MICHAEL SULLIVAN: NEW DYNASTY

— 5 —

The taxi rumbled through the quiet streets of the city's eastern district. By now they were far from the perfect lawns and huge gates of the Medici estate.

As Michael stared out the window, he couldn't help thinking that his neighborhood seemed so grey and normal in comparison. The wooden box justled around in the booth behind him.

“You need help with that thing?” the Chauffeur asked as they pulled up to Michael's apartment building.

“I've got it,” Michael muttered as he reached for his wallet. The fare took nearly half of what remained in his account. Worth it to escape that mansion, he told himself.

He hauled the box up four flights of stairs. By the time he reached his door, his arms were burning from weight and strain. After fumbling with the key for several minutes, he shouldered his way into the cramped studio apartment.

He flicked on the lights, revealing his poor living space: a futon that doubled as a couch, a kitchenette with mismatched dishes, and a small desk cluttered with newspaper route maps and bills marked "FINAL NOTICE."

His phone buzzed. A text from Alexis.

‘Did you survive the dragon's lair? What happened?’

Michael stared at the message. How could he even begin to explain the bizarre inheritance contest?

‘It was crazy’ he typed. ‘Frank is dying. He's holding a contest to determine who inherits.’

The reply came quickly: ‘A contest? The hell is that supposed to mean?! What do you have to do to win?’

‘Generate value from his gifts or something like that. Everyone else got companies and expensive stuff. I got a box.’

‘What's in the box?’ asked Alexis.

Michael glanced at the dusty container sitting in the middle of his floor. He hadn't even checked yet.

‘Don't know. Haven't opened it.’

‘ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Open it now!’

Michael sighed and moved toward the box. Whatever Frank Medici had given him, it wouldn't change anything. This "contest" was clearly designed to mock him, that much he was sure of.

He found a screwdriver in a drawer and worked at the rusted clasps. They gave way with a loud screech and sent up a cloud of dust that made him cough. He gave himself a minute to get the cough under control before he llifted the heavy wooden lid.

“What the hell...”

Inside lay what appeared to be a woman. The figure was curled on its side, eyes closed as if sleeping. Its skin was as smooth and fair as Jade. While blonde hair framed a delicately crafted face.

Jesus Christ!" Michael shouted, stumbling backward so fast he knocked over a lamp. It crashed to the floor, the bulb shattering. "Oh my God, oh my God!"

His hands shook violently as he fumbled for his phone, nearly dropping it twice before managing to text Alexis.

’Alexis! There's a dead woman in the box. A DEAD WOMAN!’ Michael typed furiously.

‘What?’ Her reply came immediately. ‘Wait, are you serious?’

‘You think I’d joke about something like this?’ Michael replied as he paced frantically around the box. ‘Frank gave me a box with a dead woman in it. She's just...lying there. Pale. Not moving. What do I do? Do I call the police? Oh God, is this some kind of frame-up?’

‘Michael, breathe,’ Alexis commanded. ‘Just breathe for a second. Are you absolutely sure she's dead? Have you checked for a pulse?’

‘Are you insane? I'm not touching a corpse!’

‘Okay, okay. Just... send me a picture.’

‘A picture? Of a dead body? What the hell dude?’

’Michael,’ Alexis cut him off, ‘calm down. Just send me a picture. Now.’

Still trembling, Michael inched forward and snapped a photo of the figure in the box, then immediately retreated to the far corner of his apartment.

‘Sent it,’ he whispered. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do with a body? Frank must be completely psychotic. Maybe this is his sick idea of a joke, or—’

‘Michael,’ Alexis texted. ‘That's not a dead woman.’

‘What are you talking about? You can clearly see it.’

‘I'm sending you something. Look closely.’

His phone pinged with a new message. Alexis had sent back his photo, but cropped and zoomed in on the figure's neck. Michael squinted his eyes as he noticed blue geometric lines running beneath the skin.

‘See those lines?’ Alexis asked. ‘That's not human. It's synthetic.’

Michael squinted at the screen. ‘What, like... a doll?’

‘Not a doll,’ Alexis said. ‘An android. I remember reading about these a few years back. I think it a tech company was developing them, actually. They only ever released concept images and a few demo videos. The project never hit the market because of some technical issues or something like that. Most people said they just didn't have enough money to pull it off.’ Alexis paused. Then his text came again: ‘Michael, do you realize what you might have there?’

Michael approached the box again, this time more cautiously. ‘An android," he texted back, relief washing through him. ‘Not a dead body.’

‘Definitely not a dead body,’ Alexis confirmed. ‘Though I have to say, your reaction was priceless.’

‘Shut up, man’ Michael muttered. The adrenaline was still flooding through his system, making him light-headed. ‘You would've freaked out too.’

‘Maybe,’ Alexis conceded. ‘But seriously, Michael, this could be valuable. Those androids were supposed to be incredibly advanced. The company spent billions making them. Though, that was several years ago.”

‘Great, so it's junk,’ Michael typed back harshly. ‘While the others got multi-million dollar assets, I got an old sex doll.’

‘That is NOT what that looks like and you know it. This could be valuable.’

Michael glanced back at the android. Its face was serene, almost human but not quite. It was too perfect, too symmetrical. He reached out hesitantly and touched its arm. It was cold but it felt so real.

‘It's probably broken,’ he wrote. ‘Why else would Frank give it to me?’

‘Remember what you told me he said? Something about potential being more valuable than possession? Maybe there's more to this.’

Michael closed the box lid forcefully. He couldn't deal with this tonight.

‘I'm going to bed. I'll figure out what to do with it tomorrow.’

‘Promise me you won't throw it away without examining it properly.’

‘Fine,’ he responded. ‘Goodnight bro.’

‘Night, Michael. And seriously, be careful with that thing. If it's what I think it might be...’

Michael didn't wait for him to finish the thought. He dragged the box to his closet and shoved it inside. Out of sight, out of mind.

He collapsed onto his futon, still wearing his rented suit, and stared at the ceiling. The faces of the Medici siblings floated in his memory. And Hillary... Hillary looking through him like he was nothing.

Then there was Frank. The man who'd abandoned his mother, who'd left them to struggle while he built his empire. Now, in his final months, he'd summoned Michael just to humiliate him one last time.

“I hate you,” Michael whispered to the empty room. “I hate all of you.”

But as exhaustion pulled him toward sleep, it wasn't hatred he felt but something more dangerous. He felt a desperate, foolish hope that there might be a way out for him after all.