“Aurelia’s eight-hour weekend mandate drives significant commercial activity in entertainment districts.

  New Clearwater experiences 340% increased foot traffic Friday-Sunday.

  Revenue projections remain strong. Recommend voting in favour.”

  — Palistra Apex, Tago operations report

  “Mister Guildmaster would like to see you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “When should I—”

  “New Clearwater District. Find the Guildhall.”

  “Wait, is there an address or—”

  The line went dead.

  I stared at my holoband; the call log showing the unknown number had already disconnected. “...helpful.”

  My noodles were still steaming in front of me, half-eaten and getting cold. I looked at them, then at my holoband, then back at the noodles. New Clearwater District. Guildhall. A fixer called “Mister Guildmaster” who apparently wanted to see me right now, if the timing of this call was any sign.

  Asti had said half an hour tops; it had been maybe fifteen minutes.

  I pulled up a map interface on my holoband, typing in “New Clearwater District”.

  The map interface loaded, and I found it immediately in my personal navigation data. New Clearwater District, not terribly far from here, actually. The map showed it as near the river, nothing particularly notable jumping out from the overview.

  No specific marker for “Guildhall” though. I’d have to find that once I got there.

  I looked down at my noodles, still steaming slightly despite the cooling air. The terminal beeped softly, reminding me I had ten minutes left on my paid seating time.

  Right.

  I could rush over there immediately, arrive flustered and anxious like some desperate kid jumping at a fixer’s summons. Or I could finish my meal like a person with priorities, show up calm and collected, and not look like I’d been sitting around waiting for this exact call.

  Which I absolutely had been, but they didn’t need to know that.

  I picked up my chopsticks and went back to the noodles, eating at a normal pace while I started running through what I knew about fixers.

  Which wasn’t much.

  They connected people with work, usually gray-market or outright illegal jobs that paid well enough to justify the risk. They took a cut, obviously. They had reputations to maintain, which meant they couldn’t afford to waste people’s time or send them into situations they weren’t qualified for.

  Probably.

  My knowledge came from movies, not the street.

  The noodles were good. Still not better than Jeup paste, and definitely not as good as Tian’s, but solid enough that I didn’t regret the six credits. I finished the bowl, wiped my mouth with one of those industrial napkins, and stood.

  The terminal beeped approvingly as I left with three minutes still on my timer.

  The train ride was quick, maybe fifteen minutes before the automated voice announced my stop with mechanical cheer.

  “Now arriving: New Clearwater District Station, Southwest Bank!”

  [Paid: ￠3]

  I stepped off onto the platform, joining a crowd that was significantly larger than I’d expected for a Friday evening.

  The flow of people pushed toward the exits, and I let myself get carried along, our feet clicking against polished tile that was actually clean. Not Central District pristine, but maintained in a way that hinted someone actually cared about upkeep, and most importantly paid.

  The rain hit me the moment I cleared the station entrance.

  Not the light drizzle I’d walked through earlier, but proper rain, heavy drops that drummed against my hoodie and turned the street ahead into a blur of reflected neon. I pulled my hood up automatically, though the soul-bound fabric was already shedding water in that weird way it did, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  I stopped dead, staring at what spread before me. I had been living in Tago for over three years, and I had never been here.

  New Clearwater District ran across both sides of a river I hadn’t known existed in Tago, the waterway cutting through the city like a vein of black glass that reflected thousands of lights, as the sun was dimmed by the rain.

  Bridges connected the two halves, not just one or two massive structures, but dozens of them, crossing the river at intervals in a web of steel and concrete and flickering holographic advertisements.

  The buildings towered on both sides, not quite the heights of East Corporate District’s spires, but tall enough to create canyons of architecture that channeled the rain and the crowds and the sound into something overwhelming.

  Neon blasted from every surface.

  Storefronts competed for attention with signs in a dozen languages, holographic displays advertising everything from street food to chrome installations to fortune tellers promising “GUARANTEED ACCURATE FUTURES - ￠50 CONSULTATION.” The colors bled together in the rain, reds and blues and greens and purples mixing on wet pavement until the entire district looked like someone had spilled a rainbow and built a city in it.

  And the people.

  So many people.

  More than I’d ever seen in one place, even during peak hours at Traninum South High or the mall.

  They packed the sidewalks, flowed across the bridges, clustered around street vendors and shop entrances and entertainment parlors. Laughing, talking, shouting to be heard over the rain and the music spilling out of bars and the constant hum of humanity compressed into commercial density.

  This wasn’t posh like Central District, where everything gleamed with corporate polish and wealth dripped from every architectural choice.

  This was... normal. Where actual people lived and worked and spent their money because they wanted to, not because they had to maintain appearances.

  I walked toward the nearest bridge, following the foot traffic. A plaque caught my eye, mounted on the bridge entrance. Corporate-standard design, probably bronze or some cheap alloy made to look expensive, with text etched in that official typeface every Fortune company used.

  Someone had spray-painted over most of it, crude red letters declaring “LIES” across the corpo messaging, but I could still read the original text beneath:

  “New Clearwater Riverside Development Project: Former polluted industrial zone transformed through innovative public-private partnerships. Palistra Apex, in cooperation with Tago Municipal Authority, proudly presents a sanitized, safe environment showcasing successful corporate-civic collaboration.”

  Below the official text, in smaller letters that the vandal had missed: “Building Tomorrow’s Tago, Today.”

  I stared at the plaque, then at the river flowing beneath the bridge. The water looked clean enough in the neon glow, though “sanitized” probably meant “we dumped enough chemicals in it to kill whatever was living there before.”

  A woman bumped into me, muttering an apology before disappearing back into the crowd, and I realized I was blocking foot traffic by standing here reading corporate propaganda.

  I stepped onto the bridge, letting the crowd carry me forward while I pulled up my holoband’s map interface again.

  Guildhall.

  Somewhere in this district. The voice on the phone hadn’t given me an address, just a name and a location, which meant I was going to have to actually search for it.

  The bridge swayed slightly under the weight of hundreds of people crossing simultaneously, a gentle motion that should’ve been concerning but somehow felt normal given the sheer density of humanity packed into this space.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Wait a second… Friday evening, the weekend starting.

  Of course the district was packed. Aurelia’s eight-hour weekend mandate meant tens of millions workers across Tago actually had their weekend work limited to eight hour, freeing up eight hours, and judging by the crowds flooding New Clearwater’s entertainment zones, this was where they spent it. Where else would you go if you had money to spend and eight hours of freedom?

  Not Central District, where everything cost ten times as much just for the privilege of breathing corpo-clean air.

  No wonder this place was the favorite for Tago’s millions of normal people.

  I reached the other side of the bridge and paused, looking down the street that stretched ahead. More shops, more neon, more people, and absolutely no obvious sign saying “GUILDHALL - FIXER INSIDE.”

  This was going to take a while.

  I wandered through the district with no real direction, just looking around for anything that might be called a Guildhall. I tried searching the net, but that was useless. Why would a fixer just tell me this and then not give any directions? The rain continued drumming against my hood, and the crowds flowed around me like water around a stone.

  I pulled up my holoband, typing out a message to Erika while dodging a group of laughing workers stumbling out of a bar.

  [Me: Hey, you know where a place called “Guildhall” is in New Clearwater?]

  Her response came back almost instantly.

  [Erika: Guildhall? No idea. Why?]

  [Me: Long story. Thanks anyway.]

  I tried Omar next, hoping his research skills extended to local geography.

  [Me: Do you know where I can find “Guildhall” in New Clearwater District?]

  After half a minute the typing indicator appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. Finally:

  [Omar: Never heard of it. Is this for a project “psionic”?]

  [Me: Something like that. Thanks.]

  I sighed, still walking, eyes on my holoband as I pulled up a search engine to try a different approach. Maybe if I searched for hot fixers in the area, or—

  A hand closed around my wrist.

  I looked up, startled, to find a woman standing there. She was maybe in her mid-twenties, wearing a dress that was more paint than clothing, her makeup bright enough to compete with the neon signs behind her. Her smile was bright but professional.

  “Twenty for my head,” she said, her voice smooth and rehearsed. “Fifty for my body, and a thousand for my soul.”

  I felt my face go hot immediately, heat rising from my collar to my ears as my brain stuttered over what she was actually offering. “No thanks,” I said, my voice coming out higher than intended.

  I pulled my wrist free, not roughly, just firm, and started walking.

  Fast.

  Not quite running, but definitely not the casual pace I’d been maintaining. I didn’t look back, couldn’t look back, my entire face burning with embarrassment that I could feel even through the rain’s cooling effect.

  A joygirl. I’d just been propositioned by a joygirl, and I’d handled it with all the grace and sophistication of a prep school kid who’d never left school.

  Which, to be fair, was basically accurate.

  I kept walking, putting distance between myself and that interaction, my heart rate slowly returning to something approaching normal. The surrounding crowds continued their evening as if nothing had happened, because nothing had happened. This was probably completely normal for New Clearwater on a Friday night.

  I really needed to find this Guildhall before I embarrassed myself further. I pulled up Alice’s contact and sent a message.

  [Me: You know where “Guildhall” is in New Clearwater District?]

  Instead of a text response, my holoband immediately buzzed with an incoming holocall. I accepted it, and Alice’s face materialized above my wrist, grinning as usual. She was lying on her dorm bed, her hair spread out around her like a halo, and behind her I could see Cecilia sitting with a book open, looking distinctly unimpressed.

  “Dash!” Alice’s eyes lit up. “Are you there right now? Can I come?!”

  Cecilia rolled her eyes without looking up from her book. “Alice. You need to finish this. You torched a building. You need to answer all questions by this midnight.”

  Alice groaned dramatically, flopping onto her side. “But Dash is in New Clearwater and I’ve never been!” She turned back to the camera, her face filling the holographic display. “Dash! Show me! Pan around!”

  I couldn’t help but smile, turning my holoband to capture the street, the bridges, the neon-soaked crowds flowing through the rain.

  Alice’s face appeared in a corner of my display, her eyes wide as she leaned closer to her own screen. “Woooah! Never been there, heard it’s so nova! Everyone says the vibe is absolutely preem!”

  Cecilia’s voice came from off-camera. “There are several highly rated restaurants in that district. The culinary scene is supposed to be—”

  “What’s that?!” Alice interrupted, pointing directly at me.

  “You need to be more specific,” I said, amused, still panning across the district.

  “That bridge!” She was practically yelling now. “The one with all the lights!”

  I turned back, but it was just one of many bridges spanning the river, this one decorated with holographic advertisements that shifted colors every few seconds. I angled my holoband to give her a better view.

  “Woooow! Ceci, we've gotta go there tomorrow! Like, actually go, not just talk about it!”

  Cecilia’s face appeared in the frame now, leaning over Alice’s shoulder. “Tomorrow is a mandatory sermon.”

  Alice’s expression fell. “Sunday then?”

  “There’s a test on Monday. Remember? The one you said you’d actually study for this time?”

  Alice made a frustrated noise, waving her hand dismissively. “Screw that! Tests are corpo bullshit anyway.”

  “Anyway,” I cut in before they could get into a full argument. “Any idea where the Guildhall is?”

  Alice’s face shifted into a thinking expression, her eyes unfocusing slightly as if she was accessing her internal search functions. “Mmm, no clue. Have you tried searching the net?”

  “Of course he did,” Cecilia said, her tone carrying that particular patience reserved for dealing with Alice’s more obvious questions. “Nobody would use you as a grome search.”

  Alice pouted. “He could! Maybe I know things!”

  “He didn’t,” Cecilia said, turning to look directly at the camera. “Right?”

  I nodded. “Can’t find it anywhere. No listings, no maps, nothing.”

  “Wow, that’s corpo secret level if it’s not indexed,” Alice said. “Like, proper gray-zone stuff. You sure you wanna jack into whatever biz is waiting there?”

  My face stayed flat despite her strong slang and accent. “I need to,” I said. “It’s... complicated.”

  Alice studied me through the holographic connection, then grinned. “Preem. Good luck, Dash! I’ll ping around, see if anyone in my crew knows the detes, but no promises. This sounds real underground.”

  “I’m your sole crew, and I don’t know.” Cecilia said.

  “Don’t—” Alice turned to her sister to yell more.

  “Thank you,” I jumped in.

  “Stay frosty out there!” She gave a little wave, and the connection ended.

  I wandered for another twenty minutes, getting progressively more soaked despite my hoodie’s water-shedding properties, until I spotted something that didn’t fit.

  A building that looked... wrong for New Clearwater. Tago even.

  Not wrong like broken or damaged. Wrong, as if it had been transplanted from a completely different city, maybe a different planet entirely. It sat between a tattoo parlor and a late-night ramen shop, squeezed into a space that should’ve been too small for it but somehow wasn’t.

  The building was all wood and stone, or at least very convincing synthetic materials designed to look like wood and stone.

  Peaked roof with actual shingles instead of solar panels or advertisement space. Windows with diamond-paned glass that glowed with warm yellow light from within, not the harsh white or flickering neon that dominated every other building on the street.

  It looked like a tavern, the kind you’d see in historical holos about Earth 1.0 or those sword-and-sorcery entertainment programs Omar used to watch, swearing one day he’ll go to a world like that.

  No corporate logos.

  No holographic signs.

  No neon bleeding across its facade from the neighboring buildings, as if the light itself refused to touch it.

  Just a heavy wooden door with iron fittings and a brass handle worn smooth from use. I stared at it, rain drumming against my hood, while crowds flowed past on either side without giving the building a second glance.

  “Stupid mysterious fixer,” I muttered, walking toward the door.

  My hand closed around the brass handle. I pulled.

  Locked.

  I furrowed my brows, glancing around to see if there was a scanner or access panel I’d missed. Nothing. Just the door, the handle, and increasingly the feeling that I was standing in the rain like an idiot.

  I knocked.

  The moment my knuckles hit wood, something clicked inside the mechanism. The door swung inward with a creak that sounded entirely too authentic, revealing warmth and light beyond.

  I stepped inside, my hand moving automatically to my sword’s hilt, and stopped.

  Inside was a fantasy tavern.

  Not themed like a fantasy tavern. Not decorated to look like one. An actual tavern straight out of the historical holos and entertainment programs, except the patrons drinking and laughing at wooden tables were real.

  A dwarf, an actual dwarf, maybe four and a half feet tall with a braided beard reaching his belt and armor that looked like it had seen genuine combat, sat at the bar arguing loudly with a human woman wearing plate mail that gleamed in the firelight.

  “Don’t believe? Come to see my library!” he yelled, but the woman shook her head with a small smile. “They call me doctor for a reason!”

  Three figures that might’ve been elves, with pointed ears and impossibly graceful movements, occupied a corner table playing some kind of card game with ornate hand-painted cards.

  Something that definitely wasn’t human sat near the fireplace. Its skin was a mottled green-gray, tusks protruding from its lower jaw, wearing leather armor reinforced with metal plates. It was eating something from a bowl with a spoon that looked comically small in its massive hands.

  The conversations mixed into a low rumble of voices, sprinkled by laughter and the clink of glasses and the scrape of chairs on wooden floors.

  Everyone was armed. Swords, axes, daggers, even a massive warhammer leaning against one table. The weapons looked used, maintained, real in a way that made my hand tighten on my own sword’s hilt.

  “Newcomer!”

  I turned toward the voice.

  An olive-skinned woman approached, her ears tapering to elegant points that confirmed her as elven, carrying four beer glasses balanced in her hands.

  She wore what looked like serving clothes, the kind you’d see in historical documentaries about old Earth 1.0 festivals, white blouse with a low neckline, a corseted bodice, flowing skirt, except the outfit revealed enough skin that it definitely prioritized aesthetic over practicality.

  “You must be Dash!” she said, smiling brightly as she somehow maneuvered around a table without spilling a drop from any of the glasses.

  “Yeah?” I managed, still gripping my sword’s hilt, struggling to process what I was seeing.

  “Perfect! I’ll add you to the registry, one moment...” She set the glasses down at a nearby table, then made a gesture in the air like she was accessing an invisible interface.

  A system notification appeared in my vision.

  [Welcome to The Guild.]

  [Using default skin...]

  My hoodie vanished.

  Well, not disappeared, transformed. The yellow combat fiber shifted, restructured, became something else entirely.

  Hide armor wrapped around my torso, leather straps crossing my chest, bracers appearing on my forearms. The tactical pants became reinforced leather leggings tucked into boots that were definitely not the ones I’d been wearing a second ago.

  My sword remained at my hip, unchanged. My holoband stayed on my wrist, the familiar sight reassuring even as everything else had just been forcibly reskinned.

  “What?”

  

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