took.
Considering he was on the guest list for the Crystal 7 channel, he might have needed to act cooler. With a broad smile remaining on his face—one that hindered his masculinity, activity, and vitality—he walked toward the live broadcast room. In the room, where lights and other equipment were specially prepared, sat a Code 43 agent.
The revolution across the country years ago had wiped everything away, leaving only Code 43 behind.
Code 43 was the general unit of everything. Of eating, of drinking, and if one went further, even of the toilet. You couldn't even plant a tree in any place that Code 43 did not deem appropriate but architecture allowed, let alone erect a giant building. You could in no way speak against Code 43, which had gained fame through the words of a dictator who claimed not to be a dictator. Did you make the slightest criticism of him? You get arrested. Does your heart desire to give the smallest suggestion regarding his outfit or posture? It would be better for your sake to abandon that decision.
When Collapse entered the live broadcast room, the agent serving Code 43 turned his head.
Agent J. was 34 years old. Only 34 years old. The classic description he used to define himself contained only the numbers three and four. He had adopted a philosophy that age expressed everything. As soon as his father died—Mr. J. had died at the age of 62—he changed his philosophy, turning it into the sentence, "I lived 34 years, that's more than enough."
Collapse looked at Agent J. with disgust.
Agent J. was no different from a government officer who was valued because of his rank despite being old and having a long criminal record. On his face, there was as much egoism as someone carrying a weapon, and if looked at closely, a bit of nihilism. Collapse was strangely certain that the man was an atheist. It wasn't that he had a problem with atheists, mind you; he just liked making such observations.
Clapping his hands and smiling, Agent J. said, "Look who's here."
The cameramen set off the flash. It was as if they were photographing a mountain landscape for the first time.
The host said, "Here he is, Collapse Gentel," raising his hand.
Collapse pressed his lips together, certain that fake applause sounds would be dubbed behind this scene. Inside, there was an orange-colored sofa and equipment connected to cables piled around.
"Good evening, everyone," Collapse said, suppressing the reluctance in his voice.
Mr. J said, "Good evening, the man whose name has been mentioned the most lately!"
Collapse wrinkled his nose with an impulse unique to those who had won Nobel prizes in the past. He sat down so that he would be at the exact focal point of the cameras aimed at him.
The host was wearing a golden-yellow suit. He was constantly shining like a disco ball.
J. couldn't take his eyes off the host. He didn't seem interested in the subject at all anyway.
"And now, Collapse Gentel is answering questions coming from Crystal Social Media," he said and placed the computer on the coffee table. It was a white, plain device. There was no brand name written on it. It couldn't be written anyway. Collapse became obsessed with identifying the brand of the computer.
He murmured "Huuke" under his breath. "The Chinese are gone, but Chinese goods remain," he thought to himself.
The host said, "Mr. Collapse, are you ready for the first question?" "If you'd like, briefly introduce yourself before we move on to the question."
With an expression on his face that carried not a shred of ego, Collapse said, "I am Collapse Gentel." "I am 26 years old, I am a swimmer, and I have a world championship in armored diving. What I mean is, there is no clear reason for the interest in me. Someone becomes famous even if they have a missing tooth in their mouth."
"OO!" said J. "You spoke harshly, Mr. Gentel."
"I'm sorry, I suppose I was hurtful," Collapse said in a sarcastic tone.
J. said, "No, no, keep going," and crossed his legs, clasping his hands. On his arm was a late-model Hackter watch. The leather shoes on his feet shone like dew under the effect of the stage lights. J seemed to be gathering self-confidence by constantly looking at his shoes. Even the way he tied his tie said, "I know women; the only things they like are power and money." Some white hairs appearing in his hair despite his age added, "It was like this years ago, too." His brain was recording this meticulously.
The most frequent question asked to Collapse was how he won the swimming medal at the last moment.
When Collapse gave an unexaggerated answer of "coincidence," the Agent and the Host turned up their noses.
J, who inwardly mourned for his father who invested in Crystal 7, interrupted Collapse, who was answering the questions hastily and reluctantly. "Pardon me, so sorry. I mean, are you saying you don't have a trick that turned the race in your favor at the last moment? Come on, we are not strangers here."
Collapse realized that the "here" J referred to when he said we are not alone was the entire country. He thought J was a stupid, hypocritical, and terrible man. In his head, he imagined J trying to hit on his girlfriend and, using this as an excuse, shooting J. with a two-bullet, revolving-head Hack Dolder found on the hood of every city-dweller. Then he changed the scenario. Their gazes had met. In both of their eyes, there was the hostility felt toward the same sex. A crisis of jealousy. He had broken the noses of a few men in the past, but of course, he had never used a Hack Dolder. It wasn't because he was undecided about shooting him in the head, it was because he decided not to. He had seen every time that it wasn't worth ruining his life for a few days of flirting.
The moment the host approached the computer, he closed his eyebrows.
While J, due to his arrogant attitude, didn't bother to look at the screen and took a sip of his coffee, Collapse's sharp attention was whipped.
"The DNAs taken from the female corpse at the gate of the tower identified the person. It was revealed that the deceased woman belonged to Grace Huyger, an active competitor in the fast horse racing competition. The people of the city wonder how the young girl died."
Collapse pressed his lips together and pulled his attention away from where he was focused.
As the host pulled his eyes away from the screen, a silence fell among those gathered around the screen in the city bar. Everyone had begun to look at each other strangely. Only one person was sitting at the table, and the glass in his hand had fallen through his fingers and hit the floor.
"Huyger?" said Meyer, sitting on the bar stool.
"Grace Huyger... the surname Huyger. Is she then... Huyger's daughter?"
The way he said, "I lost my first child, my daughter," echoed faintly in his eyes.
Wasn't that a dream or a hallucination?
He closed his eyes to reality, and when he opened them, the bar hall was empty. Police officers working for Code 43 entered. They were all hasty and professional. They scanned the hall with their sharp eyes. Meyer remembered that even if his ID was in his pocket, it was from years ago. "I'm done," he thought. The police began to search; Meyer looked at the glass that had fallen to the floor. The glass shards seemed to have formed a shape. Like a bullet piercing his head. "Is the dead girl really Huyger's daughter?" he asked, and kept murmuring the same question. Everything had become a tangled mess.