Date: 16th January 2011 (Bristol, England)
The night had settled heavily over Bristol, wrapping the city in a biting cold that seemed to seep through every layer of clothing. It was only around seven in the evening, but the streets were already dim, lit by pale yellow streetlights and the occasional glow from passing cars. A thin mist hung in the air, making the cold feel sharper, almost alive.
Despite the freezing weather, one part of the city was unusually lively today.
At the far end of an upscale neighborhood stood a grand house, glowing warmly under decorative lights. Cars of every kind—luxury sedans, polished black SUVs, and even a few vintage models—lined the street outside. Soft music drifted into the night, mixed with laughter and the murmur of conversation.
Inside house, a retirement party was in full swing.
The occasion was special. It was a farewell celebration for Professor Brandon Taylor, a name well-known in both academic and elite circles. A respected figure in psychology, he had spent decades for teaching, researching, and shaping minds. Now, he had decided to retire.
The guest list reflected his influence. As many rich individuals were present at the party.
Wealthy businessmen, politicians, scholars, and social elites filled the halls of his home. Their elegant outfits, confident smiles, and effortless conversations made the place feel less like a house and more like a gathering of celebrities.
Amidst all of this, a modest car slowly pulled up near the gate.
Inside the car sat a man named Denver Jackson, his hands firm on the steering wheel. Beside him was his wife, Elle, who kept adjusting her coat as if trying to shake off both the cold and her uneasiness. In the backseat, their two children sat quietly—David, a ten-year-old boy with curious eyes, and Daisy, a cheerful seven-year-old who couldn't stop looking out the window.
"We're here," Denver said softly.
Elle gave a small nod, though her expression showed hesitation. "This place… it's bigger than I imagined."
Denver let out a light breath. "Yeah. It's been a long time."
They stepped out of the car, the cold immediately hitting them. The warmth from inside the house looked inviting, but something about the place also felt distant—like it didn't quite belong to them. Still, they walked in.
The moment they entered, the contrast was clear. The warmth, the lighting, the polished floors, the neatly arranged decorations—it all felt too perfect. Conversations paused for just a second as a few guests glanced their way. It wasn't obvious, but it was enough. The kind of look that didn't need words.
Denver noticed it. Elle noticed it even more. She leaned slightly closer to him. "Maybe we shouldn't have come…," Denver shook his head gently. "It's fine. He invited us." But even he couldn't fully hide his discomfort. Meanwhile, the children were completely unaffected.
David and Daisy quickly wandered off, their curiosity and excitement was stronger than any sense of awkwardness. They moved from one corner to another, looking at decorations, food tables, and even peeking into rooms. "Hey—wait," Denver called, but they were already gone. Before he could follow them, a voice stopped him.
"Denver? Denver Jackson? Is that actually you?"
Denver turned to see a man approaching with a wide, predatory grin. He wore a tuxedo that probably cost more than the whole outfits Denver's family wore today and he held a crystal glass of scotch like it was a scepter with a confident smile on his face.
"Max?" Denver blinked, surprised.
It's been what—twenty years?" Max said, stepping forward. "Yeah… something like that," Denver replied, shaking his hand.
Max Benson, They had been close friends once. Back in their college days, they had studied together under Professor Taylor. Life had taken them in different directions since then.
Max looked Denver up and down, his smile changed slightly. "So… how have you been?".
"I've been alright," Denver said.
Max let out a small chuckle. "Just alright?"
his eyes were busy scanning Denver's outfit with a smirk. He didn't wait for a reply before launching into a monologue. "I heard you stayed local. Teaching? Or was it research? I can't keep track of everyone who stayed in the city. I moved to London right after graduation. Benson Logistics—maybe you've seen the trucks? We're international now. Just closed a merger in Dubai last week."
"That's... impressive, Max. Truly," Denver said, trying to be polite. Max took a sip from his drink. "You know, I always thought you'd do something big. Back then, you were one of the brightest among us."
Denver smiled lightly. "Well... things don't always go as planned." Max shrugged. "I guess not. I mean, look at me—I built a business in London on my own. Multiple branches now. It's been… quite a journey."
Elle's jaw tightened. She stepped forward to speak, but Denver caught her hand and squeezed it gently. He just laughed simply. Max continued, almost casually, "Some people move forward… but some just stay where they are."
That was enough.
Elle stepped in slightly. "I think everyone has their own path." Max glanced at her, then back at Denver, amused. "Of course. Of course." Max chuckled, patted Denver's shoulder a little, and wandered off toward a group of VIPs, his ego sufficiently fed.
Denver just laughed it off and said to Elle "He's always been like this".
The room suddenly fell silent as a spotlight hit the grand staircase. Professor Taylor descended slowly. He was a man who carried the weight of his seventy years with a regal grace. His white hair was neatly swept back, and his eyes, sharp and piercing behind spectacles, scanned the room with the practiced ease of a man who understood the human psyche better than anyone alive. He reached the podium and began to speak. His voice was a rich and loud that commanded absolute attention.
"My dear friends," he said, his voice steady and clear, "thank you for being here tonight."
He spoke about his journey—his years of teaching, his research, the students he had mentored, and the life he had lived. There was pride in his words, but also a quiet reflection.
Then, his tone shifted.
"What separates humans from other creatures?" he continued, "It's not just intelligence… but the ability to think beyond limits... "For forty years, I have stared into the abyss of the human mind," Taylor began. "We call ourselves the masters of this planet, not because of our strength or our speed, but because of this three-pound organ between our ears. It is the seat of every miracle, every war, every symphony."
"Our brain… is our greatest tool. And yet, we still don't fully understand it fully." He paused, letting the words sink in. "People often say we use only a fraction of our brain. Whether that is entirely true or not is not the point. The real question is… what if we could use it fully?"
While the 'ten percent' myth is scientifically flawed, the truth is even more haunting: we do not use our brains efficiently. We are like children having a supercomputer but using it only to hammer nails."
Professor Taylor picked up a document from a nearby table and said, "I have spent my whole life seeking the key to unlock that efficiency. To reach the one hundred percent of the human brain—the point where biological thought becomes something... more. Something world-changing."
"This," he held up the papers slightly, "contains years of my work. My conclusions", "But…" he lowered it, "it is not yet ready to be revealed.", "The answer to the human evolution lies within these papers," he said, tapping the envelope. "There are final touches to be made, safety protocols to be verified. I cannot reveal the contents tonight, "There is still something left to be done. And when that is complete… what I have discovered could change humanity itself."
Then, slowly, the room filled with applause. The speech was ended, but the air remained heavy with thought. As the crowd began to move again, Professor Taylor's eyes shifted across the room—and stopped.
He saw Denver. A faint smile appeared on his face. He walked over. "Denver?" he said warmly, his face was softening into a genuine smile. "I was worried and thought you wouldn't come."
"I wouldn't miss it, Professor," Denver said, shaking his hand. He introduced Elle and the children. Professor Taylor patted David's head, looking at him with a strange intensity. "Congratulations Professor," Denver said. "You've achieved so much."
Max quickly stepped in. "Professor, I was just telling him about my business—" But Professor Taylor barely acknowledged him. Instead, his focus remained on Denver. Max's expression darkened slightly. Denver introduced his family. "This is my wife, Elle. My son, David. And my daughter, Daisy." Professor Taylor greeted them kindly. Max, feeling ignored, quietly excused himself, though his irritation was clear. As Denver and the professor spoke, discussing old times and bits of research, David stood nearby.
That's when he noticed something strange. He looked toward the buffet line and noticed a waiter standing near a marble pillar. The man wasn't holding a tray. He was dressed in the standard white-and-black uniform, but he wasn't serving drinks. He was staring—not at the crowd, but specifically at his father and the Professor. His eyes were cold, unblinking. At first glance, there was nothing unusual. But the man kept looking in their direction. Not just casually—his gaze lingered, focused, almost too aware.
David frowned slightly.
The man looked away quickly when their eyes almost met. Something about it didn't feel right. But before David could think more about it, the moment passed. The party slowly came to an end. The Guests began to leave, cars pulling away into the cold night.
Denver and his family returned home. The drive was silent. The children fell asleep quickly once they reached their modest suburban house, exhausted by the late hour. But as soon as the door clicked shut, the atmosphere changed. Denver didn't take off his coat. He stood in the living room, and breathing heavy, his eyes darting toward the window. He looked like a man possessed by a sudden, frantic energy.
"Honey? What is it? You've been acting strange since we left the party," Elle said, her voice trembling. He moved quickly, almost restlessly, heading straight to their room. Without explaining much, he pulled out a suitcase and began packing. Elle followed him. "What are you doing?"
"I need to go out," Denver said. "At this hour?" She asked, concerned. "It's almost eleven, It's freezing and pitch black outside!!"
"I have to meet someone, Elle. It's urgent. I can't explain it now, but I'll be back soon. Just... please, go to sleep. Lock the doors." Elle stepped closer. "Important enough to leave now?" Denver didn't meet her eyes. "I won't be long." He moved to a drawer, opened it, and took something out before slipping it into his pocket.
David, standing quietly in the hallway, watched everything. Elle sighed. "Just… come back soon". "I will," Denver said and then left. The cold night greeted him again as he got into his car. the tires crunching over the frozen gravel. As he drove, he pulled out his mobile phone and dialed a number.
"It's me," Denver said to the receiver, his voice cracking. "It's about time. We have to do it. We're going to do it tonight."
After ending the call, he opened the suitcase slightly while driving. Inside the suitcase he took a revolver. He reached into his pocket, feeling the cold weight of the revolver. He checked the cylinder; six rounds, silver and lethal, glinted in the dashboard light. He slammed the cylinder shut and pressed the accelerator, the car fishtailing slightly on the ice as he sped toward the city center.
Two hours later, Denver walked into a dive bar on the outskirts of Bristol's industrial district. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap cigarettes. In a corner booth there's sat a woman wearing a dark trench coat and a masquerade-style mask that obscured the upper half of her face.
Denver sat down across from her. Neither ordered a drink.
"Is it done?" the woman asked, her voice was low, melodic rasp. "Is he dead?"
Denver stared at his hands. They were shaking. "Yes," he whispered. Then he didn't wait for her reaction. He stood up and walked out of the bar, started his car to go.
As he drove back through the city, the silence of the night was shattered by the wail of sirens. One, two, four... a dozen police cars screamed past him, their blue lights strobing against the fog-covered buildings. They were all heading toward the center of the city. Denver didn't look back. He kept his eyes fixed on the road until he reached his own driveway.
When he finally reached home, Elle was waiting. "You went out at midnight just to meet a friend?" she said, clearly upset. Denver gave a tired smile and said "It's important for me to met him alright, now let's get to sleep"
She didn't seem convinced. "Go to sleep," Denver said gently. He walked past her, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards. He entered his room and closed the door. In the silence of the room, he pulled the revolver from his pocket. The barrel was cold. He opened the drawer, placed the weapon back inside, and locked it with a trembling hand.
He leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the desk, listening to the distant, fading sirens outside and then simply went to sleep.