The city was darker than ever. The blackness enveloped Malick like a dense liquid. His footsteps echoed in the silence.

He had to get out. He feared they could be after him already.

The streets were cold, arid, lifeless. No one around. An endless river of articulated driverless trucks, flying past, their tyres muffled by sound-canceling technology.

It had been years since he had seen a street. He gazed at the sheer size of the masses surrounding him.

Unaware of the hundreds of cameras tracking his every step, he tried to reach the central station of the megacity, walking close to the walls and endeavouring to stay in the shadows.

Every now and then he caught a glimpse of uniformed dark figures in alleys or on board small black vans, which sometimes emerged from the sea of trucks on the suspended highways.

As soon as he saw them, he instantly changed direction, seeking to hide from sight.

Colossal orange lanterns high above, beyond the flyovers and bridges connecting the massive residential blocks, hardly lit anything.

Malick was out of breath. He was desperate. He feared he would be finished if he was caught.

The city extended in infinite directions, as well as deep down towards an abyss of underground basements. Above him a forest of sky-high, degraded towers of steel.

He frantically sped down metal stairs, through wet, stench-filled tunnels, across vertiginous bridges, a spherical maze of entangled concrete expressways, electrical cables and sewage tubes.

But the more he tried to escape the more he seemed to find he was back on streets he recognized. The city seemed to push him to where it wanted him to go.

Hours passed. The central station was nowhere to be seen. Had there ever been a central station? He stopped and observed, leaning on his walking stick, out of breath and covered in sweat under his mantle.

Then he caught sight of a manhole. And he had an idea. Using his stick as a lever, he managed to move the heavy metal cover and slip down the narrow chute. When he emerged, a few yards away, he was shocked. As he had feared, things were not what they seemed.

The facades of all the gargantuan buildings around him were attached to giant mechanical arms, moving them, like industrial cranes, to create impressions of streets, squares and spaces, which weren’t actually there. Combinations of structures assembled to resemble city streets. But as Malick observed in horror, there was nothing before him, but an illusion.

At that very moment, the social media integrity militia pulled up beside him in a black van, and he was swallowed into the metal vehicle’s bowels.

Malick was tortured. His old bones cracked, his mind snapped. He was found guilty in 34 seconds, thanks to a portable social media feed analysis scanner in the van.

A society based on a delicate paradigm. A logic designed to firmly hold together the totality of society’s collective mind.

‘Your opinions do not comply with socially accepted opinions,’ the guard in black with a thumbs-up logo on his cap shouted in Malick’s ear.

‘Your opinions have been marked as unacceptable by a very high number of users, I’m afraid, Sir,’ another one said, taking down notes on a typewriter, 'and you attempted to deactivate your social interactions account.'

‘Your ratings are unacceptably low. And in addition to this, you roam the streets. At this time of night!’

‘What on earth could you need at this time?’ a third militiaman screamed in his face, spluttering saliva into his eyes. ‘There are no shops, there is no food, there is no drink! You should order! Order! ORDER!’’

Malick tried to speak but realized he had no idea how. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had uttered a word. Had he indeed ever spoken?