Even far from the terrace, he kept daydreaming. At his job—a part-time position during the last shift at the Main Square Library—he also tried to ignore the heat boiling inside him, eager to break free.
His duties were simple: maintain silence, log book checkouts, and most importantly, monitor the age of readers in Section H, the Human Anatomy section. Mental pornography had been one of the reasons the old internet was restricted. That, on one hand, had brought renewed fame to the libraries scattered across Zone1, but on the other, it had turned something as innocent as the human body into something forbidden and shameful.
Naturally, the last shift—his shift—was the most popular among teenagers. While all those young people committed illegal acts, he'd scrape the white wooden counter with his fingernail, slowly carving out a narrow circle. That small act reflected the only thing that truly occupied his mind: the Transformation of Ones into Zeros. Controlling freedom and intellectual exploration in adolescence could never be more important than the fact that everyone was consenting, with eyes closed, to a collective condemnation. Sentencing humanity to death without a second chance.
The heat within him, desperately seeking a spark, grew so intense that time seemed to slip away—and suddenly, it was night, and the library was empty.
His thoughts didn't stop. Existential questions tormented him as he swept the same patch of carpet at the entrance over and over again, unable to find answers.
Why am I different?
Why can't I just accept this peace?
Why can't I get Andgate out of my head?
Why do I want to die so badly?
Why do I want to…?
The phone's ringtone cut through his thoughts. That patch of carpet, perhaps, was grateful.
"Hello?" he answered with a sigh, momentarily letting go of the intensity with which he was sweeping.
"You thought someone like you would slip past our radar?" asked a raspy voice on the other end.
"Excuse me?" he replied, frowning.
"A One can't think like a Zero. Prepare to—"
"Hello, Agent Pedro Goya," he interrupted, smiling.
"How the hell…!?" Pedro Goya sounded surprised on the other end. "I'm calling from an Agency number, whispering into a glass!"
"What a sad image."
"Well, being an Agent means trying to scare your friends just to pass the time."
"If you want to pretend to be someone else, changing your voice isn't enough. Your word choices are always too predictable," he shot back playfully, lifting a hand to feel the rain beginning to fall.
"Looks like the rain's started. Just as my shift ended."
"Same here."
"Alright, Diogo Brasil's parasols in ten minutes. We'll need a table inside because—"
"Sorry, Pedro, not tonight. I'm not feeling well."
A brief silence followed. Pedro eventually broke it, slipping into the same protective tone he'd used that morning on the terrace.
"She's the one who stopped you, right?"
"She!?" he stammered. "Anne!? Of course not, I just need… to think."
"I love you like a brother—you know that, right?"
"I know, Pedro."
"It wasn't just Andgate that brought us together. Life can be more than just Andgate."
Silence lingered. Any reply wouldn't be the one Pedro Goya wanted to hear.
"I know expressing your feelings is hard for you, but you've got to try. Anne's a fantastic girl. With her—and with me—you can be a normal One. But you need to make the effort."
While Pedro spoke, he locked the library door and headed toward his bike, the rain growing heavier with each step.
"I know you're confused. Angry about something no one else sees. You want to say something, but you don't even know how to put it into words. When I see you on the terrace, lost in thought, or in the cafeteria, staring into yourself—I know you're trying to scream. I get it. But isolating yourself won't solve whatever's on your mind."
"I just said I want to be alone tonight. Trust me, I'm fine, 'Agent Goya.'"
"You're a terrible liar," Pedro teased.
"Hey, have you seen this rain? What do you want me to do—celebrate Revolution Day at a bar playing cards? Or ride half an hour through this downpour to visit my girlfriend, who needs to study for exams? I just want to get home and sleep. That's all."
"Alright, forget it. I'm just worried about you. And I know this is as uncomfortable for you as what I'm holding in my left hand right now!"
"No way!"
"Believe it. I forgot my Numbrella. I'll have to use the…"
"…the umbrella I gave you! Finally!"
What had once been just a tool against the rain had, over the years, become a private joke between friends. Pedro had never minded carrying that anachronistic object. For him, it symbolized the affection of someone who avoided deep conversations—but who, at the very least, had given him something special.
Minutes later, already on his motorcycle, he watched the rain grow heavier, streaming down the visor of his helmet. Pedro Goya's words echoed in his mind, blending with the sound of raindrops bursting against the asphalt. And then he decided: he would visit Anne.
The ride felt shorter than usual. Something in him had changed. As he removed his helmet, the motorcycle's mirror reflected a smile. For the first time in a long while, he felt capable of trying. Of liking someone. Of being... normal.
Anne lived in a student housing complex, where each apartment had direct access from the outside. The building, with no interior hallways, allowed the rain to soak into the steps of the exposed staircase. As he climbed, the downpour intensified, as if the sky were trying to warn him to turn back. But his hurried steps drowned out any warnings from above. Not even the sound of Anne's laughter made him hesitate. Not that night.
At last, the third floor. Anxious, he used the reflection of a nearby apartment door to wipe the rain from his face and brush the hair from his eyes. Like a new man, he took a deep breath and stepped toward Anne's door.
In front of her door, he hesitated. His fingers hovered over the doorbell, but before he could press it, something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Resting against the doorframe, still dripping with rain, was the strange, old umbrella he had once given to his friend Pedro Goya.
His chest tightened instantly. He kept his hand frozen mid-air as Pedro Goya's words returned to him. Every conversation. Every smile. Every sign he had ignored. After a few minutes, he lowered his hand, stepped away from the door, and turned to head back to his motorcycle.
But as he stepped onto the first stair, a single word rose like a whisper—spoken in a voice identical to his own.
"Andgate."
A shiver ran down his spine. The sound hadn't come from outside, but from within his mind. Or perhaps... from the stairs behind him. He turned. It was him. Not an image, not a reflection—but a presence, made of rain and doubt.
Yes, he felt himself duplicated on the endless balcony of that third floor. One of his selves did not descend the stairs. Did not back down. It remained there, unchanged, whispering in his ear once more:
"Andgate."
But he wasn't afraid. On the contrary, he closed his eyes and tried to come to an agreement with himself.
"I'm sorry. But I can't."
"You think they don't deserve the Andgate?" said the whispering version of himself.
"They're human. All humans make mistakes. They all deserve a second chance."
"You're human too. What was your mistake?"
"Creating you," he said firmly, before turning to descend the stairs toward his motorcycle.
But humanity is ambiguous. There is kindness and cruelty in every human being. There is love and hate. There is forgiveness and vengeance. And perhaps humanity's greatest gift is also its greatest curse: free will.
That night, free will chose the wrong self.
That night of celebration, Zone1 fell asleep soaked in the blood of Pedro Goya and Anne Bolein.
And so, a love triangle became the perfect fuel to unleash the heat that would set this world ablaze forever.