The tea leaves, after being stirred with a spoon, scattered in all directions. They settled on the edges of the cup, forming a vortex that seemed endless. The tea had a jasmine-like color, but in reality, it was slightly darker than it initially appeared. The cup containing the liquid was white, adorned all over with orange flowers and mythical Bubbles. One might assume it was a piece of modern art—small, yet captivating in its beauty. Simply unique.
The whole scene had a touch of magic. The tea leaves, the swirling liquid, and the cup itself—all of it created an extraordinary image, seemingly full of hidden meanings. Sometimes, the most beautiful moments are not the ones we plan but the ones that come unexpectedly in simple, everyday occurrences. The vortex seemed to transport one to another dimension, a place where time and space held no meaning. It felt as if with every turn of the spoon, a gateway to a world where dreams became reality was opening. Each twist of the whirlpool brought one closer to a mysterious land where everything one desired could come true. It was as if the tea itself was a magical bridge leading to infinite possibilities.
Zeilendorf watched with great interest. He felt that each stroke of the spoon transformed what initially seemed like an ordinary phenomenon into something entirely unexpected. He found himself melting into the thought that such a thing could happen. Yet, with each passing moment, he wondered whether it was all just his imagination.
At one point, he finally stopped stirring. Carefully, he placed the spoon along the edge of his beautifully decorated wooden desk, then grasped the cup by its handle. With remarkable calm, he brought it to his lips and took a sip of tea. The taste was intense—simple, yet in a way, soothing. It was a flavor that allowed one to forget about everything happening around them. The momentary silence, the sense of being enclosed in this small space, provided a feeling of peace and detachment from the outside world.
The room Zeilendorf occupied was marked by a particular sense of luxury. The walls, painted white, were decorated with paintings of flowers and larks—birds long forgotten by the world. The floor was also white, creating a uniform and tranquil atmosphere. The desk was long, adorned with intricate geometric patterns that added to its elegance. On its surface lay pens, blank sheets of paper, a beautifully decorated radio, and, of course, a tea set. A soft, plush gray carpet stretched across the floor—comfortable enough that one could easily fall asleep on it without difficulty. Behind Zeilendorf, instead of a wall, there was a massive window offering a view of the entire Lower Level. It evoked nothing but indifference in him. He had no interest in the affairs of the inhabitants.
Having finished his tea, the man set the cup down, grabbed a pen, and began writing on the blank paper. His handwriting was difficult to decipher, yet Zeilendorf seemed to know exactly what he was putting down.
Suddenly, the radio spoke, its sound breaking the silence in the room.
- The time is now 8:00 AM. Today is Thursday, September 11, 2104. The air pollution level is life-threatening. Breaking news confirms that the nations belonging to the Union of the New World are planning retaliation and are preparing for a massive attack on our territory. TDP members are already mobilizing new special units to protect us at all costs. We will continue to provide updates on the situation. Glory and honor to Caldoria!
Zeilendorf slightly furrowed his brows under his mustache and then opened a drawer in his desk, pulling out a black, numerical telephone. He dialed a number and waited in silence until someone picked up.
- Mr. Zeilendorf, it's a pleasure to hear from you. What seems to be the problem? - asked the person on the other end of the line.
- Mr. Vilci, today's broadcast is putting too much emphasis on the Last War. If I recall correctly, I ordered today's topic to be more peaceful matters - Zeilendorf replied, irritated.
- My sincerest apologies. I must have mixed up the days. When should I announce the victory of Caldorian forces?
- Tomorrow or the day after. You decide - he said before hanging up.
After the brief conversation, Zeilendorf ran a hand through his hair and started thinking about everything he had to do today. He hadn't planned anything particularly interesting. The only thing ahead of him was a stack of documents he needed to sign with his name. Tedious work, which would certainly irritate anyone. He rolled his eyes, knowing he would spend the rest of the day on it without achieving anything particularly exciting.
At that moment, someone knocked on the door. Zeilendorf straightened his posture and clasped his hands together on the desk. He hoped it was something important.
- Come in - he called out, his voice carrying a note of impatience.
The beautiful doors, made of velvety wood, opened, and Malvin entered, holding a piece of paper in his hand. He closed the door, bowed respectfully, and approached the desk, placing the paper on its surface. His posture was serious, and his face bore an expression of deep concentration, as if what he was carrying was of great significance.
- What brings you to me, Mr. Malvin? - Zeilendorf asked, not hiding his irritation. - I don't have time for guessing games today, so would you kindly explain the reason for your visit?
- My deepest apologies, sir, but I am certain this letter will interest you.
Zeilendorf took the dirty, slightly bloodstained paper into his hands. The text was handwritten, the letters clumsily arranged as if someone had written in a hurry, without caring for precision. As he looked at the paper, his face betrayed no emotion.
- What exactly am I looking at? - he asked.
- It's a letter that appears to have been written by Donald Ferrick from the Redundant Level - Malvin replied. - We've tried to track him down, but to no avail.
The TDP officer couldn't believe it. Suddenly, as if all the coldness had left him, only pure excitement remained. Every fiber of his being was shaken, and his mind began working rapidly, trying to comprehend the weight of what he was holding in his hands.
- I see. Thank you for the information. You may go.
The older man nodded and walked towards the door. He reached for the handle, but before he left, Zeilendorf stopped him for a moment.
- You have the day off. Spend it with your daughter - he said unexpectedly, a barely perceptible smile appearing on his face.
Malvin looked at him with slight surprise but quickly nodded.
- Thank you, Mr. Zeilendorf.
With those words, he left the white room, closing the door behind him. For a moment, silence filled the space once again. Zeilendorf looked once more at the bloodstained letter and, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, began reading Donald Ferrick's message. He hoped it would contain something truly extraordinary.
To whoever finds this...
Among the pile of bodies, I found an Sparkly in a woman's pocket. Thanks to its light, I can finally see something. In the pockets of other dead people, I also found a few useful things—a pen and a dirty piece of paper. I decided to write this letter in case something happens to me.
I am so tired. I feel my bones slowly refusing to obey, and my eyes are failing in this eternal darkness. The cough has returned, this time not because of tobacco, but because of the stench of rotting flesh and decomposing bodies everywhere. I don't know what to do. This is my second year here. Or third? I lost track.
The Disposable Level is exactly as they predicted. Or maybe even worse. Ruins, no food, no light. The air is always contaminated. Always dangerous. I don't know how much longer I can endure.
After a few months, I started hearing voices. My beloved wife, Elena, and my loyal friend, Garlos. They haunt me day after day, whispering in the darkness, laughing, sometimes begging for something I don't understand. I hear them even now as I write this. The headaches have become unbearable. Sometimes I feel like my thoughts are no longer my own. I think I'm slowly going insane. I don't know what is real anymore.
I've thought about it for a long time. About my life, about this whole city, and everything I was taught since childhood. And finally, I came to a theory. I don't know if it's true, but everything seems to point to it.
The Upper Level does not exist. It never did.
It's just an illusion, a superstition that people believe in to give their existence meaning. They indulge in dreams of a place they will never reach. They work, suffer, and die, convinced that somewhere, up high, someone is living thanks to their sacrifices. That their efforts make life better for others. But the truth is different. It's a lie.
The Lower Level is actually the Upper, and the Disposable Level is the true Lower. And no one has ever left it. No one ever will.
I'm running out of ink, so I want to write about what awaits me. I don't know if I'll live to see another day, but the only thing keeping me going now is revenge. Revenge on the person who sent me here. I have nothing left.
Zeilendorf, if you're reading this, know that sooner or later, I will find you. I will kill you. I will gut your corpse and throw it into the same place where you condemned me. I will do it for Garlos. I will set things right, and finally, I will find peace.
Glory and honor to Caldoria!
Donald Ferrick
Zeilendorf sat in silence, holding the letter he had just read. Carefully placing it in the drawer next to his phone, he continued to ponder its contents. His mind swirled with conflicting thoughts, yet he felt a strange mix of confusion and pride. His suspicions had been confirmed.
Donald Ferrick, though he had seemed like just another ordinary citizen of Trivara, was something more. He had seen something others had failed to notice. Despite his inner uncertainty, Ferrick possessed a potential that far exceeded the mundane existence of this decayed world. His intellect, though hidden, was truly remarkable. He had the qualities of a true leader—traits that would have made him a perfect fit for the leadership of the TDP.
What a waste, Zeilendorf thought. He could have become a key figure in this system if only he had been given the chance.
A sudden burst of laughter escaped his lips as he realized just how much Ferrick had surprised him. This was it. Finally, something that truly intrigued him, something that made him feel alive again. It had been so long since he had experienced this feeling—surprise, intrigue, excitement. His hands began to tremble, as if an overwhelming surge of emotions had flooded him all at once.
He turned his chair and gazed through the massive window overlooking the Lower Level. The sight of that ruined, darkened landscape no longer left him indifferent. On the contrary—now he felt that it was all part of some greater game, one he did not yet fully understand.
- I hope you're still alive, my friend - Zeilendorf muttered, satisfied.