[Oliver’s PoV]

  The room was drenched in artificial light. Soft pinks and electric blues neons together into a haze that made everything look like a dream. The air was filled with the hum of drones, their lenses glinting as they drifted.

  Oliver sat stiffly in the corner, trying not to look.

  The woman—no, the model—stood in the center of the room, her face hidden beneath the illusion of a Digital Mask. The transformation was unsettlingly perfect. She now wore the face of Emilia Vellor, the noblewoman known across the Houses for her beauty and her influence.

  The mask gave her a perfect look, complemented by her long black hair. Her lips were a deep, vivid red, and her grey eyes moved with a kind of practiced seduction that made Oliver’s stomach twist. Every motion was luxurious, every breath choreographed.

  Her dress, a thin sheath of white fabric, seemed to obey Midas-3’s commands more than gravity. Each time he spoke, the fabric shifted, adjusting to reveal more.

  “Good,” Midas said, his voice calm, almost clinical. “Now blow a kiss to the camera.”

  The woman obeyed instantly.

  Four’s eyes were wide, glued to her every movement. He looked like he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or horrified. Meanwhile, Oliver forced his attention elsewhere. He analyzed the walls, the flickering lights, and anything that wasn’t the scene unfolding before him.

  He traced the pattern of the neon strips running along the ceiling, counting the pulses of light. He studied the headboard, the chrome-plated edges of the bed, and the faint hum of the ventilation system.

  Meanwhile, the drones moved in perfect synchrony. Four of them circled the model like mechanical vultures. Their lenses dilated and contracted with soft clicks as they captured every angle, every gesture, every carefully simulated moan.

  “Closer,” Midas murmured, eyes flicking between the live feeds projected across his gauntlet. “Hold that look. Tilt your head slightly. Perfect. Now, smile.”

  The woman smiled.

  She moved like a machine built for seduction. Every gesture, every tilt of her head, every sway of her hips followed Midas-3’s commands with uncanny precision.

  “Excellent,” Midas said, his voice smooth and detached. “Now, let’s change the scene and lighting.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  The sound was sharp, almost theatrical, and the room responded instantly.

  The pink and blue neon dissolved in a ripple of light, replaced by a wash of gold and crimson. The bed transformed into a velvet chaise, and the walls shimmered into holographic marble. The illusion was seamless, a conjured fantasy that existed only as long as Midas willed it to.

  Oliver couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect. 'It’s one of the best Boons for someone without a conscience,' he thought.

  Midas-3’s ability wasn’t built for battle. He couldn’t summon weapons or bend matter. His Boon was subtler, stranger. He could bend light.

  He could weave it into shapes, into illusions. Yet, not too much. He could create a room, a makeup, or something small, but enough to fool someone.

  In combat, it was a trick at best. But in this place, he was a god.

  The proper lighting, the ideal backdrop, the perfect lie.

  For an information broker and manipulator like Midas-3, the ability was priceless. He could fabricate scandal, forge evidence, and destroy reputations with a single flick of his wrist. Fake products, falsified recordings, simulated crimes. His illusions were so convincing that by the time the truth surfaced, the damage was already irreversible.

  He’d once told Oliver that the NET didn’t care about truth. Only about what looked real long enough to be believed.

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  “Perfect,” Midas murmured, circling the model as the drones adjusted their positions. “Now, a few shots with less clothing.”

  Oliver’s jaw tightened.

  Before Midas could say another word, Oliver turned and pressed the door control. The panel hissed open, spilling a sliver of corridor light into the neon haze.

  “I’ll wait outside,” he said flatly.

  He didn’t look back.

  The recording session had taken nearly an hour. By the time it ended, the illusion had been constructed, refined, and archived with the same clinical perfection as any covert operation. When Midas and Four finally emerged from the studio, they had more than just images and videos. The data was a weapon, subtle and devastating.

  They made their way to the upper level of the Endless Dream, where a narrow balcony overlooked the pulsing sprawl of the lost hub. The bar there was dim and quiet, a sanctuary of shadows and soft light. Transparent panels offered a view of Tros Station’s inner expanse.

  Oliver sank into one of the seats, the hum of the station vibrating faintly through the floor. The bartender, a sleek android with chrome plating, placed three glasses before them. The liquid inside has a slight green gleam.

  “What else do you need?” Oliver asked, his voice low, the fatigue in it unmistakable.

  “Time,” Midas-3 replied, leaning back in his chair with ease. “The wedding is in five days. From now until then, I’ll need to prepare both targets.”

  He lifted his glass and took a long sip. “On one side, I’ll use the images to contact our charming friend Marco Ravell. I’ll pose as Lia Raine. I'll convince him that I had to switch communication channels to avoid being discovered.”

  Four leaned back in his seat. “But he won’t realize it’s someone else?” he asked, lifting the glass for a careful sip.

  Across from him, Oliver tried to do the same. He’d handled liquor before, but whatever Midas-3 had ordered was something else entirely. The taste hit like he was drinking iron. It was sharp and metallic, coating his tongue with the flavor of rust and cold steel.

  'What the hell is this?' he thought, grimacing as he set the glass down. 'It tastes like someone liquefied a reactor core.'

  He pushed the drink away. “I’ll pass.”

  Midas-3 didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “No,” Midas said calmly, his tone that of a lecturer explaining something obvious. “If it were that simple, all our operations would collapse. We have AIs that analyze every exchange of communication. Every sentence, every pause, every word choice. Using that data, they simulate the sender’s personality with staggering accuracy. The response rate is ninety-five percent indistinguishable from the original.”

  He smiled faintly, his expression sharp and confident. “At that level, the recipient will never doubt they’re speaking to the real person.”

  Four exhaled impressed. “That’s… unsettling,” he muttered.

  Oliver leaned forward slightly, his curiosity outweighing his disgust for the drink. “And the other target? How do you plan to handle her?”

  Midas’s gaze flicked toward him, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Ah, Lia Raine,” he said. “She’s a bit trickier.”

  He adjusted the cuff of his coat. “I’ll need to approach her personally. I’ll pose as a representative of a House. One with enough influence to interest her, but not enough to intimidate her. The goal is simple: offer opportunity, flatter her ego, and let her believe she’s the one in control.”

  Oliver frowned. “You’re going to seduce her.”

  Midas’s smile widened, thin and calculated. “If necessary. She’s not difficult. Ambitious, vain, and easily swayed when she senses something she wants. All I need to do is become that something.”

  Four gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “You make it sound easy.”

  “For me, it is,” Midas replied, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip.

  “And do we know what she’s interested in?” Oliver asked, his voice low but steady.

  “Of course,” Midas-3 said, his tone smooth, confident. “That was the first thing my brothers compiled. We’ve mapped everything about the Raine and Ravell Houses. Every asset, every secret, every ambition.”

  He paused just long enough to take a measured sip of his metallic-tasting drink before continuing. “The Raines are buried deep in the heart of the Republic. They have influence, but not power. Not yet. What they want is political backing, the kind that will push them from relevance to dominance.”

  Oliver exchanged a glance with Four, who had gone quiet, his drink forgotten.

  “And the last target?” Oliver asked.

  Midas’s smile was thin, deliberate. “That one will be handled on the day of the wedding. Right after the ceremony.” He turned his gaze toward Oliver, his eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light. “But that one… that’s for our Governor to resolve.”

  Oliver didn’t respond, understanding the plan.

  “Five days,” Four said finally, breaking the silence. “You’ll have to convince her that you’re worth her time, seduce her enough to trust you, and then get her to the right place at the right moment.” He gave a low whistle. “That’s not exactly a simple timetable.”

  Midas set his glass down with a quiet clink, the faintest smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Five days is more than enough. She’ll come willingly.”

  The confidence in his voice was absolute.

  Oliver exhaled slowly, pushing his chair back.

  “Alright,” he said, standing. “Then let’s move. We still have work to do.”

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