Then VY?1’s High Level Gala finally comes into view, and of course it looks like it has been waiting for us. Not like a building. Like a stage.
The base of the structure is wrapped in security. Sentinel posts every few meters. Drones gliding in slow, lazy arcs above the crowd. Discreet scanners built into the ground so no one has to see the check happen, only the result.
In front of the main entrance, the city has rolled out its favourite lie: a long strip of synthetic red that cuts through the plaza like a wound. Guests step out of sleek cars straight onto the carpet, scores glowing politely on their wrists while cameras drink them in from every angle.
Skylumes hang above the fa?ade in a loose halo, projecting sponsored visuals across the glass: brand logos, curated quotes about excellence, looping slow?motion shots of last year’s gala. Every time an important amplifier poses on the carpet, the projections shift to frame them, like the tower is updating its own advertisement in real time.
Behind the barricades, people who will never set foot inside press up against the transparent shields. Some hold up phones, hoping their feeds will catch a fragment of the spectacle. Others just stare, faces washed in the pale light of videoprojectors that replay the red?carpet feed on nearby walls with a five?second delay, as if reality needs buffering.
Security staff in dark uniforms form a human funnel around the VIP lane, earpieces in, eyes always moving. A few paparazzi drones hover higher than the official cameras, lenses blinking red as they try to steal angles the tower does not control. Every time one dips too low, a Sentinel looks up and it retreats just enough.
Out here, everything screams stay out.
Up there, everything shines come in.
We, of course, do not go anywhere near the carpet.
Jax pulls us into a service lane along the side of the tower. No drones. No velvet ropes. Just a metal door with a STAFF tag and a security camera that looks bored. The road here is too clean, too quiet, like even the city noise has been filtered before it’s allowed this close.
“Earpieces on,” he says, twisting in his seat. “Last chance to pretend this is a normal catering job.”
If I had to describe it, I would say this: someone took a black glass needle, drove it into the poorest part of Vyra, then let it bloom at the top.
From the street, it is terrifying. From the system’s point of view, it is perfect.
STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY: 99.9%
RESONANCE THROUGHPUT CRITICAL
CITIZEN ACCESS TIER: RESTRICTED
Most people would see a monument. I see a machine.
And some stupid part of me leans into the risk like it is fresh air.
We click the in-ears into place, small and almost invisible behind the ear…
My bracelet vibrates once. A soft system ping.
TRANSIT: → VY?1 HIGH LEVEL GALA
DEPARTURE:
STATUS: YOU HAVE ARRIVED AT YOUR DESTINATION
Jax pulls us into a narrow service lane that runs along the base of the tower. The road here is too clean, too quiet, like the city holds its breath around certain kinds of money.?
He kills the engine and checks the mirrors like we are just another rideshare drop?off.
“Okay,” he says. “I got you across half the city, through two checkpoints and one traffic jam caused by a flaming delivery bot. No one arrested, no one bleeding. That’s a five?star ride.”?
He thumbs toward the tower. “From here, your survival rating is on you. Earpieces on. Last chance to pretend this is a normal catering job.”
We click the in-ears into place, small and almost invisible behind the ear. The world sharpens by a few degrees, like someone added an extra audio layer over reality.
“Comms check,” Zera’s voice slides into my ear, calm, compressed. “Kai?”
“Here.”
“Aren?”
“Listening.”
“Elian?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Stick to the plan. West staff entrance for Kai and Aren. Medical intake for Elian. I will ping if anything shifts.”
The doors open with a tired metal groan. Cold air rolls in, smelling like rain on polished stone and exhaust.
We step out. From here we do not see the glittering hall, only the underside of the machine: loading docks, steel doors, cables and conduits climbing the walls like exposed nerves. The servants’ arteries.
Jax leans sideways in his seat, watching us with that almost?fond, almost?annoyed look.
“Go make me proud and slightly less stressed,” he says. “Text me if you die. Or, you know, before, that works too.”
Aren clips him on the shoulder as he passes. “Keep the engine warm.”
EXFIL DRIVER STATUS – ON STANDBY
EXTRACTION VEHICLE – READY
Elian peels off at the first junction toward a door marked MEDICAL ACCESS. Its light blinks in a discreet, expensive way. Two guards in tailored uniforms check bracelets with the lazy efficiency of people who trust the system more than their own eyes. Jean Sevorich’s ghost profile flashes on their console, clean and legitimate.
IDENTITY SPOOF – ACTIVE
PROFILE CHECK – AUTHORIZED
I only realise I have been holding my breath when the door shuts behind him and my lungs stumble back into work.
BREATH RATE:
STRESS MARKERS: ELEVATED
RECOMMENDATION: CALM DOWN (IGNORED)
“See?” Aren murmurs. “Easy.”
Ours is next.
We merge into the flow of servers heading for the STAFF entrance. Black uniforms, empty trays, blurred faces. A scan bar flickers at wrist height; a camera sweeps the line, tasting everyone once.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
My alias, Devon Marsh, blinks up on a small screen above the gate. No alarm. No red. No delay.
ACCESS POINT – STAFF GATE WEST
BRACELET AUTH – GREEN
STATUS:AUTHORIZED
The knot between my shoulders loosens just enough to remind me how tight it was.
Beside me, Aren smiles, completely at ease. It is the kind of smile that says he has never bothered to draw up a plan where he fails.
CONFIDENCE LEVEL (AREN): 91%
RISK PERCEPTION (AREN): ADJUSTED / LOW
The server manager waits on the other side, tablet clutched like a life support device. His sleeves are already rolled up, hair receding faster than his patience. He hands out assignments without looking at faces, only at names and sectors.
“Cloakroom. North corridor. Main bar. Mezzanine…”
His gaze lands on Aren, drags slowly down and back up, taking in the shoulders, the posture, the way the uniform sits like it signed a contract. Then his eyes slide to me. There is a visible drop in enthusiasm.
“You look young,” he says, like it’s a crime I committed on purpose. “We asked HR for experienced staff. Or, I don’t know, a server?bot that knows left from right.”
He tilts the tablet just enough that I catch a glimpse of a red line.
SERVICE AUTOMATION QUOTA – REACHED
REQUEST – ADDITIONAL UNITS: DENIED
“Upper floors get the hardware,” he grumbles. “Down here we get hands that shake when someone important clears their throat.”
For a second, I imagine chrome?perfect drones gliding through this hall instead of me. No trembling fingers, no pounding heart, no stolen brother on the to?do list. Just obedient code.
HEART RATE:
TASK FOCUS:
UNDERLYING DRIVE:
Aren does not hesitate. “He is cheaper,” he says. “And he does not need charging.”
The manager snorts, a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough.
“Fantastic. A bargain human. When one of you drops a tray on a seven?point?zero, be sure to remind them I wanted an AI.”
He swipes on the tablet with a little too much force.
“Grand hall,” he says. “Both of you. Do not spill, do not talk unless someone with money talks first, and if a guest complains, I have never seen your faces in my life.”
- MISSION PARAMETERS UPDATED:
SECTOR: GRAND HALL
ROLE: SERVICE (LOW THREAT, HIGH VISIBILITY)
FAILURE COST: SOCIAL SCORE LOSS / LETHAL RISK (CONTEXTUAL)
“Understood,” Aren replies.
I adjust my grip on the tray, feel the weight of glass and borrowed identity settle into my hands, and step toward the noise and light of the tower’s heart.
We move down a long corridor until the noise begins to change shape. Voices swell and blend, music leaks through the walls, the clink of glass turns into a constant, glittering backdrop.
Then the grand hall opens in front of us like a stage built entirely out of money and reflected light.
For a moment, my legs forget how to move. There is too much of everything. Too many mirrored surfaces, too many scores glowing at wrists and throats and doorframes. Every person here is half human, half user interface.
Aren leans in slightly.
“Goal,” he says quietly. “We find Lix. Then we walk out. In that order.”
I nod, lock my eyes on a point somewhere past the chandeliers.
“Say it,” he insists. “Why are we here?”
“We are here because he is here,” I say. “And because they do not get to keep him.”
BIO?MONITOR ACCESS – ACTIVE
CLEARANCE TIER – MEDICAL PRIORITY
“He is in position,” I murmur.
Aren exhales. “Great. Golden boy’s in. Maybe he’ll send us a postcard from the VIP organs fridge.”
“Focus,” Elian’s voice cuts softly through the comms. “Some of us are trying to look professional.”
“Relax,” Aren says under his breath. “You were born looking like a corporate training sim.”
TEAM COMMS – LOW?LEVEL BICKERING DETECTED MISSION IMPACT – NEGLIGIBLE (FOR NOW)
“Then stop breathing like they are going to shoot you for picking up the wrong glass,” Aren adds for me. “You have a tray and a badge. Act like you belong.”
“Easy for you,” I answer. “You were built for rooms like this.”
He gives me a sideways look. “That is not a compliment.”
“It was not meant to be.”
“Both of you,” Elian says in my ear, dry. “Maybe save the flirting for after we don’t die in a tower full of cameras?”
The words are light, but something arcs between us anyway. Apparently it reads on our faces, because two girls by the bar glance over. Their eyes slide from Aren to me and back again. They do not look away immediately. They compare. They weigh.
EXTERNAL ATTENTION – MODERATE
SOURCE:TWO UNREGISTERED OBSERVERS / STATUSCURIOUS
Perfect. Fans. Exactly what I needed.
I drag my attention back to what matters.
Under the irritation, another feeling hums to life. Familiar, unwelcome, impossible to ignore.
HEART RATE:
CORTISOL:
SUBJECTIVE STATE:
I like this. Not the tower. Not the people. The edge. The risk pressing in on all sides, the sense that one bad decision here does not just cost points, it costs lives. It is stupid, it is reckless, and some part of me that has always been wired wrong leans into it like it is finally getting enough oxygen.
The token vibrates in my pocket. Not the bracelet. The other one. The one Aren handed me with that look that said, “If this goes off, something has already gone very wrong.”
I shift the tray, angle my body so my hand is hidden from the nearest camera, and wake the token with my thumb. A small projection flares against my palm. No sender ID. Just a single letter.
S.
And one line:
The words are tiny. They land like a drop of acid. The hall doesn’t change, but it feels like it does. Space tightens. The music thins out into background noise, all glitter and brass with nowhere to go. The air turns heavy, like the tower has leaned in just to breathe on the back of my neck.?
SIGNAL ORIGIN: UNKNOWN
NETWORK PROTOCOL:
RISK PROFILE: CRITICAL
I flick my eyes up. Aren is already looking at his own token, jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. Same projection. Same letter. Same invisible crosshair settling over us.?
Zera’s voice slides into my ear, flatter than the music. “Kai. Aren. I just detected an unregistered ping near your tokens. Encrypted burst. Not city protocol. Do not answer. Do not react. Keep moving.”?
Too late for that part. My body is already in full reaction mode.
I glance down at my bracelet.
GHOST?SLEEVE MISSION TIMER03:00:00 → 02:15:59…
Three hours shrinking into numbers that look a lot smaller in this light. Each second that drops feels louder than the bass line.
On the outside, I breathe. I readjust my grip on the tray, smooth the front of my uniform with my free hand, reset my shoulders. A server in a borrowed body, background decor with a pulse. I step deeper into the current of bodies like nothing happened, letting the crowd close over the moment.?
Inside, something sharp opens.
The empathic connection hits again.
Not a spike this time. Not the hot, blinding stab from the alley. This is slower. Colder. Fear, stripped of edges and words, sliding into my chest like someone set an ice block behind my ribs and walked away. It starts in my sternum and creeps outward, a clean, clinical chill that does not belong to me.
Lix.
I don’t see him. I don’t hear him. But the way he is afraid pours straight into the shape of how I am standing here tray in hand, head down, surrounded by glass and scores and people who laugh like the tower isn’t built out of teeth.?
Lix is awake.
And someone is with him. Close enough to make his fear feel this focused. This tight.
My fingers clamp around the tray until the metal complains in a thin scrape against my palm. The HUD flashes a polite warning I ignore.
Aren shifts closer, still facing forward, mouth barely moving. “What?” he asks, words slipping between his teeth like they’re afraid of the wrong ear catching them.
I swallow, the cold in my chest spiking, then steadying into something sharper. It hurts. It also lines up, perfectly, with that wrong part of me that has been humming since we saw the tower.
“He’s here,” I say. My voice comes out lower than I expect. “I can feel him. I don’t know where. But he’s here.”
I drag in one breath. Then another. The hall swims back into focus chandeliers, mirrored walls, scores pulsing at wrists and throats like tiny, personal threats. The risk presses in from every angle, hot over the ice in my chest.
“I’m not leaving without him.”
GHOST?SLEEVE MISSION TIMER03:00:00 → 02:14:59…
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