Riley stood motionless as he stared up at the Hyperion Constructs Power Hub. The sleek lines of the building sliced into the overcast sky, its glass facade reflecting muted tones of gray and blue. Raindrops from the early morning storm clung stubbornly to the reflective surface, catching what little light filtered through the clouds. The towering structure exuded modernity and control, every inch of it meticulously designed to embody power and efficiency.

  A faint breeze pushed at Riley's back, urging him forward. The automatic sliding doors opened with a soft hiss, and he stepped inside. The transition was jarring. The lobby was vast and impossibly clean, its polished marble floors gleaming under an array of overhead lights that cast no shadows. Every surface seemed calculated for maximum sterility—unblemished white walls, glass-paneled partitions, and minimalist furnishings. The air smelled faintly of citrus, likely pumped through the hidden vents to enhance the sense of artificial perfection.

  Were it not for Riley’s trepidation, his shoulders would have been sore from the sheer amount of cringe. To top things off, drab music filled the space. It was the kind of mundane tune that would bring a twitch to the eye of any sane person.

  The reception desk stood at the center of the space like an altar, its glossy surface so pristine it reflected the faint digital glow of nearby displays. Behind it stood a young woman, her appearance as carefully curated as the building's aesthetic. Her navy blazer was crisp, the pale blue blouse beneath it impeccably pressed, and her makeup subtle but flawless. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and her practiced smile didn't falter as Riley approached.

  "Welcome to the Hyperion Constructs Power Hub!" she greeted, her voice clear and polished, though it carried a slight mechanical quality that reminded Riley of an automated voice assistant. "I'm Cindy. How may I assist you today?"

  Riley hesitated, tugging at the hem of his jacket as he approached the desk. "Uh… Riley Bellmorrow," he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "I'm starting today as a new Mod Jockey?"

  Cindy's smile widened as if programmed to brighten with human interaction. "Oh, wonderful! You're part of the energy that keeps Hyperion pulsing," she exclaimed with enthusiasm that bordered on unsettling. "Let's get you set up."

  Her fingers flew over the keys of a sleek terminal embedded in the desk. A second later, she produced a small ID card and handed it to Riley. His name and a serial number were printed neatly on its surface, along with Hyperion's corporate logo.

  "This is your employee ID," Cindy explained. "It'll grant you access to the Mod Jockey facilities and track your work hours. After every shift, Luxa earnings will automatically transfer to your digital wallet." She gestured toward a map displayed on the monitor behind her. "You'll enter through the Mod Jockeys' entrance, located at the east side of the building."

  Riley nodded, absorbing the flood of information as best he could.

  "Oh, and one more thing," Cindy added, leaning in slightly. Her voice dropped to an almost conspiratorial tone, though her professional demeanor remained intact. "Things can get… intense down there. But don't worry. Hyperion always takes care of its own."

  Riley wasn't sure if she was trying to reassure or warn him. "Thanks," he said quietly, clutching the ID card as he turned to leave.

  Riley exited the pristine lobby, circling the building as directed. The atmosphere shifted almost immediately as he left the polished facade behind. The gleaming glass and steel gave way to exposed concrete walls and utilitarian architecture, the faint scent of rain replaced by the heavy tang of oil and metal. The east side of the building was quieter. Its purpose seemed less about impressing visitors and more about function.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  A steel staircase spiraled downward into the bowels of the facility, each step clanging under Riley's shoes. The sounds of the city above faded, replaced by a low, mechanical hum that grew louder with every descent. Pipes and cables snaked along the walls, their surfaces slick with condensation, and the faint echo of distant machinery reverberated through the space.

  At the base of the stairs, a massive door loomed ahead, its surface streaked with grime and marked with bold lettering: MOD JOCKEYS—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. A security panel blinked red beside it, and Riley hesitated before pressing his ID card against the scanner. The light turned green, and the door unlocked with a resonant click.

  He stepped inside and was immediately struck by the sensory overload of the underground complex. The air was warmer here, heavy with the mingled scents of grease, ozone, and faint traces of burnt rubber. The hum of machinery filled the space, overlaid by the rhythmic clatter of tools and the occasional hiss of steam escaping from a valve.

  The facility resembled an expansive maze of interconnected walkways and open workspaces. Pipes crisscrossed the ceiling, and rows of chain-link walls sectioned off areas full of haphazardly stacked equipment. The lighting was dimmer here, provided chiefly by overhead fluorescents that buzzed faintly and occasionally flashed.

  Dozens of Mod Jockeys moved through the space, their faces marked with varying degrees of exhaustion and focus. Some hauled equipment on heavy-duty carts while others crouched over diagnostic panels, their hands deftly navigating the glowing displays. The symphony of motion was efficient but unhurried, the practiced rhythm of people who had long since mastered their tasks.

  A small office nestled against one of the walls drew Riley's attention. Its windows glowed faintly with the light of digital monitors. Inside, the cluttered space felt oddly removed from the sterile efficiency of the lobby above. Pinned blueprints covered the walls. A small desk practically cried beneath the weight of stacked papers, empty coffee cups, and diagnostic tools.

  Presiding behind the desk was a woman who appeared to be in her late forties, her sharp eyes framed by rectangular glasses perched on a slightly crooked nose. A few silver hair strands dangled loose from an otherwise tight black bun. Despite her small stature, she exuded a commanding presence that Riley could feel even from the doorway.

  He knocked lightly on the open frame. "Excuse me," he said, his voice hesitant. "I'm Riley Bellmorrow, the new Mod Jockey."

  The woman looked up from her monitor, her stern expression softening into a welcoming smile. "Right on time," she said briskly, stepping around the desk to greet him. "I'm Tamitha Gleaton, your shift manager. Welcome to the backbone of Hyperion."

  Riley nodded, unsure how to respond.

  "Come on," Tamitha said, motioning for him to follow. "I'll give you the tour."

  She led him through the labyrinthine facility, pointing out key areas with the efficiency of someone who had done this many times before. "These are the power modules," she explained as they passed towering arrays of machinery humming with latent energy. "They feed into the InfiNet grid and power just about everything from city blocks to essential infrastructure. Each module is a cog in the machine, and it's your job to ensure they stay operational."

  They stopped before a demo unit worn from years of use. Tamitha tapped the edge of the diagnostic panel with her fingernail. "Before you touch anything, you check this. Green means good. Red means replace. If it's yellow, you call me. No exceptions."

  She gestured to a bright yellow safety line painted on the floor. "This is the grounding zone. You don't cross it without a grounding strap, and you never, ever skip a safety check. The modules can hold a charge even after shutting down. I've seen what happens when someone gets careless, and it's not pretty."

  Her tone was sharp but not unkind, and Riley nodded along, doing his best to absorb the instructions.

  Tamitha continued the tour, pointing out the equipment racks, the recycling conveyor, and the emergency shutoff stations. When they returned to her office, Riley's head spun with information, but he felt a faint sense of accomplishment for keeping up.

  "Here," Tamitha said, handing him a tool belt and a digital tablet loaded with the facility's operations software. "This is your gear. Get familiar with it. You'll be working out on the floor in no time."

  Just as Riley adjusted the tool belt around his waist, the door to Tamitha's office swung open. Thom stumbled in, out of breath, his bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder, and his hair a mess.