Andrey hit a pothole on Science Avenue at 8:43 AM.

The impact was hard. The suspension cracked, coffee splashed from the cup onto his jeans.

In the “old world” (about ten years ago), Andrey would be cursing right now. Then he’d get out, kick the wheel. Then he’d imagine calling the police, waiting three hours for them, collecting paperwork, going to court, and a year later receiving a response that the pothole met regulations.

Andrey would have felt the familiar, sticky helplessness of a small person before a huge, bloated state machine.

But now it was the year 2035.

Andrey simply straightened the wheel.

His phone buzzed briefly in his pocket.

He glanced at the screen without slowing down. A push notification from the “Citizen” app:

Event: Traffic incident, road surface damage.

Location: Sector 7, Route E-95.

Analysis: Accelerometer and suspension data confirm liability of road maintenance contractor.

Resolution: Repair compensation (3,400 credits) credited to your account.

Action: Smart contract of “Roads-South” contractor fined. Repair drone dispatched.

The entire procedure took 0.4 seconds.

No stress. No bribes. Just the cold mathematics of the blockchain moving digits from the wallet of a negligent official (or rather, the algorithm that replaced him) to the wallet of the victim.

Andrey took a sip of coffee. Delicious.

At the traffic light, he pulled up beside a massive black SUV. Windows tinted to zero, license plates “connected” - triple sevens. Inside sat a ghost of the past.

The SUV decided that waiting for green was for losers. It roared its engine, cut Andrey off across the double solid line, and shot forward.

Out of habit, Andrey’s heart clenched. “He’ll get away with it. He has connections. He’s allowed.”

The phone buzzed again.

Andrey didn’t even look. He knew what was there.

Cameras, satellites, and lidars from neighboring cars had already recorded the violation.

No traffic cop in the bushes was deciding whether to stop him or not. No one was calling a “respected person” to sort things out.

The algorithm doesn’t care who you are. The algorithm doesn’t care whose crony you are.

The algorithm has no pockets to put a bribe in.

Andrey imagined how somewhere in the cloud, the SUV driver’s rating had instantly burned. How his ability to use toll roads got blocked. How his insurance increased tenfold the exact second of the violation.

The SUV was still driving, engine roaring, but it was already an economic corpse. The owner would find out when he tried to refuel and saw on the terminal: “Declined. Insufficient rating.”

Andrey drove past the central square.

It was crowded. Music playing, balloons flying. The President stood on the podium.

He was handsome. Tanned, with a dazzling smile, in a perfectly tailored suit. He was cutting a ribbon at the opening of a new hologram park.

He was saying something about “our great future” and “the power of unity.”

Andrey looked at him with a gentle, kind smile. The way you look at an entertainer in a Mickey Mouse costume.

No one listened to the President seriously.

Everyone knew: this handsome man decides nothing. He can’t declare war - the algorithm won’t give access to the codes if it’s economically unfeasible (and war is always unprofitable). He can’t steal the budget - every cent is marked in the blockchain, impossible to cash out “off the books.”

He can’t imprison an innocent person - trials happen in the cloud in milliseconds based on facts, not a call from the administration.

The President was needed for the show. For tourists. So grandmothers had someone to love on television.

Real power belonged to the code.

The code was boring. It didn’t give speeches. It had no ambitions, complexes, childhood traumas, or desire to go down in history.

It simply distributed energy.

Andrey parked by the office.

In the corner of his phone screen hung a small notification:

Pothole repair on Science Avenue. Status: Repair complete.

Andrey got out of the car.

The air was clean.

There was no fear.

The state was no longer a father to fear, or a bandit to pay tribute to.

It had become what it should have always been.

A convenient, invisible service. Like pizza delivery.

Andrey lit up (vape, of course - harmful, but his health rating allowed it).

He looked at the sky.

Up there, high above, drones glided silently, carrying cargo, medicine, and data.

“Boring life we live,” he thought.

And smiled.