The E-Train screeched to a halt in Sector B, its sliding doors opening with a pneumatic hiss that sounded vaguely like a sigh. Mikey stepped off and into the cleaner, brighter walkways of one of the newer residential districts—this was wealth, but with polish. The kind that liked to pretend it didn't know it was rich. He looked up.
"Of course," he muttered.
The kid lived in a triple-decker penthouse—the top three floors of a mirrored spire that stabbed into the clouds like it had something to prove. It made Mikey's own two-story penthouse look quaint. Like a cottage in a luxury forest. He entered the building, nodding to a sleek robot concierge that motioned as he passed. The elevator—a glass tube with fake wood paneling and imported synth-jazz humming from hidden speakers—began its long ascent. As the city shrank beneath him, Mikey tapped the side of his temple.
A soft chime.
"Online," said a familiar, emotionless voice in his skull. "Good evening, Michael."
He rolled his eyes. "I hate these things…"
"Then why are you here?"
"Love or… potential love. You wouldn't get it, H.E.L.P."
"I don't believe that's accurate. I've downloaded forty-two thousand romance novels."
"Exactly my point."
The elevator dinged. The penthouse doors opened… and hell greeted him.
Music punched him in the chest—a guttural, bass-heavy beat that felt more like seismic activity than sound. The kind of music that made your ears ring even if you had noise filters. Colored lights pulsed like a malfunctioning heart monitor, bouncing off glass walls and holographic decor. The place smelled like money, cologne, and bad decisions. Mikey stood at the threshold, eyes scanning the chaotic sea of bodies.
"God," he muttered, stepping in. "Everyone and their mom is here."
And it wasn't even an exaggeration—he could've sworn someone's actual mom was dancing near the bar, cocktail in hand and absolutely soaking it all in.
Mikey exhaled and made his way through the crowd, dodging cups, laughter, and someone's arm that flailed way too close to his face. Classmates from the Academy were everywhere—some he recognized, most he barely tolerated. One guy was already passed out on a beanbag. Another was arguing with a robot bartender about whether the martini needed a "real" olive. He was halfway across the living room when a hand slapped his shoulder.
"Grant!" came a voice behind him.
Mikey winced.
"Didn't think you'd show, man!"
It was the host, Cal Drexler—poster boy for nepotism, the kind of guy who wore sunglasses indoors and had a laugh like a malfunctioning airhorn. Rich. Preppy. Absolutely convinced he and Mikey were best friends because they had once both been in the same study group... two years ago. Cal beamed and threw an arm around Mikey's shoulder, standing on tiptoes to do it. The kid barely hit five-seven with boots on. Mikey fought the instinct to shrug him off.
"Just thought I'd stop by," Mikey said, forcing a smile so strained it felt like a cramp.
"Helluva speech today, bro! You see Principal Dawson's face? Woman looked like she was gonna combust!"
Mikey chuckled, tight-lipped. "Yeah, well… she's overdue."
But he wasn't here for Cal. Or the punch. Or the seventeen-year-olds pretending to be twenty-five. He was here for someone else. "Hey, Cal," Mikey asked, shifting gears. "Did you see a girl named Nadia?"
Cal blinked. "Huh? I don't know a Nadia. She a grandma?"
"She's about yay tall—" Mikey held his hand to chest level "—black hair, triangle earring, paler skin. Doesn't look like she wants to be here. Ring a bell?"
Cal squinted, like the act of remembering hurt.
"Oh… yeah, yeah. I think she might've gone up to the roof. Or maybe she ghosted. Honestly, hard to keep track. You know how these things are."
Mikey nodded once. "Cool. Thanks, lifesaver."
He took a half-step back and immediately regretted breathing in—Cal's breath smelled like fermented fruit and regret.
Cal grinned. "Find me later, we'll do shots or something!"
"Totally," Mikey lied.
Then he slipped away toward the stairwell, praying the roof was quieter—and that Nadia hadn't already left. The stairwell felt like a gauntlet. Mikey climbed two flights, weaving past laughing drunks and couples tangled up in corners. Someone puked into a decorative planter and gave a thumbs-up to no one in particular. Mikey kept his head down and moved faster. He didn't want to talk. He just wanted to find her. The heavy rooftop door hissed open with a mechanical exhale, and he stepped into a different world.
The air was cooler up here. Quieter. The sounds of the party below were muffled to a distant hum, replaced by the gentle breeze that whipped between towers and the soft buzz of traffic moving across the city's highways down below. And there she was.
Nadia.
She was sitting at the edge, legs dangling off the ledge like she wasn't one hundred stories above the pavement. Her back faced him at first, her posture loose, relaxed—but there was something deliberate in it. Composed. Like a still frame in an art film. Her midnight-black hair caught the wind, dancing around her face in strands that glimmered beneath the city's artificial light. Pink and blue hues from the billboards below painted her skin in soft neon.
She turned slightly, hearing the door.
Even just the turn of her head made something shift in his chest. Her black hair moved with the wind. She glanced over her shoulder, catching him with those eyes—sharp but calm. She smiled. Not big. Not dramatic. Just… real. And somehow, that was worse.
It hit him harder than he expected.
"Hey, Mikey…"