The Upper District was a fever dream made of gold and glass.
It didn't smell like the iron or rot that defined the Slums. Here, the air was a commodity—filtered through massive crystalline purifiers until it smelled of nothing but expensive jasmine and the subtle, sharp tang of pure mana. The rain didn't turn the streets into oily traps here; instead, it fell onto heated cobblestones, evaporating into a clean, white mist that swirled around the ankles of the city's masters like a loyal pet.
Liam stood in the shadow of a marble archway, tucked so deep into the darkness that he was little more than a smudge against the pristine stonework. He watched the entrance of The Gilded Lily, a club where the membership fee cost more than a dozen lives in the gutters.
His new cloak felt heavy, the damp fabric clinging to his shoulders like a second skin. Beneath it, the scar on his chest felt unnervingly cold. It wasn't the cold of the rain; it was a rhythmic, numbing thrum that seemed to pace itself with the Mimic's heart buried beneath his ribs.
Stay small, he reminded himself, his breath hitching as a silver limousine glided past. The world doesn't see the furniture. It doesn't see the help.
The spectacle across the street was a masterclass in vanity. High-Rank Hunters stepped out of their vehicles, their armor polished to a blinding brilliance, their capes catching the artificial breeze generated by hidden fans. They laughed—loud, booming sounds that carried the weight of people who believed death was something that only happened to others.
Then, Marcus Thorne appeared.
Liam's pulse didn't quicken. Instead, it went flat. Cold.
Marcus was even more nauseating in the flesh. His chrome-plated armor caught the golden floodlights of the club, making him glow like a sun god. He stood at the top of the stairs, shaking hands with an Association official who looked like he was made of soft wax. Marcus's smile was a weapon—perfectly white, perfectly practiced, and entirely hollow.
"To the heroes of the Hole-in-the-Wall!" someone from the crowd roared.
A cheer erupted, followed by the crystalline clinking of champagne flutes. The sound grated on Liam's ears like a serrated blade. He remembered the sound of Marcus's voice from that day—not the heroic baritone he was using now, but the clipped, panicked tone he used when he ordered the vault doors sealed while the porters were still begging for a second more.
Liam touched the hilt of the broken skinning knife tucked into his belt. The metal was real. The only real thing in this sea of gold.
He drifted to the left, melting into the alleyway behind the club. He moved with a quiet, efficient grace, his body instinctively finding the gaps in the light where eyes naturally skipped over.
He reached the service entrance—a polished steel door guarded by a floating security drone. The drone was a sleek silver sphere, its blue ocular lens scanning the alley with a robotic, unfeeling rhythm.
"Identification required," the drone's voice clipped.
Liam stepped into the light, raising his arm. The chip Jarl had buried in his forearm pulsed with a faint, itchy heat. The drone's red scanner swept over him, a thin line of light that tasted his mana signature and compared it to the city's massive database.
Rank: E. Type: Emitter. Status: Registered Maintenance Contractor #4092.
The red light turned green.
"Identity confirmed," the drone chirped, its iris dimming as it lost all interest in him. "Proceed, Worker 4092. Entry logged."
The steel door hissed open.
The transition was jarring. The service corridors were white, sterile, and vibrated with the low-frequency hum of massive mana-coolers. Staff members in crisp, high-collared uniforms hurried past him, carrying trays of caviar that cost more than Liam's childhood home. They didn't look at his face. To them, he was just part of the architecture—a repairman here to fix a leaking pipe or a faulty ward.
He moved through the maze of the back-of-house, his boots making no sound on the linoleum. Jarl had made him memorize the schematics until his eyes bled. He knew where the laundry chutes ended and where the magical wards had their blind spots.
He found a maintenance ladder and climbed, his breath coming in slow, measured counts. He reached a mezzanine level that overlooked the main ballroom, crouching behind a decorative gold-leaf grate.
Below, the party was a swirling sea of gold and white. Marcus Thorne was at the center of it all, standing on a small dais, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
"...and as the rift began to buckle," Marcus was saying, his voice amplified by a subtle magic, "I realized the civilians wouldn't make it. I looked at my squad. I told them: 'We don't leave anyone behind. Not today.'"
A collective sigh of admiration swept through the room. A woman in a velvet gown clutched Marcus's arm, her eyes wide. "But the porters, Captain? The reports said there were casualties."
Marcus's expression shifted instantly. He looked down at his glass, his face a mask of profound, tragic regret. "Lost in the first ten seconds. We tried to reach them—God knows we tried—but the void swallowed them too fast. Every night I close my eyes and see their faces. I carry their names with me, a constant reminder of the weight of being a hero."
Liam's fingers curled around the metal of the grate. The gold-leafed steel began to groan under the pressure of his grip, a tiny, high-pitched screech that was lost beneath the ballroom's orchestra.
Liars. Every last one of you.
He checked his watch. Thorne would finish his speech in five minutes. After that, the "Hero of the Vault" would retire to the Vanguard Suite on the penthouse floor for a private toast with the guild masters.
That was where the ghost would be waiting.
Liam backed away from the grate, his movements deliberate. He didn't feel like the boy who had been left in the dark anymore. He felt like a glitch in Marcus's perfect story—a silent, lethal error that was about to crash the entire system.
The hunger in the Mimic's heart flared again, a sharp spike of adrenaline that felt like ice water in his veins. He reached the service elevator, pulled a small magnetic jammer from his pocket, and pressed it against the control panel. The lights flickered. The doors opened.
"Tonight, Marcus, I'm the one who doesn't leave anyone behind."
The Mimic's hunger surged, and the golden lights of the ballroom blurred into streaks of freezing white as the ghost stepped into the elevator.