Chapter 1: The Fall (Part 1)
A low hum reverberated beneath the earth, a sound not heard but felt—as if the desert itself were exhaling after holding its breath for centuries.
Above, the drone’s camera soared over the Coachella Valley, its mechanical gaze sweeping across the moonlit sand and landscaped palms of Rancho Mirage. Below, Sunnylands appeared: a glowing pink jewel set within an immaculate geometric garden. From this height, the estate’s pyramidal silhouette looked ceremonial, ancient even—like a forgotten temple rediscovered in the night.
The hum grew stronger. It wasn’t mechanical. It was… primordial.
Closing in, the pool grew larger as the camera slowly descended. Its organic shape, lit from within, slicing the night like a wound of light. On its surface: stillness. Then, ripples.
From the ground, the house looked surreal. The sky was crystal clear, but the moon glowed as if through a dense fog.
The figure appeared without warning—falling.
An elderly man, midair. Back arched. Arms stretched wide. His body slow, too slow. The moment unfurled like memory. Or dream. He wore a light-colored tunic, loose-fitting and aged, the light drawing a deep shadow of the scar on his face. His eyes—only one glassy—gazed upward. As he fell, the lights from the terrace caught a long, diagonal scar across his cheek.
He hit the water without a sound.
From below, the pool swallowed him whole: the crumpled robe, the limbs moving not in panic but surrender, the air bubbles catching on the folds of fabric like secrets refusing to rise.
Then—another.
A second man plunged in from above, slicing through the mirrored surface. Younger. Desperate. Arms reaching forward through turquoise distortion. Eyes wide. His body thrashed with purpose, as if he hadn’t thought before diving, only felt.
Underwater, the scene pulsed with surreal clarity. Light bent unnaturally. Sound did not exist. This was not the world.
The first man—still descending—extended his right hand to the side of his head and twisted.
Click.
A panel on his temple opened, revealing something faintly blue, flickering like lightning captured in a jar.
The younger man—reaching, terrified—halted as the spark leapt forward.
A blue arc. An impossible arc. It danced across the water like a synapse firing across the void between neurons. It struck the younger man’s chest—directly over his heart—and held.
He spasmed. Just once.
His limbs stiffened. His eyes rolled back. His body hovered in the water like a crucifixion. Stillness. Then collapse.
The older man—the robot—floated downward, eyes shut, arms now slack.
Above the surface, the hum ceased.
Reality snapped back into focus.
With a splash and desperate breath, the second man was yanked from the water by strong arms.
George.
Broad-shouldered, expressionless, eyes like obsidian. He dragged the soaked man out of the pool and onto the concrete deck in one fluid motion. His grip was firm but not cruel.
The man—Christopher Angle—choked and coughed, blinking wildly as the desert night returned to its sharp clarity. The sound of crickets. The hum of distant transformers. The smell of chlorine.
“What…” Chris wheezed, struggling to speak. “What just happened?”
George said nothing.
He looked toward the pool.
The surface continued to thrash and water spilled over the edges, in sharp relief to the stillness of everything else around them.
The other man was gone. Chris stared breathlessly at the pool for what felt like a minute. Nothing.
For the first time in his life, Chris couldn’t tell the difference between dream and reality.