NEWS ALERT

  Regional authorities report that another structural collapse in what was once Mexico City has killed twelve thousand people, most of them undocumented immigrants. The area had been under close surveillance for months, and an evacuation order had been issued, but only part of the population had followed instructions and boarded Red Cross and Red Crescent aircraft.

  Ravaged by crime, drugs, and poverty, this region is one of the most seismically unstable in Transition Zone 1. It’s also one of the Dark World’s most densely populated areas, home to the largest number of unregistered human groups—including Degenerates.

  Because of this, the prefect warns, the actual death toll could be far higher.

  Live from Alter Mexico, our correspondent Zoé Vidal has the latest. Zoé?

  ISABEL ACKERSON MUTES THE NEWS FEED and shuts off the wall-sized visuals, craving a little quiet while she does her makeup for DC Frontline—one of the swankiest fundraisers in the federal capital.

  “You still planning to slit John Kashgari’s throat with a kitchen knife next time you see him?”

  Dan, adjusting his bow tie, smirks at her in the mirror. Isabel drops into the fierce tone he loves:

  “I’d rather rip his balls off with a fork—if I weren’t worried about getting my hands dirty.”

  Dan bursts out laughing. Then, resting his hands on her shoulders, he presses a kiss to her neck.

  “I need a little favor from you tonight.”

  Isabel gives him a disappointed look in the mirror.

  “So that’s it? And here I thought the great and mysterious Dan Ackerson was finally going to forget his missiles, spies, and assassins for one damn night. That he’d finally decided to step out with his fabulous wife…”

  Another kiss on the neck.

  “I don’t need to parade my wife around to remind myself she’s fabulous. Having her all to myself is more than enough.”

  “You’ve skipped nine out of the last ten big events with the same old excuse—‘too much work’…”

  Dan strokes her, caresses her, and earns a small sigh of pleasure.

  “The rarest occasions are the most valuable. And our night won’t be ending at DC Frontline…”

  Dropping her playful scowl, she shoots back with a wicked smile:

  “Careful now—you keep teasing me, and we won’t make it to DC Frontline at all! So, what does the Big Bad Spymaster want?”

  “I noticed you get along well with Vincent Newflower…”

  “The Messalion heir? He’s got a little crush on me. Reminds me of an old boyfriend. If the Spy-in-Chief keeps neglecting me, I just might have to start breaking in a younger model…”

  “John Kashgari…”

  “Don’t even say that dirtbag’s name! I wouldn’t go near him unless it was to spit in his face.”

  Dan chuckles.

  “I was just saying—Kashgari happens to be one of Kenneth Newflower’s personal demons. You know, Vincent’s father, the Messalion tycoon. A little something about fraudulent financial dealings during a corporate merger ten years ago. Messalion took a hit.”

  “Oh wow, what a shocker. And then he came after my father—thanks to intel I was dumb enough to hand him myself. Why the hell didn’t I smell the jackal on him? And why didn’t you warn me? You knew all along.”

  Dan hesitates.

  “I didn’t know he was working with your father… or that you had anything he wanted.”

  Isabel leans her head against his chest, half-pouting but tender.

  “I’m not mad. So, what do you want me to do with young Newflower? Get him drunk and make him spill about Daddy’s dirty dealings? Drug him and gift-wrap him for your agents?”

  “I just want you to introduce him to one of my protégées. She’s looking to make her way in the world.”

  She pretends to recoil.

  “A protégée? She pretty?”

  “Very. But I’m twice her age, and she’s not my type. And unlike some people, I don’t dream about ‘breaking in’ younger women when my wife claims a migraine. A good glass of scotch does the trick for me.”

  “That’s it?”

  “She’s smart. Talented. You’ll like her…”

  An hour later, the couple steps out of their aircar and into the grand driveway of the Excelsior Safe III, where the event is in full swing. A constant stream of luxury vehicles pulls up, dropping off high-profile guests under the glow of chandeliers spilling light onto the pavement.

  “Welcome to DC Frontline!"

  A booming voice make Isabel turn just in time to see Senator Simons, arms open wide, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

  “Dan, am I dreaming? What on earth dragged the bear out of his den? Worried I might steal your stunning wife?"

  “Senator, you flatter me,” Isabel replies with a falsely demure smile as the older man gallantly kissed her hand.

  “I’ve missed your poacher’s ways, Edmund. How have you been?”

  Simons, a widowed philanthropist and the mastermind behind the event, sweeps his arm toward the lavishly dressed crowd filling the grand hall.

  “The prospect of fleecing the rich to help the poor makes me forget all about my sciatica and diabetes,” he declares. “We’re aiming for a hundred million dollars tonight! Helen Destraule will give the pre-dinner speech, and Kareem Stephano will be handling pledges. But for now, the bar is open—so enjoy!”

  As tuxedoed waiters weave through the guests with trays of champagne flutes, canapés, and petits fours, Isabel leans in close to Dan, smirking.

  “Destraule and Stephano? The papess of the silver screen and the rebel prince of Virtue music—oh honey, you’re spoiled for choice tonight.”

  “More like the most overpriced, overhyped names in entertainment,” Dan mutters. “They really pulled out all the stops.”

  “And you’re still living in another century, my love. Even in my great-grandmother’s day, Beckett and Gershwin didn’t make anyone hot and excited. You need to get with the times.”

  Dan fiddles with their digital invitation, pretending not to hear.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “Dinner’s in forty-five minutes. We’re seated next to Minister Perelmann and her husband—a PornBot actress whose name I can’t even pronounce—and Sarah Yin, the CEO of Yin Active Prosthesis. Sounds like a real party. I need a single malt just to take it all in. Shall I let you wander?”

  But Isabel has already disappeared into the crowd, effortlessly snatching another flute of champagne as she moved, a blonde goddess with a knowing smile.

  Vincent Newflower spotted the redhead the second she walked in.

  Sporty, gorgeous, curves to die for—she made the forty-something socialites circling the DC Frontline gala look like faded magazine covers. But who is she? She doesn’t have the desperate energy of a starlet or an heiress hunting for prey. She carries herself like she belongs here.

  Interesting.

  Vincent is tired of social-climbing models and daughters of industry tycoons. He needs a new flavor—especially now that playtime is about to be scarce. His father has officially passed him the reins this very morning.

  Board of Directors: prepped, conditioned, purged where necessary. Unanimous vote. Shareholders will follow like sheep.

  Now, back to the girl. He needs an in.

  “You look deep in thought, Vincent! Am I interrupting?”

  He turns to find Helen Destraule watching him with playful curiosity.

  “I was wondering if you’d do us the honor of staying for dinner?”

  “Helen,” he says smoothly, “I hesitate to call you ravishing because it sounds cliché and unworthy of you. But for you, I’d stay through the Flood itself.”

  She laughs, tossing her hair just so, and walks off with the graceful confidence of a woman who knows exactly who is watching her.

  Vincent takes a long sip of his martini.

  What the hell was that? She’s been icing him out for months, driving him insane. And now? A shy approach? Ah. News traveled fast.

  Alright, sweetheart. You want to play? I’ll make you pay for it. I’ll leaf through you like a beautiful score.

  “Congratulations, Vincent! Kenneth made the right call. He can retire with peace of mind now.”

  “Yes, bravo! We must talk soon, dear friend. Messalion has a crucial role to play in the current climate, as you know…”

  Vincent nods absently, his gaze following Helen as she jokes with a group of artists and businessmen, shifting subtly to flaunt the supple grace and youthful beauty that has turned the Soon cult franchise into a box-office juggernaut. She catches him looking and gives him a small, knowing smile.

  That’s right, darling. Tease me. Let’s see who wins this game.

  And as for you, little red dress… your time will come.

  The guests take their seats as Senator Simons steps up to the lectern.

  “Mr. Vice-President, Ms. Kadema, dear friends—thank you for being here tonight!” His deep voice echoed through the hall. “I won’t bore you with a long speech—I’m not much good at them anyway. I’ll let Helen take the stage in a moment to speak on the human side of this campaign. I just want to remind you all how vital this work is, especially with the challenges ahead. The future of our entire population hangs in the balance. We’re counting on you to help us meet this moment.”

  A brief pause, then a smile.

  “And now, without further ado, please welcome the extraordinary, irreplaceable, and downright magnificent Helen Destraule!”

  The room erupts in applause.

  The actress greets the crowd’s cheers with a humble yet delighted expression, then dives right in as soon as the room falls silent:

  “Thank you, Senator Simons, you’re too kind! I’m no politician, so I’ll get straight to the point: the deadline Edmund mentioned is the Referendum on the Separation Act, set for this year. Why is DC Frontline’s work so important? First, because far too many of our fellow citizens are still living in extreme poverty, while some people are already talking seriously about ‘galactic civilization.’ Did you know that in areas like Esperanza, Utopia, and Futura, there are people who still don’t have access to basic services like electricity and drinking water? Yes, electricity! That’s why they call it the Dark World—a name straight out of the Middle Ages! And that’s not even mentioning the constant risk of building collapses in the overcrowded slums they live in. But you know what? The people we don’t even see from the tops of our cars and towers in the Safe Zone—they have a voice, and they’ll be our judges when the Referendum comes: What have you done for us? Why should we listen to you? Where were you when we were starving? And I, Helen, ask you this: what’s the point of preserving humanity if we’re just going to let it die?”

  Isabel stifles a yawn and leans toward the table.

  “She’s not exactly subtle, but you have to admit, her delivery is effective, no?”

  Sarah Yin wrinkles her nose.

  “I find these biblical overtones highly inappropriate. Couldn’t they just play a video and spare us the moral grandstanding?”

  “Let’s be indulgent, Sarah,” Minister Perelmann interjects. “She’s young, from a modest background, and she represents a new generation...”

  “All the great frauds of history represented a ‘new generation’ in their time! And this simplistic take on the Referendum—humans versus non-humans, the new galactic civilization versus the new Third World—what next? An overcooked sermon barely tolerable for high schoolers. What do you think, Dan?”

  The head of DNSF clears his throat carefully.

  “She’s certainly charismatic and pushing in the right direction, which is what matters for us.”

  “For us, who?” Sarah cuts in. “The government? The parliamentary majority? Or are you just feeding us a partisan speech, like Edmund Simons so tactfully did earlier?”

  “No, no, no—I meant for the rest of us who, without discrimination, care about easing people’s suffering, Sarah.”

  “Exactly,” Minister Perelmann adds. “And the government is absolutely dependent on the private sector for that. We’re well aware of it.”

  A woman suddenly interrupts, grabbing an empty chair and wedging it between the Ackersons.

  “Uncle Dan! Ladies and gentlemen—sorry, sorry. Isabel, so pleased to meet you. And I really do apologize, but I couldn’t see any other way of getting to this important man here without attracting unwanted attention.”

  “This is my niece, Pearl Maya,” Dan Ackerson says, secretly relieved by the distraction. “She’s from Shanghai, Megazone 3, and she’s got an interest in our beloved city.”

  “In what way, Pearl?” Sarah Yin asks with a charming smile. “For better or worse?”

  “That’s the kind of tricky question I love. Madam?”

  “Sarah Yin, Yin Active Prosthesis—but please, don’t call me madam.”

  “And I’m Joseph Perelmann. Delighted to have you at our table, Pearl!”

  Pearl turns to Isabel and greets her with a bold kiss on the cheek. Dan’s wife, already won over, laughs.

  “Nice to meet you too, Pearl. I wish all of Dan’s family were as sweet as you. Unfortunately, I wasn’t so lucky in that department!”

  Onstage, Helen Destraule steps aside to thunderous applause, making way for Kareem Stephano. The singer immediately launches into rallying the donors, auctioning off a collection of drawings by underprivileged children from Fulfillment Center 32 in Megazone 1.

  Alright. Time to hit the bathroom, Vincent Newflower thinks as he watches Helen Destraule ascend the grand staircase to the second floor of the hotel. Excusing himself from his dinner companions, he gets up and strides toward reception.

  “What’s Ms. Destraule’s room number, please?”

  “Ah? Uh, let me check that for you, sir. Here it is—suite 103.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bingo. I figured she’d book a room right here. More convenient, no need for a late-night cab after a long evening. And good for business.

  A minute later, he knocks on the door of 103. The tiny peephole flickers—a barely perceptible movement, but enough to tell him is was being watched. He puts on his most charming expression. Go on, sweetheart. Open up. You wouldn’t dare leave me out here.

  The door swings open, and there stands Helen, wrapped in a bathrobe—clearly in the middle of changing.

  “Vincent? You caught me off guard! I’m a little embarrassed about my outfit.”

  “Don’t worry, dear Helen,” he says, stepping inside as if he owned the place. “I couldn’t stand it any longer—I had to see you.”

  “What’s going on?” she asks, but Vincent has already shut the door behind him. He takes her hands, then her arms, pressing soft kisses along her skin.

  “Vincent, this is all going a little too fast!” she manages to say, but he is already pushing aside the robe, inhaling the scent of the flesh he’s spent months yearning for, fantasizing about.

  Before she has time to react, Helen Destraule finds herself pinned against the sofa, Vincent’s head between her thighs. She lets out a gasp—a mix of surprise and pleasure—as his tongue greedily works its way over her.

  “Mmm, you’re sweet as honey, my little whore,” he murmurs. “So warm. So soft. You’ll see how I work you—you’ll see. Damn, it’s soaking wet in here—”

  A pretense of protest. Soft moans.

  Then a scream. A strangled gurgle.

  Haha! You love it, don’t you? Holy shit, it’s dripping everywhere! Wait—what the fuck—?

  Vincent suddenly jolts upright, clutching at his head and neck. His fingers came away slick with blood. Staggering back, he turns just in time to see Helen convulsing on the floor, life spilling from her severed throat in a violent fountain of red.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Help! Who the hell are you?! What did you do?!” he shrieks, scrambling backward so fast he slams into the wall and collapses.

  A shadow looms in the dim light. Zantia stands there, dagger in hand, methodically wiping the blood off on her sleeve, her eyes locked onto him.

  Two things happen at once.

  Zantia takes a step toward Vincent—then, suddenly, she whirls around, raising her laser pistol just as the door burst open.

  Pearl.

  Hair wild, gun drawn.

  “What the hell are you doing?!”

  At that precise moment, the glass doors to the terrace explodes inwards.

  A helmeted woman crashes through, firing as she lands.

  The air crackles. Shouts ring out. Blue lightning clashs with silver streaks of plasma.

  Pearl barely manages to hurl herself aside, deploying her large reflective shield in the same motion—but not fast enough. Half of Zantia’s face and torso disintegrates in a spray of blood, burnt flesh, and shattered bone. Her body—or what is left of it—slumps lifelessly to the floor.

  Tashhh. Tashhh.

  The intruder in the assault suit keeps firing, relentless, hammering Pearl’s shield with continuous blasts, pinning her down. Then, without warning, she cranks the power on the stabilizers at her hips and rockets back the way she came, vanishing into the night—leaving only the beginnings of a fire smoldering in the wreckage behind her.

  “Don’t kill me, please! Please, don’t kill me!” Vincent sobs.

  Pearl lunges onto the terrace, snapping off a rapid succession of shots, but the intruder is already gone—nothing but a ghost fading into the dark.