- Prologue -
Living in the height of hierarchy in the beginning of the 21st century required much more effort than what was initially thought. It was important, in this day and age, more so than ever, to slot yourself into a group and reputation that both repulsed everyone and attracted them simultaneously. It was important to maintain an air of arrogance around you, enough so that people knew who they were talking to but not so much that one appeared ignorant to everyday matters. All in all, being so high up on a social ladder required tedious amounts of control and restraint, one that not everybody had.
But it was this same control and lack of conscious volition that made sure nobody stopped when a dull thud was heard in an otherwise silent street. It made sure that nobody paid so much as a second glance to the dead body intricately placed in the street after it caught their attention just on the outskirts of their peripheral vision. In their defence, the body didn't seem too out of place. After the incidences that had occurred in this very part of town, it was shocking, to say the least, that people still lived here, exercising that same restraint and self control that got them to this point in the first place.
It seemed that everything was normal. It seemed that there was nothing out of the ordinary; no body contorted into an inhumane position situated on the right of the road, the side that everyone managed to avoid without even looking at. Nobody complained about the stench of the decaying flesh that filled the air with a pungent odour, heightened by the blistering heat of the last day of June.
There were questions. There would always be questions and suspects and evidence and 'witnesses' when the higher end of the social spectrum was involved. It was always a matter of 'every man for himself' and that undeniable prospect terrified everyone. So, for now, they pretended like nothing was wrong. That they hadn't, in fact, seen a body being dropped off, no blood staining the perfectly aligned, concrete, tiled street, no blood from the wound that killed whoever was lying dead on the ground, the cleanliness eerily fitting in with the all too perfect view of the fancy serviced apartments that stood on either side of the road. But nobody dared complain. Not the last seven times. So why should this time be any different?