The Devil Of Red

Chapter 1: Coffee and Chaos

Alexander Voss sat on his worn-out couch, a book resting in his hands, its pages soaked in the fictional exploits of a detective far smarter than his environment deserved. The quiet hum of his small apartment was punctuated only by the soft thud of his foot tapping idly on the floor.

He sighed, closing the book with a soft snap. "I need coffee," he muttered, standing up.

Ordinary people might trudge to their kitchen or, for the less fortunate, brave the outdoors to find caffeine. But Alexander was no ordinary person. He was Alexander Voss, wielder of limitless technological power, capable of bending the digital and material worlds to his whims.

With a flick of his fingers, a holographic menu appeared mid-air, the options shimmering in crimson light. He scrolled through an invisible database of every coffee brand on Earth, then plucked his choice—a high-end, overpriced imported blend that promised "notes of caramel and existential dread."

The corner of his mouth twitched as he focused on the image of the coffee canister. A soft whirr filled the air, and with a faint flash, the canister materialized in his hand. He turned it over, admiring his handiwork. "Perfect. And no lines."

Alexander was about to make his way back to the apartment when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye.

A man approached—or rather, something resembling a man. Half his face gleamed with metallic implants, his left arm a series of pistons and wires, and his gait was a calculated swagger, marred only slightly by the clunk of mismatched metal boots.

The cyborg stopped a few feet away, his one organic eye narrowing as he spoke in a voice laden with static. "You've got a lot of nerve flaunting power like that in public."

Alexander tilted his head, holding up the coffee canister. "This?"

"You know what I mean," the cyborg sneered. "Guys like you think you're untouchable. But some of us," he tapped his chest, metal clinking ominously, "aren't afraid to—"

"Uh-huh," Alexander interrupted, inspecting his pen as if it were the most fascinating object in the world. "Do you have a point, or are you just malfunctioning in my general direction?"

The cyborg clenched his fists, his mechanical joints grinding audibly. "You're dead, smart guy."

Alexander gave a small sigh. "This is what I get for leaving the apartment." He raised his pen—a sleek, black stylus with a glowing red tip—and lightly tapped the cyborg on the chest.

For a moment, nothing happened. The cyborg smirked, about to taunt him again, when a soft beep emanated from the spot where the pen touched.

BOOM!

The cyborg exploded in a shower of sparks and gears, leaving behind a faint smell of burnt circuits and overcooked ham. Alexander stood there, unbothered, brushing a speck of soot off his sleeve.

He turned back toward his apartment, muttering to himself. "All this drama over coffee. Next time, I'm just ordering tea."