“Entry decisions are made at door staff’s discretion based on capacity, dress code, and establishment standards.

  Management reserves the right to refuse service.

  No refunds on cover charges.”

  — Cassette Night Club terms of entry (posted in 6-point font)

  “Good.” The Guildmaster’s smile returned. “So. The contract. You’re free to decline it, but I offered it because I think it would be good experience. Your choice.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  Three hundred fifty credits for plugging in a datajack. If I couldn’t manage that, I had no business planning anything more complicated.

  The Guildmaster smiled back at me. “Excellent. Keep the contract parchment; it has the drop-point encoded. Touch it with your intent to reveal the password.”

  I focused on the parchment, thinking about the drop-point, and new text appeared beneath the original description:

  Box: 84

  Password: f538s9hmj307

  “That’s...” I looked up. “Just a box? That’s… weird.”

  “TFN contracts always are,” the Guildmaster said. “They don’t leave room for confusion. Follow the instructions exactly, complete the objective, and collect your payment. Simple.” He stood, moving toward the office door. “Come on. I’ll walk you out, show you how the transition works.”

  I followed him down the narrow staircase, the tavern noise growing louder as we descended.

  The dwarf was still talking with the armored woman at the bar, their voices carrying over the general rumble of conversation. The elves in the corner had started a new card game, and the massive creature by the fireplace was now nursing what looked like an ale tankard that could double as a bucket.

  No one looked up as we passed. Just another adventurer leaving the Guild, nothing remarkable about it.

  We reached the heavy wooden door with its iron fittings and worn brass handle.

  “When you step through,” the Guildmaster said, “you’ll be back in New Clearwater. Your clothes will revert, the Guild will be behind you, and to anyone watching, you’ll just be walking out of what looks like an ordinary building.”

  I gripped the contract parchment in my hand. “And when I come back?”

  “Knock, just like you did the first time. The door will open.” His eyes met mine. “Good luck, Dash. And remember—if something feels wrong, abort the mission. Three hundred fifty credits isn’t worth getting hurt.”

  I nodded, then pulled the door open.

  The rain hit me instantly, and I was back in New Clearwater District with my yellow hoodie and tactical pants, the fantasy tavern behind me already looking slightly out of place among the neon and concrete.

  As I stepped out of the train, the directions from the map were simple: follow the river east, cross at the fourth bridge, continue three blocks north.

  [Paid: ￠1]

  Simple didn’t mean easy.

  Friday night in New Clearwater had apparently tested exactly how many people could occupy the same sidewalk simultaneously. The answer, based on my current experience, was “too many.”

  I squeezed between a group of workers still wearing their factory jumpsuits and a cluster of teenagers who’d decided the middle of the pedestrian flow was the perfect place to argue about which club had the best drink specials. Someone’s elbow caught my ribs, right where the bug bites were still healing, and I bit back a curse.

  When I get the shield, this won’t ever be a problem again.

  My holoband’s map floated above my wrist, a blue line threading through streets that looked nothing like they did from overhead. The satellite view didn’t show the food carts that had colonized every corner, sending up steam and smoke and smells that made my stomach remind me I’d only eaten half a bowl of noodles.

  It didn’t show the street performers competing for attention.

  Like that woman breathing actual fire outside a tattoo parlor, or a man playing some instrument I didn’t recognize that sounded like crying, nor a kid no older than twelve doing acrobatic flips for tossed sols.

  It definitely didn’t show the joygirls.

  They were everywhere once I started noticing them, leaning in doorways and perched on railings, their clothes bright spots of color against the grey concrete. I kept my eyes forward after the first few made eye contact, my face still warm from the earlier encounter.

  The fourth bridge was packed worse than the streets.

  I joined the flow of bodies crossing the river, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, the water below us reflecting a thousand neon signs into something that looked like liquid fire. Halfway across, the crowd stopped moving entirely.

  Some obstruction ahead I couldn’t see, and I stood there for a full minute, rain soaking through to my skin despite my hoodie’s best efforts.

  Someone was selling umbrellas. Someone else was selling drugs; their whispered offers slid past my ears like background noise. A couple was having a screaming argument three feet from me, something about someone named Naomi and a lie about overtime shifts.

  It was overwhelming, chaotic and so different from Central District’s controlled quiet that I felt like I’d stepped onto a different planet.

  I kind of loved it.

  The crowd lurched forward again, whatever blockage had cleared, and I let myself be carried to the other side of the bridge. Three blocks north. My holoband’s blue line updated, adjusting for my position.

  Two blocks.

  One.

  The drop-point was exactly where the parchment said it would be: directly across the street from Cassette.

  I stood on the corner, rain drumming against my hood, and stared at the nightclub.

  Cassette occupied what looked like an old warehouse, three stories of industrial brick transformed into something that pulsed with bass I could feel through the sidewalk.

  The facade was covered in vintage music equipment like actual cassette tapes, mounted in geometric patterns that caught the neon and threw fragmented light across the wet street. Holographic displays flickered between the physical decorations, advertising drink specials and tonight’s DJ lineup in fonts that hurt to look at.

  The line to get in stretched halfway down the block; people huddled under umbrellas or just accepting the rain as part of the experience.

  Most of them looked like they belonged here: dressed for dancing, laughing with friends, radiating the particular energy of people who’d been waiting all week for Friday night.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I did not look like I belonged here. But that was a problem for later. Right now, I needed the datajack.

  I turned my attention to the building across from Cassette.

  My stomach dropped.

  The structure was old, formation time maybe, with crumbling concrete and windows that had been boarded up with mismatched scrap metal. Rust stains bled down the walls as if the building was slowly dying from the inside out.

  A faded sign above the entrance might’ve once advertised a business, but weather and time had reduced it to illegible ghosts of letters.

  Two men stood in front of the only door.

  They wore orange and brown jackets with corroded metal studs, pants with rust-colored patches sewn in patterns that were clearly gang signs. One had a chain wrapped around his forearm, the links oxidized to match the aesthetic. The other was cleaning his nails with a knife that looked more decorative than practical, though I wasn’t eager to test that theory.

  Gang colors. Had to be. These guys were either The Rust Vipers or too new to have a reputation yet.

  Great.

  Neither option was comforting, and between them, barely visible in the shadow of the doorframe, was an arrow. Old paint, faded and chipped, pointing inside the building. Toward what had to be the drop-boxes.

  Of course.

  Of course the TFN put their pickup location inside a gang hideout. Why would anything about this job be straightforward?

  I stood there in the rain, watching the two men running through options that all ended badly. I could wait for them to leave, but they looked settled in for the night. I could try to find another entrance, but the building’s windows were boarded, and I had no idea if there even was a back door.

  Or I could just... walk up. Like I had business there. Like I wasn’t a school kid pretending to be an adventurer.

  The Guildmaster’s words echoed in my head: If something feels wrong, abort the mission.

  This felt wrong.

  But three hundred fifty credits were three hundred fifty credits, and if I couldn’t handle walking past two gang members, how was I supposed to walk past Aurelia Academy guards?

  I took a breath, let it out slowly, and crossed the street.

  The two men tracked my approach with the lazy attention of predators who didn’t consider me a threat. The one with the chain shifted his weight, not blocking the door but making it clear he could. The knife guy didn’t even look up from his nails.

  I stopped a few feet away, close enough to talk, far enough to react if things went sideways. “Ey, lil guy.” Chain guy raised a hand, palm out. “Vipers got this turf locked. Mind your walk, yeah? Delta out.”

  I glanced between them, then at the faded arrow pointing inside. Put on what I hoped was a confident expression.

  “Got a package in there,” I said, nodding toward the door.

  Chain guy’s eyes traveled down my yellow hoodie, my tactical pants, the sword at my hip. His smile spread slowly, showing teeth that glinted with cheap chrome. “Sure, sure. Scan this—ten sols for our premium protection services, and you can scoop your goods. Clean and chrome, no fuss.”

  I furrowed my brows. “Ten credits just to walk inside?”

  Knife guy finally looked up. The blade in his hand caught the neon from across the street as he raised it, not quite pointing at me, but not quite not pointing at me either. The threat was casual, almost bored.

  My hand moved to my sword’s hilt before I could think about it. The two men exchanged a glance. Chain guy’s smile didn’t waver.

  “Kid.”

  “Yes?”

  “Pay us.”

  “Why?”

  Chain guy laughed, the sound rough. “Because that’s how the street spins, lil guy! Vipers keep the peace, peace costs sols. Basic biz.”

  I groaned. Ten credits wasn’t nothing, but it also wasn’t worth getting stabbed over. Still... “After I pick it up,” I said. “Maybe the box is empty. I’m not paying for nothing.”

  Chain guy considered this, then shrugged and stepped aside. “Scan fair. Be our guest, little guy. We ain’t going nowhere.” I walked past them into the building, hyper-aware of their eyes on my back.

  Inside was exactly what I’d expected: a gutted shell of whatever business had operated here straight after the apocalypse. Stripped walls, exposed wiring, the smell of rust and something chemical I didn’t want to identify.

  A row of metal boxes lined one wall, numbered in faded paint.

  Box 84.

  I found it near the end of the row, a dented metal container about the size of my head. The interface panel was cracked but functional, a simple keypad waiting for input.

  I typed in the password: f538s9hmj307

  The box clicked open.

  Inside was a datajack. Black, unassuming, completely ordinary-looking. The kind of thing you could buy at any tech shop for twenty credits.

  I picked it up, turned it over in my fingers. Nothing special about it that I could see. Whatever made this worth three hundred fifty credits to someone wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

  I slipped it into my pants pocket and turned to leave.

  The gangers were standing in the doorway now, shoulder to shoulder, blocking the exit completely.

  My stomach clenched. Maybe I’d made a mistake.

  “Pay up, lil guy.”

  I let out a long sigh, reaching for my holoband. Ten credits weren’t worth a fight. Not tonight. Not when I had an actual job to complete. “There you go.” I selected the amount and held my band toward the chain guy’s arm.

  He extended his wrist, a payment receiver implanted just under the skin glowing a faint blue.

  [Paid: ￠10]

  “Happy?” I asked.

  Chain guy laughed and stepped aside, clapping me on the shoulder as I passed. “Pleasure doing biz, lil guy. Vipers remember faces. You need anything in this sector, you know who keeps it smooth.”

  I walked out into the rain. The line outside Cassette hadn’t gotten any shorter. I stood across the street, rain dripping from my hood, and studied Cassette like a system I needed to debug.

  The line hadn’t moved much since I’d arrived. Maybe ten people had gone in during the five minutes I’d spent dealing with the Vipers, which meant the queue was crawling at a pace that would have me standing here until well past midnight.

  Not an option.

  I watched the front entrance, tracking patterns.

  The bouncer was a mountain of a man, chrome-plated arms catching the neon every time he moved. He checked IDs with a scanner built into his palm, waved most people through after a moment’s inspection, occasionally pulled someone aside for additional questions.

  But not everyone waited in line.

  A group of four approached from a shiny car that had landed straight in front of the club, its surface so polished the rain beaded off like it was afraid to leave marks.

  The people who arrived were dressed in clothes that cost more than my entire wardrobe, not Alice-level wealth, not the casual fortune that let you drop twenty thousand credits on a heist without blinking, but still. Silk and synth-leather and jewelry that glowed with subtle embedded tech.

  The bouncer unclipped the velvet rope before they even reached it. No scanner, no questions, just a nod and a gesture toward the door.

  VIP treatment.

  I looked down at my yellow hoodie and tactical pants. Completely wrong for this environment.

  Not an option.

  A few minutes later, a woman approached alone. She was gorgeous, gorgeous that made people stop mid-conversation to stare, curves emphasized by a dress that seemed to hold together her chest by optimism and strategic stitching. The bouncer’s chrome face actually managed to smile as he waved her through, the line’s complaints dying in throats as everyone collectively acknowledged that some people simply operated by different rules.

  Also not an option for me.

  I needed another angle.

  I crossed the street, walking past the line like I had somewhere to be, and turned into the alley running along Cassette’s left side.

  The narrow passage was cluttered with the debris of commercial activity: stacked crates, discarded packaging, puddles that reflected the dim emergency lighting mounted above a service door. A delivery van hovered at the far end, its anti-grav humming as workers unloaded crates marked with brewery logos and food service containers.

  Staff entrance. Guarded by activity, if not by personnel.

  I looked up.

  The second floor had windows on this side, most of them pulsing with the colored lights from inside, the dance floor, probably, or private booths with their own ambiance settings. But one window was open despite the rain, and a woman leaned against the frame, cigarette glowing between her fingers as she stared out at nothing.

  Joygirl, based on her outfit. Taking a break, maybe, or waiting for a client.

  She noticed me looking and raised an eyebrow. I looked away quickly, continuing down the alley as if I’d meant to walk this direction all along.

  The workers were too busy to pay attention to me, but the service door was clearly their domain. Walking in behind them would mean questions, and questions meant attention I couldn’t afford.

  I circled around to the right side of the building.

  No delivery van here. No workers. No service entrance at all, actually just a blank wall of industrial brick interrupted by windows I couldn’t reach.

  First floor: nothing. No windows, no doors, no access points. Just a solid wall meeting wet pavement.

  Second floor: windows, but all of them closed. One had been blocked from the inside. I could make out the shapes of shelving units pressed against the glass, some kind of storage room that clearly wasn’t meant for customer access.

  There was an outside elevator, though. Old, probably from when this building had been a warehouse instead of a nightclub. The housing climbed the exterior wall, metal framework corroded but intact, with a cargo platform currently locked at ground level.

  A control panel blinked red. Out of service, or disabled, or just locked down for the night.

  I kept walking, completing my circuit, but the back of the building offered nothing, just the sheer face of a corpo tower rising behind Cassette, close enough that the two structures nearly touched. No alley, no gap, no way through.

  I returned to the front, finding a spot across the street where I could watch the entrance without looking like I was watching the entrance.

  The line had barely moved.

  The bouncer was still checking IDs.

  The rain was still falling.

  And I was still standing here, datajack in my pocket, with no easy way in.

  

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