Stasis

Chapter 1. Morning in a Vacuum

Adam woke up one minute before the timer signal. His eyes opened instantly, without drowsiness or the need to rub his eyelids—the result of a perfectly balanced gas mixture supplied to the sleep capsule.

Absolute, ringing silence filled the room. In the world of Stasis, silence was not merely the absence of sound; it was a sign of quality.

Sound is vibration. Vibration is micro-cracks. Noise was the sound of destruction.

Adam carefully, trying to avoid sudden movements, deactivated the bed's magnetic field.

His body, which had been hovering ten centimeters above the mattress (so as not to crumple the sheets or create pressure sores on the skin), descended smoothly.

He stood up. The floor was covered with a transparent polymer. Adam knew that underneath this layer lay the rarest natural wood parquet, but no human foot had ever stepped on it.

Walking on wood was like walking on a painting in the Louvre. It was barbarism.

Adam approached the mirror. This was the most critical moment of the morning: the inspection of the Facade.

He turned on the shadowless lighting and brought his face close to the glass, careful not to touch it with his breath.

The skin was flawless: smooth, matte, like expensive plastic. Not a single pore, not a single wrinkle.

He was thirty years old, but he looked exactly the same as the day he was removed from the incubator.

Just like everyone else around.

"Stability," he pronounced with his lips alone, without engaging his nasolabial folds. This was his morning mantra.

Breakfast took three minutes. Adam connected a tube of nutrient paste to the port of his individual mouthpiece. The taste was neutral.

Taste causes salivation; saliva is acid; acid harms enamel. Adam "ate" without making a single chewing motion.

His teeth were benchmark white and sharp, like factory gears that had never been in operation.

Dressing was a ritual. The suit made of metallized fabric hung in a vacuum cover.

Adam dove into it, trying not to touch the outer layer with his fingers. The magnetic clasps clicked shut.

Now he was hermetic and safe for the world.

The street met him with the sterile light of an artificial sun (the real sun emitted harsh ultraviolet radiation that destroyed pigments). Mint City sparkled.

Skyscrapers were sealed in giant transparent sarcophagi. Cars moved on magnetic cushions without touching the road. No friction. No wear.

Eternal novelty.

Adam worked in the holy of holies of this world—the Museum of Standards.

After passing through three dedusting airlocks, where he was blown with ionized air, he entered the Main Hall.

Here, the temperature was maintained at absolute zero on the scale of wear.

In the center of the hall, inside a cube of armored glass, hung a hologram. It was the Law. The Constitution. The meaning of their existence.

Letters, set in the perfect Helvetica font, hovered in the air, casting no shadows.

PROTOCOL OF ETERNITY

1. Do not open the Packaging. (Original Sin).
2. Do not touch. (Skin against skin is dirt and wear).
3. Do not breathe on the glossy. (Condensate is the enemy).
4. Honor the Factory Film and the Warranty Seal.
5. Do not use. (Usage kills value).
6. Do not create wrinkles. (Emotions destroy the face).
7. Do not leave a trace. (Fingerprints are evidence of a crime).
8. Keep the thing exactly as it came out of the machine.
9. Silence is the best music. (Vibrations destroy structure).
10. Live in a case, die in a vacuum.

Adam froze before the tablets, as he did every morning. He was supposed to feel awe.

He was supposed to feel pride in being a Keeper.

He shifted his gaze slightly lower. Beneath the hologram, on a pedestal of white marble, lay the Main Exhibit of the week.

iPhone 158 Pro Max Ultra.

It lay in a box hugged by factory film. The corners of the film were perfectly sharp. No one had ever seen the phone itself.

No one knew what color it was. No one had touched its screen. Its value was absolute because it was untouched.

It could do everything, but it did nothing. It was a god in a plastic prison.

Adam looked at the glint of light on the film. He suddenly felt something that made him break into a cold sweat.

His palm itched.

It wasn't just an itch. It was a hunger. He wanted, insanely, to the point of nausea, to reach out, pass through the laser protection, take this box and... pry up the corner of the film with his fingernail.

To hear that sound. Shhh. The sound of the object's defloration. The sound that turns a divine standard into a piece of used plastic.

Adam convulsively clenched his hand into a fist inside his sterile pocket.

There, in the depths, he found a tiny seam where the fabric was slightly rougher.

And with delight, he ran the pad of his thumb over the uneven thread.

"Good morning, Adam," the melodious voice of the android warden sounded behind him. "Your pulse rates are elevated. Are you worried?"

Adam instantly relaxed his face, wiping the shadow of emotion from it.

"Not at all," he replied in an even voice. "I am simply admiring the preservation of the Exhibit."

"It is magnificent," the android agreed. "Not a single scratch since it left the assembly line. Eternity in miniature."

Adam nodded. But the finger in his pocket continued to stroke the rough seam, committing a crime that no one knew about yet.

Chapter 2. Temptation

The work cycle ended at exactly 18:00. Not a second earlier, not a second later—time management in Mint City was as flawless as everything else.

Overtime wears out the nervous system, and stress is the corrosion of the soul.

Adam left the Museum of Standards through the service airlock. The city met him with its habitual glow.

Evening did not "fall" here—that word implied a certain heaviness and inevitability. Evening was switched on here.

The spectrum of street lamps shifted from an invigorating daytime 5000K to a soft, relaxing 3000K.

He sat in his personal transport capsule. The door closed with a barely audible hiss, cutting him off from the outside world.

"Destination: Residential Complex 'Vacuum-Prime', Sector B," Adam said.

The capsule glided smoothly forward, not touching the surface of the magnetic track.

Outside the window, the city floated by, looking like a jewelry store display case. The skyscrapers of Mint City had no open balconies or vents.

All buildings were wrapped in transparent polymer cocoons protecting the facades from acid rain and wind.

In this world, even architecture had its own "protective film."

Below, on perfectly clean sidewalks, people moved. Or rather, their shells moved.

Every resident wore an "Individual Preservation Contour"—a transparent raincoat-spacesuit creating a microclimate around the body with 45% humidity.

Adam looked at them from above and felt a familiar mixture of disgust and strange, forbidden arousal.

There goes a woman. She is wearing an expensive synthetic suit with a "liquid chrome" effect.

She walks carefully, taking mincing steps so as not to create unnecessary friction of her soles against the asphalt.

Her arms are pressed to her body; elbows do not bend unnecessarily—every fold of the fabric brings closer the moment when the first crease appears on it.

She saves herself. She wants to be eternal.

And Adam imagined running up to her, grabbing those chrome shoulders, and shaking her.

How the fabric crumples under his fingers, losing its glossy shine. How a grimace of horror appears on her impassive face, breaking the symmetry of the Botox.

His throat went dry. His heart began to beat faster again, and the bracelet on his wrist beeped warningly: "Adrenaline level elevated. Breathing exercises recommended."

Adam closed his eyes. Today he had a date.

In the world of Stasis, dates were a rare ritual. Usually, couples were selected by a Genetic Algorithm for maximum DNA compatibility and conflict minimization (conflicts mean shouting, and shouting ruins the vocal cords).

But sometimes, to maintain social status, citizens were allowed to meet in person.

Eve was a girl from the Quality Control Department. He had seen her only via video link in 8K resolution. She was perfect.

Her skin resembled expensive porcelain, her hair lay hair-to-hair as if lacquered to death.

The capsule braked softly at the entrance to "Vacuum-Prime." It was an elite district.

Here, the air underwent triple filtration, and the sidewalks were covered with a special compound that repelled dust at the molecular level.

Adam stepped out of the capsule. In his hand, he clutched a virtual gift—a crystal carrier with a unique NFT code depicting a flower.

Giving real flowers was barbarism: they wilted, shed petals, rotted. They were a symbol of death. A digital flower was eternal and unchanging.

He entered the elevator, which had no buttons—pressing anything physical was considered bad manners in houses of this level.

The elevator read the chip in his eye and silently lifted him to the fortieth floor.

The corridor shone with whiteness. Apartment doors were smooth, handleless, numberless—only projections.

Adam approached the correct door and adjusted the cuffs of his metallized suit, making sure they weren't twisted.

He checked if his Individual Contour had fogged up. Everything had to be perfect.

He wasn't going to touch her, of course not. That would be a crime. He just wanted to look.

To look at someone who was just as obsessed with preservation as everyone else.

And, perhaps, in this sterile purity, to find at least some crack.

The door in front of him slid aside, revealing a view of an apartment that looked more like an operating room.

Adam took a breath of filtered air and stepped over the threshold. The temptation was beginning.

Chapter 3. Sterile Date

Eve's apartment was a temple of absolute whiteness. It was so white here that it hurt the eyes.

The built-in filters of Adam's lenses automatically darkened by 15%.

Adam stood on the threshold, afraid to take a step. The floor in the hallway was covered with thick transparent film.

Marble could be guessed underneath, but its veins were hidden by the glare of polyethylene.

"Come in, Adam," Eve's voice came from the depths of the apartment.

It was even, perfectly modulated, devoid of intonation dips that could cause micro-vibration of the vocal cords.

Adam stepped inside. The film under his feet made a barely audible squeak. In this silence, it sounded like a moan.

The living room resembled a furniture store showroom before opening. All furniture was packed in dense vinyl covers.

The sofa, armchairs, even the coffee table—everything was sealed. On the crystal chandelier under the ceiling hung a tag, swaying from the flow of conditioned air, with a hologram of the price and a barcode.

To cut the tag meant violating the passport of the thing, depriving it of its history and value.

Eve sat in an armchair. More precisely, she hovered half a centimeter above the seat, held by a magnetic corset built into her home jumpsuit.

She was perfect. Her face was a smooth, motionless mask of milky-white skin.

Her eyes—two perfect ovals—looked at Adam without the slightest squint.

She blinked exactly once every four seconds—the medical standard for moisturizing the cornea without unnecessary wear on the eyelids.

"You are beautifully preserved for your age, Adam," she said.

Her lips moved minimally, opening just enough to let the sound out. No smile. A smile is two nasolabial folds.

Laughter is "crow's feet" around the eyes. Eve could not afford such extravagance.

"Thank you, Eve," Adam replied, trying to copy her static nature. "Your epidermis has a benchmark factory shine. Do you use nano-polish?"

"Only certified products," she nodded (the amplitude of the nod did not exceed five degrees). "I sleep in a pressure chamber with inert gas. Oxidation is our main enemy."

Adam walked over to the sofa. He did not sit down—his home corset remained in the capsule, and crushing the vinyl cover with his weight would be the height of indecency.

He remained standing, keeping his arms at his sides.

"I brought you this," Adam activated his bracelet and sent Eve the NFT flower. A hologram of an ideal eternal rose hung in the air between them.

Eve looked at it. The digital code of the gift was reflected in her pupils.

"Rational," she evaluated. "No pollen. No rotting. It is very... hygienic of you."

The conversation flowed slowly and viscously, like silicone lubricant. They discussed new water filters, the benefits of vacuum packaging for clothes, and the fall of the entropy index on the stock exchange.

It was a perfect conversation between two perfectly preserved people.

But Adam wasn't listening. His gaze darted around the room. His "tactile hunger" had awakened again and was now scratching him from the inside, demanding a sacrifice.

He wanted to run his hand along the wall—to feel the roughness of the paint, not the smoothness of the laminate.

To tear the cover off the armchair and feel the pile of velvet. He wanted Eve to frown just once, for that porcelain face to crack with a living emotion.

And then he saw something.

On the coffee table, sealed in film, lay the remote control for the wall media panel.

The remote lay in a separate, dense bag with a zip-lock. A factory seal was pasted over the bag.

Adam's hands trembled. He knew what was inside. Matte black rubberized plastic. Buttons made of soft silicone.

A velvety coating designed to be touched.

It was the forbidden fruit. In the world of Stasis, remotes were never taken out of their bags. The signal passed perfectly through polyethylene.

Why touch a thing if you can use it through a protective shell?

"Adam?" Eve's voice sounded slightly wary. "Your breathing has quickened. You are wasting extra oxygen."

"Forgive me," he said hoarsely. "I... I just need to change the channel. The background is too bright."

He took a step toward the table.

"Use the voice interface," Eve said. "Or blink at the sensor."

"No," Adam was no longer in control of himself. His hand, encased in the metallized fabric of the glove, reached for the table. "I want to... manually."

Eve leaned forward slightly, breaking the magnetic levitation. Her eyes widened by a millimeter—a sign of extreme horror.

"Don't touch," she whispered. "That is a collector's item. 'Limited Edition' series. No one has ever touched it."

Adam didn't hear her anymore. The whole world had narrowed down to this rectangular object in a rustling shell.

He felt the blood pulsating in his fingertips. He didn't just want to press. He wanted to feel resistance.

His fingers touched the bag. The polyethylene was slippery and cool.

"Adam, no!" Eve's voice broke into a squeal (this cost her two micro-wrinkles on her forehead). "You are violating the hermetic seal!"

But it was too late.

Adam's fingernail pried up the edge of the seal. In the sterile silence of the apartment, a sound rang out that was louder than an explosion.

Shhh...

The adhesive tape gave way, the zip-lock opened. The air of the apartment—humid, filled with the breath of two people—rushed inside the bag, toward the virgin plastic of the remote.

Adam pulled off his glove and thrust his naked hand inside. His bare, warm, moist skin touched the matte surface.

It was better than sex. Better than any drug. It was contact with reality.

Eve covered her mouth with her hands, forgetting that she was stretching the skin of her cheeks.

She looked at this sacrilege, unable to look away.

Adam slowly pulled the remote out of the bag. It was black as the abyss. Adam placed his thumb on the power button.

It was firm. Alive.

And he pressed it.

Chapter 4. Act of Vandalism

The click of the button was soft, but the recoil of the spring hit Adam's finger like an electric shock.

The screen on the wall flared up, but Adam wasn't looking at it.

He was looking at the remote.

Slowly, as if in a dream, he lifted his thumb from the black plastic.

There, on the flawless matte surface, shone a fingerprint.

It wasn't just a mark. It was a dactylic map of his crime.

A greasy, moist, biological pattern of skin secretions, sweat, and dead epidermal cells.

In the sterile light of the living room, it shimmered like an oil slick in the ocean, disrupting the monolith of blackness.

It screamed of life, of warmth, of imperfection.

"Oh, God..." Eve exhaled.

She flew closer, violating the distance of personal space. Her eyes, dilated to the limit, stared at the remote.

"What is that?" she whispered, and her voice trembled for the first time, cracking. "What have you done? You... You soiled it!"

"I touched it," Adam replied, smiling. He felt the skin on his face stretching, forming deep, criminal folds around his mouth. "I left a mark. I exist, Eve!"

"You killed it!" she shrieked. Eve's face distorted.

The ideal mask cracked: wrinkles cut across her forehead; her mouth twisted in disgust. "It's grease! Acid! It will start corroding the coating now! In an hour there will be corrosion!"

She darted to the table, grabbed a microfiber cloth (sealed in a capsule), and tried to wipe the stain.

"Don't you dare!" Adam shouted. "You'll make it worse! You'll rub the dirt into the micropores!"

Eve froze. She realized he was right. The stain was irreversible. The remote had ceased to be "new." It had moved into the "used" category.

Its market value collapsed to zero in a single second.

She looked at Adam with horror, as if he were a leper whose nose had fallen off right onto the carpet.

"You... You are a barbarian," she whispered.

And then her eyes rolled back. Her overloaded nervous system could not withstand the stress.

The magnetic corset beeped softly, compensating for the loss of muscle tone, and Eve slowly, gracefully settled in the air, hanging half a meter from the floor in the pose of a broken doll.

In the same second, the apartment filled with light. It wasn't a sound siren—sound could damage eardrums.

It was a light alarm. The walls pulsed red.

"ATTENTION. BIOLOGICAL THREAT. CLASS A HERMETIC VIOLATION."

Adam stood and looked at his finger. He felt more alive than ever.

He felt the beating of his heart, felt the sweat running down his back (oh, horror, moisture under the suit!).

The apartment door didn't open—it simply vanished, disintegrating into nanoparticles so as not to delay the response team.

The Preservation Police flew into the room.

These were not people. These were figures in fully hermetic white spacesuits without faces—instead of helmets, they had smooth mirror spheres.

They moved absolutely silently, on magnetic soles, not touching the floor.

"Freeze!" the voice sounded directly in Adam's head, broadcast via neural interface. "Hands away from your body! Do not touch anything! You are contaminated!"

Three officers surrounded Adam. They didn't grab him with their hands—that would be unnecessary contact.

One of them raised a device resembling a vacuum cleaner nozzle.

Pshhh!

A jet of quick-hardening foam hit Adam, binding his movements. The foam solidified instantly, turning him into a white statue.

Only his head remained free.

The fourth officer, with forensic expert patches on his gear, approached the coffee table and bent over the remote like a priest over an altar.

He took out a magnifying glass and shone ultraviolet light.

Adam's fingerprint flared with neon green light. It was monstrous. It was a biological bomb in the center of a sterile paradise.

"Recording third-degree contamination," the expert reported in a lifeless voice. "Damage to the plastic structure. Object cannot be restored. Disposal recommended."

He took out tweezers and carefully, with the squeamishness of a surgeon removing a tumor, picked up the remote by the corner and lowered it into a container of liquid nitrogen.

Adam watched this and felt a strange emptiness.

"Citizen Adam-302," the voice thundered in his head. "You are accused of vandalism, damaging unique property, and spreading biological secretions. Your status 'Mint' is annulled."

A transport platform floated up to him. A magnetic grapple lifted him, encased in foam, and loaded him onto the platform.

As Adam was being carried out of the apartment, he managed to cast one last look at Eve.

Medical droids were already bustling over her, injecting sedatives to smooth the grimace of horror on her face and prevent the appearance of early wrinkles.

Adam closed his eyes. He knew where he was being taken. But on the tip of his thumb, the phantom sensation of rough plastic still burned.

The memory of that touch was worth a life.

Chapter 5. The Tribunal of Preservation

Adam's trial did not take place in a courtroom. In the world of Stasis, courts as such had been abolished as unnecessary—disputes create noise, and crimes were almost never committed.

He was tried in the Defectoscopy Laboratory.

Adam sat in the center of a circular room, strapped to a sterile chair with soft silicone restraints. The walls emitted an even, shadowless light.

It was cold here—the temperature was maintained at +16°C to slow down metabolism and oxidative processes.

Before him, behind a high lectern of transparent armored glass, sat Judge Ether.

No one knew how old the Judge was. Rumor had it—about a hundred and fifty. But he looked like a mannequin.

His skin was unnaturally pink and pulled so tight it seemed about to burst.

He had no eyelashes (they fall out and create debris), no hair (a source of dust).

He wore a hermetic suit of the highest protection class, "Absolute."

To the right of the Judge stood the Prosecutor—an android of the "Censor" series with a mirror face.

"Citizen Adam-302," the Judge's voice did not sound from a mouth (lips were glued with special biogel to prevent mimicry) but was broadcast through speakers.

The sound was digital, cleansed of any emotional impurities. "Session protocol activated."

The Android Prosecutor took a step forward. His mirror face reflected Adam's distorted figure.

"The defendant is accused of violating three points of the Protocol of Eternity," the android pronounced. "Point 1: Opening factory packaging. Point 2: Direct tactile contact with an object of collection value. Point 7: Leaving a biological trace."

A giant hologram appeared in the air. It was a photograph of the remote, magnified thousands of times.

The hall, attended only by holograms of the jury (the city's best collectors, connected remotely), filled with silent horror.

On the screen, Adam's fingerprint looked like an ecological disaster zone. Papillary lines resembled mountain ranges made of grease and dirt.

Between them, like boulders, lay microscopic flakes of dead skin. In the ultraviolet spectrum, the stain glowed poisonous green.

"Look at this," the Prosecutor continued monotonously. "This is chaos. This is erosion. This is biological aggression. This single trace contains enough acids and enzymes to destroy the polymer structure by 0.0003% in ten years. This is an irreparable loss for the Museum fund."

Judge Ether shifted the gaze of his glass eyes to Adam.

"Do you admit that you committed this act of vandalism consciously?" he asked. "Diagnostics of your neurochip revealed no malfunctions. You were not in a state of affect. Your pulse was stable."

"Yes," Adam said. He was cold, but he was smiling.

He felt the corners of his lips lifting, creating wonderful, deep creases on his cheeks. "I did it on purpose."

The jury holograms flickered with indignation.

"Remove the mimicry!" the Judge ordered sharply. "You are aggravating your situation. You are destroying your own Facade right in the courtroom!"

"I don't give a damn about the Facade," Adam replied. His living, hoarse voice cut through the sterile air. "I wanted to feel. You are all dead. You sealed yourselves in plastic and think this is life. But life is friction. It is wear. It is scratches!"

"Silence!" The Judge pressed a sensor button.

Adam's chair released a mild electric discharge, paralyzing his vocal cords. Adam fell silent, but his eyes continued to burn with a feverish glint.

"Your words are irrational," the Judge stated. "You speak like a mechanism affected by corrosion. The desire for 'friction' is a pathology. It is a suicidal tendency."

Judge Ether paused, scanning data from Adam's biometric sensors.

" The Society of Stasis is humane," he continued. "We do not destroy defective elements. Destruction is also damage, and we are against damage. We are for preservation."

Adam tried to twitch, but the restraints held firm. He understood where this was going.

"Citizen Adam-302," the Judge proclaimed. "You have demonstrated a criminal craving for tactility and chaos. You are dangerous to surrounding objects. Your skin is a source of contamination. Your hands are an instrument of vandalism. Therefore, we are obligated to isolate you. For the sake of your own preservation."

The Judge leaned forward, and the lamp light reflected on his bald skull.

"You love to 'feel' so much? You want to leave a mark on history? We will give you that opportunity. In the name of the Protocol of Eternity, I sentence you to the highest measure of social protection: Full Preservation."

The jury buzzed approvingly (at a frequency inaudible to the human ear).

"You will become an exhibit," the Judge sealed. "You will be placed in a vacuum cube of zero decay. You will be eternally young. Eternally beautiful. And absolutely safe. You will never touch anything again. And nothing will touch you."

Adam wanted to scream, but his paralyzed throat produced only a strangled wheeze.

"The sentence is final and not subject to appeal," Judge Ether turned off the hologram with the disgusting fingerprint. "Take him away and prepare the vitrification solution."

The laboratory walls slid apart. A transparent capsule on an anti-gravity cushion drove into the hall. It was empty and waiting for its tenant.

Adam looked at it with horror. This was not a prison term. This was eternity in packaging.

"Welcome to history, Adam," said the Prosecutor, approaching him with a syringe filled with a clear, viscous liquid. "Now you will be perfect. Forever."

Chapter 6. Collector's Item

The Preservation Procedure was quick and painless. Pain is a signal of tissue damage, and damage was not allowed here.

Adam was stripped. His naked body was treated with antiseptic gas, killing every bacterium on the skin.

Then he was immersed in a bath with thick transparent gel.

"Relax," the mechanical voice commanded. "We are now replacing your blood with a vitrification solution. This will prevent the formation of ice crystals. Your cells will not burst. You will not age a single second."

Adam felt the cold pouring into his veins. First, his toes went numb. Then the cold rose higher, to his stomach, to his chest.

His heartbeat slowed down. Thump... pause... thump... pause...

His consciousness did not fade; it became crystal clear and motionless. Thoughts slowed down, turning into frozen ice sculptures.

Manipulators with soft grips lifted Adam out of the bath.

Before him stood the cube, his new home. Walls of ultra-strong sapphire glass, inside—absolute vacuum. Not a single molecule of oxygen.

No oxidation.

Adam was placed inside. The manipulators arranged him into the pose of the "Ideal Human"—straight back, arms slightly spread to the sides (so the skin of the arms did not touch the skin of the armpits), chin proudly raised.

Face—calm, serene, empty.

The glass closed.

Pshhh...

The last air was pumped out. The vacuum embraced Adam. Absolute, eternal silence reigned in his ears.

He tried to blink, but his eyelids did not obey—he could no longer blink.

His eyes were covered with the thinnest layer of protective polymer so that the cornea would not dry out.

His platform was slowly wheeled through the corridors. Adam saw the ceiling lamps floating by. He did not feel the movement.

He didn't feel anything at all. He had become an object.

He was brought to the Main Hall of the Museum of Standards.

The platform was installed on the central pedestal, right opposite that very iPhone 158 in factory film. Now they were equal.

Two perfect, useless objects.

Below, on a golden plaque, an inscription engraved by laser lit up:

EXHIBIT No. 8-001 Homo Sapiens 

Condition: MINT

Year of Preservation: 2026 Do not open. Do not tilt. Store forever.

The light in the hall went out. Only the spotlights directed at Adam remained lit, playing with glints on his frozen, glossy skin.

He was perfect.

Epilogue. The Tear

Years passed, centuries. In a vacuum, time does not matter because nothing changes.

Adam stood in his cube. During the day, excursions passed by him—silent people in spacesuits who looked at him with awe.

They brought children in capsules and pointed to him as the standard of beauty and preservation.

"Look," the neuro-guides broadcast their thoughts. "He has not a single wrinkle. He defeated time."

Adam saw everything. His brain, locked in the icy trap of his body, continued to work. Vitrification stopped cell aging but did not kill consciousness.

This was not death. This frozen eternity became his hell.

Adam looked at the world through the glass. He saw how the fashion for spacesuits changed.

He saw how the city outside the window became increasingly sterile and dead.

And inside him, in this icy void, something hot began to grow. It wasn't a thought; it was a feeling.

A feeling of wild, unbearable longing for imperfection. For dirt, for pain, for the smell of sweat.

For the way film rustles when it is ripped off.

He remembered the moment he touched the remote. The rough plastic. The warmth. Life.

This memory was so vivid that it burned through the icy blockade of neurons. Somewhere in the depths of his limbic system, an electric impulse flared.

The cube's life support system recorded an anomaly: "Increase in internal object temperature by 0.001 degrees."

Adam gathered his will into a fist, but he couldn't move. He didn't want to move. He wanted to cry.

In the corner of his left eye, under the layer of protective polymer, moisture accumulated. It wasn't lubricating fluid.

It was salt—water, electrolyte.

The most aggressive environment in the world of Stasis.

A heavy drop trembled and rolled down his cheek. It traced a wet salty path on his perfect, matte cheek.

The museum sensors howled with a silent alarm: "ATTENTION! HUMIDITY REGIME VIOLATION INSIDE THE CONTOUR! CORROSION!"

But Adam didn't stop. The tear flowed further, leaving a trace. A trace that was impossible to erase because it was protected by a layer of polymer.

The water in the vacuum began to evaporate, settling as condensate on the inside of the glass. The perfect transparency of the sapphire cube clouded over. The glass fogged up.

The world outside blurred, lost its sharpness.

Adam looked at this spot of fog before his eyes. It was his breath, his moisture. His chaos.

And then he did what was strictly forbidden by Commandment No. 6. He strained his zygomatic muscles and forcefully pulled the corners of his lips upward.

The frozen, vitrified skin on his cheeks tightened, crunched, and... cracked.

A web of deep, ugly, beautiful cracks ran across his face. Microscopic shards of his ideal "facade" rained down to the bottom of the cube like dandruff.

Adam was smiling.

He stood in the middle of a ruined ideal, in a fogged-up cube, with a face covered in a web of wrinkles and cracks. He was spoiled. Ruined.

He had lost all his value.

He was happy.