Rene had a way of treating fate like a personal assistant. If an event was advertised, it was mandatory. Fifteen minutes after spotting the flyer, she was pulling Nicole's best black dress over her head.
"We have to go," Rene insisted, reapplying her lipstick with a fierce concentration. "It's literally a welcome party. The universe is telling us Drennin is the right choice."
Nicole tied her own hair back—a gesture of preparedness, as if preparing for a potential escape. "The universe doesn't advertise on a corkboard next to a sign that reads 'No unauthorized plumbing repairs.' This is going to be some glorified networking event with terrible wine."
But Rene was already shining, radiating a feverish excitement that was impossible to resist.
They took a ride-share up the winding slopes of the city's wealthiest quarter. The Penthouse wasn't a building; it was the entire top floor of a monolithic structure known simply as the Aegis Tower. When they stepped out, the air was sharp and sterile, a clean counterpoint to the damp rot of Drennin.
The club inside was all glass and muted silver, bathed in soft, deep blue light. The music was a relentless, ambient hum, pulsing beneath the conversation. It was glamorous, intensely crowded, and strangely silent. People didn't laugh here; they observed. They glided.
"See, I told you," Rene whispered, clutching Nicole's arm, her eyes wide with appreciation. "This is the scene."
Nicole felt a prickle of unease. Everyone was dressed in expensive, custom-tailored clothes, but they wore them like uniforms. They all had the same vacant, intensely focused expression. It was a room full of beautiful, cold automatons. And then there were the others: men and women wearing cloaks and heavy black jewelry, mingling openly.
A hostess approached them—tall, elegant, and devoid of warmth. "New guests. Welcome. May I take your bags?"
"We didn't bring bags," Nicole said quickly.
The hostess smiled, a thin, meaningless stretch of her lips. "Of course. Enjoy the atmosphere. Please, there are canapés in the west wing."
Rene, distracted by the sight of a bar serving luminous green cocktails, was already drifting away. "Be right back, Nic, I need to know what that is!"
"Rene, don't wander off!" Nicole hissed, but the sound was swallowed by the pervasive electronic hum.
Nicole scanned the crowd, feeling intensely exposed. She saw a familiar pattern: the cloaked figures seemed to be observing her. She backed toward a dark corner, trying to become invisible.
Suddenly, a massive, dark-skinned man in a tailored tuxedo blocked her path. He didn't speak. He simply directed his attention past her, toward a pair of silver double doors labeled RESTRICTED.
The air by those doors felt colder, almost electrically charged.
When Nicole finally turned, Rene was gone. The luminous green cocktail stood untouched on a nearby table. A wave of ice-cold panic flooded Nicole's system.
She pushed through the crowd, her voice cracking as she tried to call out. Rene!
A smaller, slender figure appeared beside her, wearing an expression of practiced concern. "Your friend? She asked me to fetch you. She said she found the real party, downstairs. They're setting up a lounge for new arrivals."
The figure, male or female, Nicole couldn't tell, had eyes that seemed too large and too dark in the blue light. They pointed toward a discrete, unmarked door near the restricted area.
"She said to tell you," the figure whispered, leaning in, their breath unnervingly cold, "that it was fate."
That single word—Rene's word—shattered Nicole's resistance. She pushed the small door open and stepped into a sudden, terrible darkness.