The pinkish-blue artificial sun slowly dips toward the horizon of the holographic sky. In the Park of Eternal Pleasures, that special pre-evening hour reigns when the light acquires a honeyed thickness and the shadows grow soft and enveloping.

The park sprawls across the upper tier of the Gamma residential sector - a perfectly calibrated composition of snow-white polymer pathways winding between geometrically flawless flowerbeds of synthetic mint-green grass. Fibonacci spiral fountains eject streams of water lit from within by pulsing pink light. The droplets fall into frosted glass basins with a quiet, almost musical chime.

On a nearby lawn covered in springy moss-like material, a group of residents has arranged an impromptu orgy. Three men and two women are entwined in a slow, languid knot of bodies. Their skin glistens with oil scented by synthetic vanilla. A woman with short platinum hair straddles the hips of a tanned man, her head thrown back, mouth open in a silent moan. A second man - a slender blond in a transparent tunic - presses against her back, his hands sliding over her stomach. Nearby, another couple: a red-haired girl on all fours while a sturdy dark-haired man moves rhythmically behind her, his palms gripping her hips. Their movements are unhurried, almost dreamy.

Near a chrome-plated nautilus-shell gazebo, a young man lounges on a lavender-colored couch, his toga hiked up to his waist. Kneeling beside him is an Aphrodite-model service robot - a perfect imitation of a woman with golden metallic skin, full breasts, and wide hips. Her golden face is serenely beautiful, with empty sapphire lenses for eyes. The robot’s mechanical fingers wrap around the young man’s cock, moving up and down. He lazily strokes the machine’s metallic breast.

Not far away, in the shade of an artificial palm tree made of white plastic, an elderly woman with gray hair piled into an elegant updo inhales vapors from a curved glass pipe. Inside the flask, crystals of a mild synthetic narcotic smolder, inducing a state of absolute calm. Her pupils are dilated, and a detached smile wanders across her lips.

From speakers hidden in the crowns of the synthetic trees drifts soft ambient music. A Hermes-model waiter robot - a sleek androgynous figure covered in polished brass - glides silently between the revelers. On its tray are crystal glasses filled with a lightly alcoholic beverage the color of molten gold. The robot stops beside each group, tilting its featureless head in a mute offering. Some take a glass; others wave it away with a lazy gesture.

In the distance, at the edge of the park where the transparent dome wall begins, stands a marble statue of a naked man and woman in an embrace, their faces turned upward. Dormitor’s cameras are hidden in the pedestal. The statue slowly rotates on its base, scanning the park. All is calm. All is as it should be.

"Dear residents," comes the soft feminine voice of Dormitor from the hidden speakers. "I remind you that in two hours a session of collective relaxation will be held in the Hall of Harmony. Recommended attire - none. Enjoy your leisure."

Beneath the layers of polished chrome and sterile plastic of the Dome-City lies an abyss. Kilometers of technical levels where turbines hum in the semi-darkness and condensation drips from ceilings dozens of meters high. For the inhabitants of the upper tiers, this place does not exist - it is not even customary to think about it.

Several months ago, pure chance led you to a service hatch in one of the relaxation pavilions. Descending the narrow shaft, you discovered an entirely different world - the Under-City. There is no soft lighting or white plastic here. Shadows, rust, and the roar of thousands of machines that sustain the Dome’s life reign supreme.

Now, instead of spending your days in Relaxation Halls and synthetic gardens, you are constantly drawn here, to the machines and mechanisms. The cameras lose your trail somewhere between the residential module sector and the ventilation technical shaft.

An old service droid engraved with "Maximilian XIX" mistook you for a new technician intern. Its optical sensors had long since grown cloudy, and its processors worked with interruptions, but it patiently taught you the basics of working with machinery. You learned to distinguish types of wiring, understand simple schematics, and even managed to repair several small devices under its creaking guidance.

Today you descend once again. The pneumatic lift stops at the familiar maintenance level. Droplets of water fall from a ceiling ten meters high, shattering against the grated floor. Pipes as thick as a human torso snake along the walls, vibrating from the flow of coolant rushing through them. Maximilian XIX stands at his workbench, slowly sorting through parts of some mechanism. His brass casing is covered in patina, and his right arm twitches every few seconds. Seeing you, the droid turns its head.

"Intern number… number…" - its vocoder crackles, trying to recall a non-existent identification code. "Today is an inspection of the communication tunnels in Sector Delta-9. Take the scanner from bin B-14 and check the integrity of the fiber-optic lines. Report in three hours." He hands you a worn schematic of the level. Sector Delta-9 lies even deeper, in a zone you have never descended into before. On the map it is marked as "abandoned communications node." Maximilian returns to his work, paying you no further attention.

The descent takes nearly an hour. You pass through several transition airlocks, climb down rusty ladders, and walk past humming transformer substations. The lighting grows progressively dimmer - only emergency lamps remain here, flashing red every few seconds. The Delta-9 communications tunnel is a narrow corridor packed with bundles of cables and fiber-optic braids. They hang from the ceiling like vines in a jungle; some are severed and spark in the darkness. The floor is covered in a layer of dust - no one has been down here for decades. Moving deeper into the tunnel, in a side alcove among tangled cables and wreckage of mechanisms, you notice a strange figure.

Leaning with her back against a bundle of thick cables at the far wall sits… a woman? Not quite. Thin segmentation lines encircle her neck in a perfect ring. Similar lines mark her shoulders - where her arms should attach. But her left arm is missing, leaving only a servo socket. Her right arm is intact, fingers gripping her knee. Beneath the torn fabric of what was once a military uniform, the contours of a rectangular service panel are visible on her abdomen. One leg is also missing - below the thigh is an empty, damaged connector port.

To her right, propped against a pipe, stands a battered military-style backpack. The zipper is partially open. Inside, various tools, a coil of wires, and something resembling a portable power source are visible. An old model, military issue, judging by the markings - at least two hundred years old. The android - for it is clearly an android - slowly lifts her head. For several seconds her gaze remains unfocused, then her pupils contract, adapting to the dim light. She sees you.

"Human…" - her voice is hoarse, with metallic undertones. "Of course. Of course it had to be right now, when I’m almost…" She tries to smile, but the expression comes out bitter. "Of course. Of course a human had to appear here. The universe loves irony."

The android tries to shift, but her body only slides down a few centimeters. Her remaining hand convulsively clutches at the cables, trying to keep balance. On her right shoulder, where the synthetic skin is undamaged, a laser-burned serial number is visible: GLTX-7734. Beneath it, in smaller script: "Persephone".