The rules of the masquerade are apparent, even when unspoken: keep moving, keep smiling, and never let anyone see the depth of the rot. Alice is bad at all three, but her Threadmancer module compensates with raw hunger—constantly scanning, always overlaying the next best move atop the chaos. Now, after the opening round with the Judge, she is marooned at the pit of the Ballroom, code-water lapping at her jaw, surrounded by a flotilla of memory parasites dressed as nobility.

  She wades toward the risers, Simon keeping pace at her hip. He is in full damage-control mode, her HUD noting his heartbeat in measured pings that double whenever she falls more than two paces behind. He favors the left; he’s already started steering her away from the masked guests with more predatory auras.

  But the guests are not prey, and Alice is not the only hunter.

  A remnant breaks from the second ring. It glides, arms folded behind its back, the surface tension of the code-water parting at its feet like the red carpet at a better party. The guest’s mask is porcelain, split down the left side, gold filling the wound. The mouth has been painted on and then erased, leaving only a faint smudge where a smile used to be. The eyes are twin pinholes, rimmed with cracks that pulse as the guest moves.

  It stops in front of Alice, close enough that the code-water compresses between them. The guest bows—just enough to force Alice to do the same or risk offending the entire hierarchy of this place.

  She bows. The motion is easier this time, the fluid cradling her as if she’s been here before.

  “May I have this dance?” The guest’s voice is processed through several layers of translation, every syllable doubled and offset, as if it’s unsure which register will please her most.

  Alice glances at Simon, who is already calculating escape routes, then at the guest. The risk in saying no is not worth modeling. “Of course.”

  The guest extends a hand. As Alice’s fingers brush the porcelain, the code-water rises in a cold rush, enveloping them both from chin to collarbone. The Ballroom floor vibrates, music crawling up from below: a low, staticky waltz, each note punctuated by a burst of ancient dial-up tone.

  They begin to dance. The guest leads, precise and relentless, the steps old as time: one-two-three, one-two-three. The water does not slow the guest; if anything, it moves more freely, drawing Alice through the currents in tight, deliberate circles. Every contact point—hand, waist, shoulder—is a new lightning rod for memory, each spark more greedy than the last.

  With every rotation, the guest grows heavier, more substantial, draining the buoyancy from Alice’s body. She feels herself sinking, spine compressing, but the guest is there to catch her, lifting her with each upward beat.

  “Name?” the guest asks, as per protocol.

  “Alice Kingsley.”

  The guest’s mask fractures a little more, the gold filling spreading like a bruise. “Purpose?”

  She could lie, but there is no point. “Information. I need a way through the Looking Glass.”

  The guest stops them mid-spin. The Ballroom’s attention sharpens; a hundred other dancers pause, or at least slow, their hollow eyes converging on Alice and her partner.

  “A transaction is required,” says the guest, and with the phrase, the air in the Ballroom goes a notch colder. “Manifest, please.”

  The memory comes to her instantly, which means it’s not the one she would have chosen. She sees the lines of blue fire along her arms, the spiral she drew on the alcove wall, the taste of solder and blood in her mouth as she finished the radio at midnight. She tries to resist, to offer something less precious, but the guest’s hand is now fused with hers, the force of its hunger bending her bones until the memory is forced out.

  Her palm opens. In it: a glowing mote, bright blue, wrapped in a thin skin of white, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. It is the memory of being twelve, the memory of waking up in the middle of the night because she heard static, the memory of realizing the static was a signal—a message meant for her and her alone.

  The guest’s free hand hovers over the mote. For a second, the Ballroom seems to freeze, every guest and ghost waiting for the outcome. Alice feels her Threadmancer lines pull tight, then snap.

  “Offer accepted,” the guest says, and the memory is gone.

  The pain is not sharp. It is a slow, draining ache, as if the marrow has been vacuumed out of her arm, leaving only the hollow architecture behind. Her HUD goes red for a full second, then reboots, the word CORRUPTION now stuck at the top of every display.

  In exchange, the guest leans in, the mask’s cracked cheek pressed to her ear.

  “The Looking Glass,” it whispers, “is not a place. It is a state. The Queen’s Core is everywhere and nowhere. But you can force a window if you make the Judge bleed.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Alice blinks. “How do I—”

  But the guest is already letting her go, gliding backward into the whirlpool of masked onlookers, who receive it with a synchronized, hungry sigh.

  The music resumes, a little louder, a little faster. The code-water now at her throat, Alice floats back toward the perimeter, feeling herself both lighter and less, as if every thought is now running on a degraded copy of itself.

  Simon is at her side instantly. He grabs her elbow—real, firm, and trembling.

  “Are you okay?” His eyes are fully black, the scar at his temple leaking a faint mist. “You lost a chunk there. Show me your hand.”

  She lifts it, expecting to see the blue-white filaments. Instead, the lines are pale, almost transparent, the bones of her hand outlined in stark relief against the background of the code-water.

  “It’s nothing,” she says. “Just a trade. I got what I needed.”

  Simon pulls her closer, voice pitched for privacy. “If your integrity drops too far, you won’t be able to contain the Queen’s Core even if you reach it.”

  She shrugs, the motion harder than it should be. “What’s the alternative? Sit here and dance until I’m one of them?”

  He wants to argue, but the Ballroom doesn’t care about his preferences. A new guest is already gliding toward them—a female form, masked with copper mesh and a fan of peacock feathers. It ignores Simon and addresses Alice directly.

  “Your steps are elegant,” it says, “but your signature is unstable. May I suggest a stabilizing waltz?”

  The suggestion is not a suggestion. Alice nods, lets the guest take her hand.

  This dance is different: slower, more deliberate. The guest’s body is warm, almost feverish, and every touch seems to knit Alice’s broken threads together, even as it draws new memories to the surface.

  “Tell me,” says the guest, voice syrupy but brittle, “about the time you first learned to lie.”

  Alice tries to laugh, but the guest’s grip is too strong.

  “I was six,” she says, “and I lied to my mother. I told her I loved the garden she planted, even though the smell of earth made me want to puke.”

  The guest nods, as if this is the only answer that ever mattered. “What did you get for your deception?”

  “A day off. I got to stay inside, build a transmitter out of scrap. I learned more in that day than a hundred in the dirt.”

  The guest’s hand is now at the back of her neck, the touch so gentle it almost feels real. “You could have told the truth. You could have gone outside.”

  “I would have died,” Alice says, surprised by the conviction in her own voice.

  The guest spins her, and as she turns, Alice’s HUD surges: CORRUPTION: 77%.

  The guest does not ask for a fragment; instead, it pries the memory directly from her mind. A slow, laborious, and wet extraction that leaves her gasping. In return, the guest gifts her a single phrase, whispered so softly she’s not sure it was meant for her:

  “The Queen can be deceived, but never destroyed.”

  As the guest releases her, Alice’s balance lags, the code-water sucking at her knees. Simon catches her under the arms, holding her up with more tenderness than she remembers from any interaction.

  “Enough,” he says. “You’ve given too much.”

  She shakes her head, fighting the urge to rest. “I have to try again. One more.”

  He tries to block her, but the Ballroom will not be denied. Another guest—a child, this time, masked in raw bone—waits for her at the edge of the floor.

  The child’s mask is crude, its suit oversized, but its eyes are sharp, and knowing blue.

  “Why do you dance?” it asks.

  Alice hesitates. The answer is not in any of her memories. The answer is in the gap, the hole left by everything she’s already traded away.

  “To stay alive,” she says. “Because stopping means becoming part of the scenery.”

  The child offers its hand, and she takes it. The code-water now flows entirely above their heads, a dome of black and blue, streaked with the static of a dying storm. The dance is not a waltz, but a simple step, repeated over and over.

  With each step, the child draws more from her: every childhood hope, every scrap of dignity, every thought of home. In return, it gives her a single word, repeated like a mantra:

  “Through.”

  Alice does not understand until she is on the floor, the code-water pressing her down, the word still echoing in her skull.

  Through.

  Simon is there, dragging her up, but his own body is more static than a man now. His arms flicker; his face splits in two, then snaps back. He whispers in her ear, “Don’t let them take everything. Not yet.”

  Alice looks at her hands, now glassy and full of white fire. Her HUD is gone; the only thing left is the word THROUGH, painted on the inside of her eyes.

  The crowd closes in, the Judge returns, and the music swells to a fever pitch.

  All she has left is her next move.