[Oliver’s PoV]

  Oliver sat with his elbows on his knees, his head buried in his hands. He didn’t look up. He didn’t have to. He could already picture that smug expression plastered across Midas-3’s face.

  “This is the second time he’s done that,” Four muttered, leaning against the rail beside him. “Maybe you should go easier on him.”

  Midas-3, standing across from them, tapped the end of his cane lightly against the floor. “You’re the ones who called me,” he said, his tone perfectly even. “There were four other Midas units at base. If I were the one called, then perhaps you should at least listen to my plan.”

  Oliver lifted his head enough to glare at him. “I listened. That’s the problem.”

  “If anyone sees us doing this,” Oliver continued, his voice sharp, “if we’re caught for even a second, there won’t be a plan. We're fucked. You understand that, right?”

  “Of course,” Midas-3 said with mock sincerity. “But we all know who our god is, and he doesn’t seem particularly concerned about morality or consequences.”

  Oliver groaned and rubbed his temples. “Fine. Screw it. We’ll do it your way.” He looked up, his expression grim. “But for the love of God, be careful.”

  Midas-3 smiled faintly, his tone dripping with confidence. “Relax, Governor. It’ll work.”

  He held out his hand expectantly. “You have what I asked for?”

  Four reached into his pack and produced a sleek, black device, no bigger than a palm, its surface rippling faintly with digital light. “Here. A fresh Digital Mask.”

  “Perfect.” Midas-3 took it, turning it over in his hands. The faint glow from its surface reflected in his eyes. “It should be enough. Now all we need is someone who looks close enough to pass for the target.”

  He smiled, that same infuriatingly calm expression never faltering. “But we’ll worry about that when we get there.”

  Oliver exhaled heavily, leaning back against the seat. The train’s motion rocked gently beneath them, the faint hum of the magnetic rails filling the lull in conversation.

  Passengers moved through the car, none of them paying attention to the three figures in the corner. Still, Oliver couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.

  Midas-3 continued to speak, his voice low but animated. He leaned on his cane like an old scholar. He outlined the operation, explaining how he’d execute it if his brothers were present, and how the plan would unfold like clockwork.

  When he wasn’t wearing the organization's mask, Midas-3 wore his custom-made Digital Mask.

  He could be anyone, someone who caught no one's attention. Yet here he was, wearing a three-piece suit ensemble of dark fabric so precise in its tailoring that it bordered on aristocratic. He had a face of calm authority, framed by sharp lines and eyes that gleamed with intelligence.

  Midas-3 turned the spare Digital Mask over in his hands as it synced with his Gauntlet. Tiny streams of code flowed across the display as he updated its code.

  “Should be ready,” he murmured, slipping the mask into the inner pocket of his coat. “Once we arrive, I’ll need you two to stay close.”

  Oliver leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching the process with a mix of irritation and reluctant respect. “No problem,” he said. “Not like I know my way around this place anyway.”

  The tremor beneath their feet shifted as the light rail began to slow. Through the transparent walls, the sprawling lights of Sector 15 came into view, Tros’s commercial heart.

  “It’s going to be packed,” Four muttered, his tone flat as he peered out the window. “Looks like half the Houses decided to show up.”

  He wasn’t wrong. The station below was chaotic. Streams of citizens, merchants, and soldiers filled the platforms, their uniforms and banners creating a kaleidoscope of color in the crowd. Holo-adverts flickered overhead, their voices drowned in the noise of engines, footsteps, and distant announcements.

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  The train lurched to a stop, the doors sliding open with a hiss of pressurized air.

  “Let’s go,” Midas-3 said, stepping out first. Oliver and Four followed him out into the chaos.

  From the main platform, the hub was a blinding swirl of light and noise. Towering holographic billboards flickered above the crowds, advertising everything from starship parts to designer clothes.

  But Midas-3 didn’t linger in the light. Almost immediately, he veered off into one of the narrow side streets.

  “Shortcut,” he said.

  Oliver and Four exchanged glances but followed without question. The farther they went, the quieter it became. The brilliant glow of the central hub dimmed behind them, giving way to flickering neon signs and the occasional streetlight. The crowds thinned, replaced by shadows and silence.

  Midas stopped at what looked like a dead end.

  “It should be around here somewhere,” he muttered, running his hand along the wall. Then, with a faint click, a hidden panel shifted. “Found it.”

  He gestured toward a narrow staircase descending into the gloom.

  “We’re going down?” Four asked, frowning.

  “Not quite,” Midas replied. “According to our informants, it’s not lower. It’s between levels. An intermediate zone. Off-grid, mostly forgotten.”

  He began descending without hesitation.

  Oliver followed, his boots echoing softly against the metal steps.

  But as they moved, a prickle of unease crawled up Oliver’s spine. He glanced back, his eyes sweeping the shadows above.

  'Someone’s watching.'

  He couldn’t see them, but the feeling was unmistakable.

  'Cameras,' he told himself. 'Is it the surveillance grid?'

  Still, the tension in his chest refused to fade.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the world changed.

  The polished order of the upper level was gone. Here, the architecture looked almost organic. Buildings stacked haphazardly atop one another. Their walls patched with mismatched alloys and glowing pipes. The dim light from broken fixtures gave everything a sickly hue.

  Then Oliver saw it.

  “Endless Dream.”

  The words burned in red neon across the facade of a sprawling structure ahead. The sign flickered intermittently, casting the street in pulses of crimson light. The building’s wide front windows displayed its merchandise. Bodies of every imaginable shape, color, draped in little more than shadows and the glow of the sign.

  Some girls had feline tails that swayed lazily. Other men bore wolf-like features, scales, or polished metallic limbs.

  The closest figure caught Oliver’s eye. A woman standing perfectly still, her skin mottled with iridescent green and blue patterns that shimmered like liquid glass. She was completely nude, her expression serene yet predatory. When her eyes met his, she smiled and lifted a hand, calling him closer.

  “Freak show,” Midas-3 murmured, his tone half amusement, half disgust. The soft click of his cane echoed off the steel floor as he approached the door. “You have no idea how much people pay for company with Boons with physical modifications. The rarer, the more expensive.”

  Without waiting for a response, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  Oliver hesitated.

  Even through the mask that altered his features and voice, he could feel his pulse quicken. He’d spent his life in military corridors, on battlefields, in war rooms; however, never in a place like this. He was in his twenties, technically an adult by every measure, yet this kind of world felt foreign to him.

  'Fucking hell,' he thought, forcing himself to follow. 'Just don’t let anyone recognize you.'

  The door sealed behind them with a pneumatic hiss, cutting off the noise of the city.

  The décor was a strange blend of the intimate and the artificial. Pink and blue neon strips lined the walls, their glow reflecting off painted metallic surfaces meant to look like wood. A soft, pulsing rhythm vibrated through the floor.

  A small reception desk dominated the entrance, and behind it stood a woman, or rather, something that looked like one.

  Her skin had the faint, flawless sheen of polymer, and the barcode etched just below her collarbone identified her as an android. Yet her movements were fluid, her expressions natural. If not for the codebar, Oliver might have doubted what she was.

  “Welcome,” she said, her voice smooth. “What can I offer the gentlemen tonight? Separate rooms, or all together? Androids or biologicals?”

  Her tone was polite, but there was something faintly mechanical about her precision.

  Midas stepped forward, unbothered. “One room,” he said. “We want a human. Brown hair, green eyes. Height between one sixty-five and one seventy. No tattoos. And she must be willing to wear a Digital Mask.”

  The android blinked once, her eyes flickering faintly with processing light. “Understood,” she said after a moment. “Will all three of you be… engaging with her? Simultaneously, or in turns?”

  Oliver nearly choked. He coughed into his hand, trying to disguise the sound as a reaction to the perfume-heavy air.

  Midas didn’t flinch. “Neither,” he said smoothly. “We’ll only be observing. It’s for a recording.”

  The android’s lips curved into a smile. “Of course,” she said, bending down behind the counter. There was a soft click, the sound of a drawer sliding open. When she straightened again, she held out a small card between two perfect fingers.

  “Room thirteen,” she said sweetly.

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