Inside Moore and Elean's Apartment
Elysium
Night
The room is bathed in the soft, amber glow of pendant lights, their light reflecting off rich wooden surfaces.
Elean places the final dish on the dining table, her gaze sweeping over the carefully placed settings. A soft sigh escapes her.
They should be here any minute now, she thinks to herself.
As if summoned by the thought, the lock clicks. The door swings open, and Moore steps inside, ushering in Teddy and Moineau.
Alright, this is our home.
Moore shrugs off his coat and finds its place on the entryway rack.
Make yourselves at home. Seriously, no need for formalities.
Teddy cuts a sharp glance toward Moore before her demeanor shifts seamlessly into one of perfect poise, extending a hand to Elean.
I'm Christina Norman. But just Teddy is fine.
It's lovely to meet you. Thank you for looking after Moore at work.
Moineau.
Elean extends her hand to Moineau, her expression visible with nervousness.
Once the formal handshakes conclude, Moore steps in, softening the tension with a gentle, reassuring hug.
Hey, why so tense? They're just my friends. Nothing to worry about.
With that, Moore leads the way to the dining table.
They settle into a stiff, silent circle, the air thick with unspoken words.
He fills the void by switching on the television—the evening news chattering brightly—before turning his full attention back to Teddy and Moineau.
So, I heard you two knew each other before you became partners at the bureau?
You heard?
Just some office gossip. You know how it is.
Figured you two might not hear much of it. You both keep to yourselves more than most.
Could you pass the mashed potatoes, please?
Moineau passes the dish of mashed potatoes to him.
That's correct. Teddy and I go way back.
Back then, she was a rather melancholy girl.
And even now...
Teddy shoots a sharp glare at Moore.
Sorry, my bad.
And here I thought you were the bureau's resident nice guy...
Why does everything lately remind me of that annoying man...
I just want to bond with my little sister. You know, I don't often have the chance!
Woah, is that all you've got to say to your brother?
...Forget it.
Teddy lets out a quiet sigh, her knife slicing into the steak with sudden, pointed force.
Under the table, Moore stifles a wince as Elean's shoe presses firmly onto his foot.
Are you into gardening, Elean?
Moineau glances around at the houseplants and flowers decorating the room.
Y-yes...
Elean startles at the conversation's sudden pivot toward her, reacting like a student caught daydreaming by a teacher's pointed question.
...?
It's just a little hobby.
It's a good hobby to have. The vegetation coverage in this city is at an appalling low, after all.
Right? Who knows where all of Elysium's tax money actually goes?
Like a pre-written script executing, Moore instinctively fills the silence, keeping the conversation moving.
That's tax alchemy for you.
These two are absolutely hopeless.
I just remembered I still have some plants that need watering...
Elean rises from her seat with an apologetic look.
Couldn't that wait until after dinner?
Elean doesn't answer. Instead, she simply turns and carries a plant from the living room corner out to the balcony.
As she passes, Teddy's gaze catches on a familiar-looking yellow-orange cup sitting on the windowsill. It's filled with soil, cradling a single, fiery orange-red flower.
...
Moore, how's your investigation coming along?
The Jack case? I've got some leads.
His record was spotless. He moved to Elysium five years ago and opened a high-end restaurant. The place has professional management, strong performance, and stable finances.
He was on a dating site. Dated three women. Two were one-time dinner meetings. The third, he met twice, but it didn't go anywhere.
I did field interviews today. Didn't turn up much.
The consensus is: "He's a decent guy, but too old-fashioned. Quiet. Honestly, a bit boring. Can you believe his favorite movie is The Terminating Robot? A story about a robot from the future sent back to assassinate the mother of humanity's future leader."
I guess that old-school type isn't really in style anymore.
...
What's the problem?
I searched his residence. His apartment is exceptionally clean and tidy, clearly well-maintained. For a single man, his habits were remarkably disciplined.
His fridge is fully stocked, including fresh fruit. Most single guys I know can't be bothered; they just take vitamin pills.
Breakfast at home, lunch at his restaurant, and dinner at home.
He had a home theater system and always watched a movie after dinner.
There are even three identical suits and a dedicated tie rack in his closet.
The guy lived a life of stability that most people can only dream of.
After saying this, he falls silent for a moment.
The only anomaly is his diary. He wrote:
<i>"Every time I look into the mirror, I see a man standing on a lone log floating down a river."</i>
<i>"Our past, our present, and our future."</i>
<i>"All of it is nothing but bubbles."</i>
<i>"You're dreaming in a locked room."</i>
<i>"If the world is but an illusion, and consciousness just a phantom..."</i>
This is the connection.
What did you say?
I've been thinking... Rioting machines appeared in both Christina's and Jack's cases. There must be some sort of connection between the two.
And that connection has to be the key to the killer's motive.
Both Jack and Christina questioned the nature of reality itself.
Are you saying we have a serial killer targeting people who believe the world isn't real?
That premise sounds absurd.
...
...There's another lead. His bank records show a weekly transfer, same time, every week. Payments to a psychological clinic.
I think the doctor's name is...
Welcome to Elysium Trending. Our guest today is a leading expert in psychology, Professor John.
Right. John. That's the name.
Our topic is a reportedly trending condition in our city: patients questioning whether the world around them is real. Is this a genuine phenomenon, or just another urban legend?
The table falls silent as all three of them turn to look at the TV. Moore turns up the volume.
On screen, a man sits poised on a sofa. He is impeccably dressed in a single-breasted gray suit with a white coat worn over it, a black-green striped tie perfectly mirroring the color of his eyes. His beard and hair are meticulously groomed.
He radiates a trustworthy aura, the kind that makes a patient surrender their doubts without a second thought.
Academically, we refer to this condition as "Derealization Disorder".
There is a school of thought in my field that posits that deep within the human psyche, there exists a powerful self-destructive tendency.
Perhaps some of you at home have felt this. When standing at a great height, looking down, a subtle impulse whispers in your mind...
"Jump."
Or when holding a blade, staring at its edge, a thought flickers...
"What if I use it on myself?"
Even with a gun in your hand, you might feel a compulsion to turn the barrel inward...
...And pull the trigger.
Um... Professor?
Getting back to "Derealization Disorder", the patients themselves share no clear commonalities. A successful restaurateur and a dockworker can both fall prey to doubting their reality.
In fact, setting my professional role aside, I can empathize with the impulse to question the authenticity of our world.
Professor, are you suggesting that...
He flounders, the thread of the conversation slipping through his mental grasp.
Consider that our conscious mind is merely the co-pilot of the body. So what, then, sits in the driver's seat?
That "pilot" varies. For some, it is "instinct." For others, "emotion," or simply "habit"...
And from the passenger seat, you look out and see the reason to "jump."
You see an exquisite world: vast, beautiful, and cruel, operating in endless, intricate cycles.
Faced with such a spectacle, who wouldn't pause to wonder: Is the world I live in truly real?
The man's voice is calm, methodical, laying out a philosophy that borders on heresy.
With every word, something long buried begins to stir inside you.
You are in the passenger seat, your neck straining as you fight to look up.
You look up.
And you see—
Christina's/Your face.
Click.
The television screen dies, plunging the room into a sudden, ringing silence. Elean stands in the living room, her expression utterly unreadable.
...
I'm looking into that psychologist tomorrow.
The dinner gathering dissolves into quiet goodbyes, each guest retreating into the silence of their own thoughts.
On her way out, Teddy's gaze drifts to the living room windowsill. The yellow-orange cup is gone, relocated to the balcony by Elean.
What's that flower called? The orange-red one on your balcony.
...Sorrow's end.
It's really beautiful.
Teddy turns and leaves, but the image of the cup stays with her, vivid and unresolved.
(Why do I feel that cup was meant for holding serum?)
(Serum... but what serum?)
Moore clears the table while Elean washes dishes in the kitchen.
You can just leave the washing to me.
...
Elean doesn't respond, leaving the room in an unsettling stillness.
Why did you choose to become an inspector?
...I must pursue the truth.
This isn't your responsibility.
...
And from the passenger seat, you look out and see the reason to "jump."
You see an exquisite world: vast, beautiful, and cruel, operating in endless, intricate cycles.
Faced with such a spectacle, who wouldn't pause to wonder: Is the world I live in truly real?
The man's voice is calm, methodical, laying out a philosophy that borders on heresy.
With every word, something long buried begins to stir inside you.
You are in the passenger seat, your neck straining as you fight to look up.
You look up.
And you see—
A woman in a black dress lies in a pool of crimson.
Elean.
Is this world... real?
Crash!
A porcelain plate slips from Elean's grasp, exploding into a constellation of white shards on the dark marble.
She spins, her eyes wide in shock and fixed on him.
And in her expression, Moore finally hears his own words.
No... I didn't mean it like that. I was just wondering why Jack would think that way...
