The rain pounded down, a relentless storm that blurred the edges of the world, each drop hitting the ground like a thousand tiny daggers. My hair clung to my face, plastered there by rain and tears that had long since mingled into one. The breath caught in my throat, uneven and shallow, each inhale more desperate than the last. I was shaking, a kind of tremor that started in my chest and radiated out through my limbs, making my hands quiver like leaves in the wind.

  Dominic Hale stood across from me, his face a mask of pain locked in a frame of determination. His jaw clenched tight, eyes holding something between sorrow and resolve, like he was swallowing down a scream he couldn’t afford to let out. Water dripped from the edge of his coat, his hands buried deep in his pockets as if that would stop them from reaching out to me. The space between us felt like a chasm opening wider by the second.

  I took a step forward, my hand stretching toward him, but hesitating mid-air, fingers twitching like they’d lost their purpose. The rain blurred my vision, or maybe that was the tears—I couldn’t tell anymore. “Please,” I choked out, my voice barely a whisper, caught between the raindrops. “Don’t do this.”

  He looked at me then, really looked at me, like he was trying to memorize every detail, to lock this moment away somewhere safe. But his expression didn’t soften; it only grew heavier, as if he was carrying a weight too great to bear. The muscles in his face twitched, his lips parting slightly, but no words came out. He blinked slowly, deliberately, like each blink was a shield against whatever emotion threatened to surface.

  “How can you just walk away?” The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, my voice cracking as I forced them past the tight knot in my throat. “How am I supposed to breathe without you?”

  I saw the slightest flinch in his eyes—a flicker of something that might have been doubt, or regret, or maybe just the cold reality settling in. His face twisted, not with anger, but with a kind of sorrow that seemed to hollow him out from the inside. He took a step back, like he was distancing himself not just from me, but from the words I’d thrown at him.

  “You don’t need me,” he said, the words almost too quiet to hear over the downpour. His voice was steady, but there was a tremor there, buried deep beneath the surface. “You’ll survive. You’ll do better without me... I’m the one holding you back.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, to scream that he was wrong, that he was everything. But the words stuck in my throat, replaced by a silent sob that tore through my chest. I reached for his arm, fingers closing around the damp fabric of his coat, clinging on with all the strength I had left. My nails dug into the material, desperate, as if my touch alone could anchor him here, could make him stay.

  Dominic’s gaze dropped to where my hand gripped his sleeve, then slowly drifted up to meet my eyes. For a heartbeat, I saw something break in him—a crack in that iron-clad resolve. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a hard, unyielding line. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pried my fingers from his arm, gently but firmly, letting them fall away.

  “This is for the best,” he whispered, almost like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

  The rain hammered down harder, plastering my hair to my face as I fell to my knees, the mud swallowing my hands, my knees, pulling me deeper into the earth. I stared up at him, rain streaming down my face, mixing with the salt of my tears, my voice hoarse, barely a rasp now. “Don’t go. Please... I love you.”

  For a split second, I thought he might reach for me, thought I saw his hand twitch with the impulse to pull me up, to hold me, to take it all back. But he didn’t move. He just stood there, drenched and silent, the rain running off his coat like it was washing him clean of me.

  “I love you too,” he said, so quietly it almost got lost in the storm. Then he turned, every step taking him further away, each one like a knife twisting in my chest. The distance between us stretched until he was just a blur through the curtain of rain.

  I crumpled forward, my hands sinking into the cold, wet earth, the mud squeezing up between my fingers. My breath came in jagged gasps, the sobs wracking my body, too broken to be held in. The rain drowned out my cries, swallowed them whole, leaving nothing but the hollow echo of my pain.

  THAT’S A WRAP!

  Everything stops.

  The rain, the heartbreak—it all drops away like a curtain being pulled back. I get to my feet, still dripping wet, but the tears vanish as easily as the character does. All of that emotion? Gone, like it was never there. My heart slows, and I blink away the intensity, stepping out of the scene as if it hadn’t just demanded everything from me.

  Dominic’s still standing there, his chest rising and falling, eyes distant, like he’s still processing the weight of it all. Pathetic. He’s good, sure, but the way he’s rattled after a scene like this? Amateur hour. I don’t need a moment to catch my breath like he does. I’m already done.

  Without a word, I swipe the water from my face, not caring where it lands, and walk past the crew. No one says anything—they know better. I don’t need their fawning, their empty applause. What, are they going to tell me I was amazing? Of course I was. I’ve done this a thousand times. I don’t need to be told what I already know—I’m the best.

  As I stride past them, I see Naiai, my assistant, standing nearby. Poor, awkward Naiai, clutching that clipboard like her life depends on it. She’s staring at me with wide, doe-like eyes, always looking like she’s two seconds away from trembling. Pathetic, really.

  “Ms. Grace, you were incredible,” she says, her voice shaky, dripping with that desperate need for my approval.

  I barely look at her.

  “Of course I was,” I mutter, not bothering to slow down, not even glancing her way. My boots squelch in the mud, each step soaking the ground, but it doesn’t matter. None of it does. She follows behind me, like a shadow, clinging to the edges of my presence, waiting for me to throw her some scrap of acknowledgment.

  But I won’t. Why should I?

  I strut toward my trailer, I’m heading to my sanctuary, a place that no one else on set has access to. My trailer isn’t like the cramped, ordinary ones most of these actors have to tolerate. No, mine is a rolling palace, custom-built to reflect exactly who I am—the number one actress in the world.

  As I approach, the door swings open automatically, the subtle click of the mechanics barely noticeable. Luxury greets me before I even step inside. The trailer gleams, sleek and metallic, with curves as smooth as the finest architecture. It’s more of a private suite on wheels than a trailer, designed to make sure that I’m reminded, every second, of who I am. The best.

  Inside, the space is pure opulence. Marble floors, polished so perfectly they reflect my every movement, stretch across the length of the trailer. Gold-trimmed furniture—the kind that most people only dream of owning—sits elegantly in every corner, upholstered in plush velvet cushions. The air is scented with the faintest hint of my signature perfume, a custom blend designed only for me. It costs a fortune just to have it bottled, but for me, price doesn’t matter.

  As I enter, my servants are already waiting—silent, obedient, exactly as they should be. One of them steps forward, holding a tray with a steaming cup of coffee. But it’s not just any coffee. It’s the best in the world. Kopi luwak, harvested from wild civets in the deepest parts of Indonesia. It costs hundreds per cup, and yet here it is, prepared exactly to my liking. Rich, smooth, flawless, like everything in my life.

  I barely nod in acknowledgment as I take the cup. They know their place. They exist to serve me, and they do it well, or they’re gone.

  But first, a shower.

  I hand my coffee to another servant as I step into the adjoining room, where a hot bath is already waiting for me. The tub is marble, of course, embedded into the floor and filled with steaming water, fragrant with essential oils. It’s perfect, as always.

  Two of the servants step forward to begin undressing me, their hands efficient, delicate, as they peel away the damp clothes from my body. My body, I think, as I glance in the mirror. While it’s not as… perfect as some, it’s still enviable. The number one porn star, Crystal Light, may have the title of the best body on Earth, but mine’s nothing to scoff at either. I’ve worked for this—sculpted, toned, perfected.

  As I sink into the bath, the heat soaks into my skin, and I let out a sigh. The servants work silently around me, adjusting the water temperature, pouring oils into the tub, and occasionally bringing me whatever I desire without a word. It’s the kind of service I’ve come to expect—the kind I deserve.

  I close my eyes for a moment, letting the water rise around me, while I think about how good life is at the top. This isn’t just about acting—this is about being part of the Premier Society, where everything is designed to perfection. Malleus has made sure of that. Only the best in each field get this kind of treatment. My trailer, my food, my clothes—all handpicked for me, all tailored to my status.

  This is what being number one feels like. This is what people dream of when they see me on screen—the life they’ll never have.

  And here I am, living it, every single day.

  I sink deeper into the bath, feeling the warmth of the water as it wraps around me, the oils and fragrances mixing into a heady, luxurious concoction. My mind drifts as I sip the coffee—smooth and rich, just as it should be. This is peace, the kind only someone like me could have.

  Naiai enters quietly, stepping into the bathroom with her usual nervous energy, but I don’t bother looking at her. She knows better than to interrupt unless it’s important.

  “Ms. Grace,” she begins, her voice trembling slightly as it always does when she addresses me.

  “The director wanted me to pass on a message. He said your performance today was... well, he said it was a masterclass in acting. He was absolutely floored by your—”

  “Of course he was,” I interrupt, my voice calm, not even a flicker of interest in her words. Praising me is like breathing to these people—they can’t help it. I’ve heard it all before, a thousand times. They’re always floored, always stunned. It’s routine by now.

  “Was that it?”

  Naiai hesitates, shifting awkwardly, then glances at the tablet she’s holding.

  “Well, there’s more,” she says carefully.

  “People are... talking about Alexis Dreyer.”

  Alexis Dreyer. Just hearing her name makes me roll my eyes. That woman spends more time worrying about her image than her craft, but I can’t deny the attention she gets. The public’s so easily fooled by pretty faces.

  “What about her?” I ask, though I can already guess where this is going.

  “There’s been a lot of buzz about her... flawless appearance lately,” Naiai continues, biting her lip as she stares at her tablet.

  “People are saying she probably just saw Dr. Valor for some treatments, considering how perfect she looks now.”

  I raise an eyebrow, taking another sip of my coffee. Typical. Alexis always had a way of getting things done—she’s all surface, all image. Hence why she’s just number two, beneath me.

  “Valor, huh?” I say absently. I hadn’t even realized I was overdue for an appointment myself.

  “Schedule a session with him for me,” I say flatly, staring at the steam rising from the water.

  Naiai shifts awkwardly again, and when I look at her, she’s got this... confused look on her face.

  “Ms. Grace,” she says quietly.

  “Dr. Valor’s... dead. He was killed three days ago.”

  I pause for a moment, not because I’m shocked, but because it takes a second to process. Dr. Valor? Dead? That’s inconvenient.

  “Well, book me someone else, then. I don’t care who.”

  Naiai blinks, clearly taken aback by my reaction, or lack thereof. I can tell she’s waiting for something more—a show of concern or surprise—but she should know better by now. I couldn’t care less. Doctors come and go; I’ll find another one. It’s not like I was seeing him for his brilliant mind—I was seeing him because he kept me looking flawless.

  “What are you waiting for?” I snap, setting the cup down on the edge of the tub.

  “Get it done.”

  Naiai nods quickly, fumbling with her tablet as she turns to leave, clearly rattled by how easily I dismissed Valor’s death. These people never understand. He was useful, nothing more. Now that he’s gone, someone else will step up. It’s just business.

  I sink further into the bath, watching the steam rise as I think about my next move. It’s always about the next move.

  As if reading my mind—or more likely, because she forgot again—Naiai comes back into the bathroom, tablet in hand, her face that same mix of uncertainty and over-eagerness. She does this all the time. You’d think she’d learn by now. And yet, she’s still the best assistant in the world. Probably because I made her that way. Still, being from the lower society, her brain doesn’t function like mine.

  Naiai clears her throat softly.

  “Ms. Grace, I’ve finalized your schedule for tomorrow,” she says, scrolling on her tablet.

  “You’ll be flying to Hawaii for the charity event. There was a major earthquake yesterday, and the victims are desperate for support.”

  I don’t look at her, just nod, waving my hand dismissively. I’m not interested in the details—I never am. The cameras will be there, that’s all that matters. The world will see me “saving lives,” and that’s the only reason I’m even setting foot in that disaster zone.

  “Make sure everything’s ready,” I say, still focused on the warmth of the bath.

  “You’ll need to catch a flight tonight. I want you there before me, setting everything up.”

  “Of course, Ms. Grace. I’ll leave tonight,” she says quietly, already backing out of the room. We’re in Tokyo, so she’ll have to spend the next half-day on some cramped plane, dealing with customs and security like the rest of her kind. I, on the other hand, will be teleporting directly to Hawaii tomorrow. Malleus makes sure I don’t waste a second of my life on things like travel. The Premier Society doesn’t wait for planes. We arrive.

  “Good,” I say, nodding, dismissing her with a flick of my hand.

  “Get out.”

  Naiai scurries away, probably grateful for the chance to get away from me for a few hours. Not that I care.

  I sink deeper into the bath, letting the warmth soothe my skin as the servants glide around me like shadows, tending to my every need. One of them places a tray beside the tub, where a plate of Almas caviar, harvested from the rarest beluga sturgeon, sits on ice with delicate blinis and crème fra?che. Beside it, a glass of D’Amalfi Limoncello Supreme, the most expensive liqueur in the world, known for its rare Amalfi lemons and presented in a bottle encrusted with diamonds.

  I take a spoonful of the caviar, the pearls bursting on my tongue with their rich, briny flavor, every bite a reminder of the exclusivity of my life. This is what being number one tastes like. This is my life—flawless, luxurious, and perfectly crafted. Everyone else is just trying to catch up.

  When I opened my eyes, the warmth of the bath still lingering in my muscles, the servants had already disappeared, as they should. They’re trained well enough to leave without a word. But as my vision cleared, I noticed someone else. Dominic.

  He stood at the edge of the tub, his tall frame leaning casually against the wall, that stupid smile plastered on his face. So predictable. I didn’t say anything, just gave him a slight nod, and without hesitation, he moved closer, his hands already reaching to massage my shoulders. It wasn’t a good massage—he’s an actor, not a therapist. His hands were too rough, too clumsy. But I knew why he was here, so I let him continue.

  After a few moments of enduring his attempt at a massage, I opened my legs, the water gently parting as I made the invitation. He bit immediately, just as I knew he would. Men are always so easy to predict, especially when they think they’re special. Dominic, like so many before him, thought this meant something.

  But to me, it didn’t. It never has.

  I don’t care about personal relationships. Love? Lust? None of that matters. I just care about the feeling, about the relaxation. The only thing sex does for me is help me unwind, help me clear my mind. That’s it. I’ve probably slept with hundreds of men by now, maybe more. And not once have I ever felt anything for them. No love, no affection, nothing beyond the physical release.

  More than half of them, though, they think this means I care. They think there’s some kind of connection, some deeper bond. There isn’t. Usually, I don’t even bother opening my eyes. I just let them do the work, and once they’re done, they leave. That’s all it is.

  Dominic’s no different. He’s good at pretending on screen, but off it? He’s just like the rest of them—hoping for something I’ll never give.

  When I opened my eyes after the brief relaxation Dominic provided, he was gone. Typical. He’s not much of a massager, but at least he’s adequate for one thing—helping me unwind. No strings attached, just how I like it.

  As I stretched slightly in the now cooling water, my servants returned, as silent as ever. One of them leaned over the tub, gently washing me off with warm water and scented oils, while another stood ready with a thick, plush towel. They knew the routine. I let them wrap me in the towel, the heat sinking into my skin, leaving me feeling refreshed but still perfectly distant from the world.

  I walked toward my bedroom, the luxurious silk of the towel brushing against my skin. But before I got too far, I reached for the small crystal jar on my bedside table. A multivitamin—one designed specifically to keep my skin flawless. Everything about me was carefully curated, perfectly maintained, and that meant the best of everything—from beauty products to supplements.

  Next, I reached for the small pillbox next to it. A gift from Malleus. He’d made sure it was part of my routine. He said the pill was special, something only for Premier Society members, developed to eliminate any chance of disease—particularly STDs. Considering my rather extensive list of men over the years, it was good to know I wouldn’t have to bother with any of the complications that the rest of the world had to deal with. Another perk of being the best.

  I swallowed the pill without a second thought. Malleus always provided what I needed, and in this case, it was about cleaning up after the relaxation. Useful, practical, and yet another reminder that I’m not like them—the ones who have to worry about these things.

  Refreshed and ready, I made my way to my bedroom. Another day done, another night of perfection waiting.

  I sleep comfortably in my luxurious bed, the sheets made from the finest Egyptian cotton, temperature perfectly regulated to match my body, and the soft, dim lighting casting a warm glow across the room. The soothing sounds of a live violin and piano performance from my servants play in the background, filling the air with calm, melodic notes. The music is subtle, relaxing, exactly what I need. In no time, I drift into sleep, enveloped in comfort.

  When I open my eyes the next morning, the scene is already set. Breakfast has been delivered—a spread of fresh fruits, artisanal bread, and juice squeezed from only the best produce, of course. One of my servants stands by with a tray, presenting me with my morning essentials, including a pill—another one provided by Malleus. This one is especially useful. It cuts half of the calories of whatever I eat today, ensuring I stay perfect, no matter how much I indulge. Even if I ate like one of those lower-society pigs, starving for a week and then gorging themselves, I’d still be fine. Perfect.

  I swallow the pill without hesitation. I don’t need to worry about food—Malleus makes sure I can eat whatever I want, and yet stay exactly how I should be. It’s one of the many perks of being at the top.

  I slide out of bed and reach for my Nimbus, the sleek holographic screen lighting up with a swipe of my finger. I start sifting through the emails—nothing too important, as usual. The director sent me the trailer for the movie we wrapped yesterday. I tap to open it, the video playing in the air before me. Sci-fi romance, I remember. The story’s decent, nothing groundbreaking, but it’ll probably do well enough. Though I doubt it’ll win any awards. My other five films this year are far better contenders.

  I take a sip of juice, ignoring the rest of the emails, until a message from Naiai catches my eye. She’s arrived in Hawaii and, unsurprisingly, the situation looks just as miserable as I expected. She attached a picture—a makeshift tent, where she’ll be sleeping and setting up the charity event. It looks disastrous. Debris everywhere, buildings destroyed, people probably begging for help, as they always do.

  And soon, I’ll have to walk through all of that filth. Yuck.

  I sigh, staring at the image a bit longer. I hate this kind of work. I don’t care about the victims. It’s not my problem they couldn’t afford to live somewhere safer, somewhere with a mansion to protect them from the chaos. That’s on them.

  But I’ll do it. It’s all for publicity, after all. I’m the only top ten celebrities in the world to do this kind of charity. People love it when they see you help the helpless, when you “care.” It boosts your profile. It makes them worship you even more.

  After finishing my breakfast. My servants approach with their usual grace, gently taking my hand and guiding me through to my walk-in closet. Calling it a closet is an understatement—this is more like a private boutique, a gallery of fashion that spans decades, each piece more exquisite than the last. The walls are lined with custom-built shelves, each one showcasing designer gowns, luxury dresses, and one-of-a-kind ensembles, all arranged perfectly by color and style.

  Some of the pieces hanging here are literally priceless—gowns that have graced the runways in Paris, Milan, New York. Some are the only ones in existence, designed specifically for me. Each one is worth more than most people from the lower society will make in a lifetime. One of these dresses alone could feed an entire country of lower-society peasants for months, yet here it is, hanging unused, just part of my collection.

  I walk past a Vera Wang couture gown, custom-made just for me, its delicate lace woven with threads of gold. Next to it is a Gucci leather jacket, encrusted with gemstones, a piece so rare that there’s nothing else like it on the planet. These are the kind of clothes only I can wear, only someone like me could even afford to possess.

  I run my fingers along the soft silk of a Dior dress, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, as my servant pulls a particular gown from the collection—something elegant yet practical. I decide that today, I’ll actually wear one of these rare pieces. After all, what’s the point of having something no one else in the world can own if you don’t put it on display?

  As I step into the middle of the room, the servants prepare the selected outfit, helping me dress with a precision only the top designers could have trained them in.

  Usually, I’d wear high heels—a staple of my daily wardrobe—but today’s going to require a bit more... practicality. I’m going to be walking through ruins, after all. I don’t care about the dirt, but even I know it’s better to move gracefully through chaos than to stumble in stilettos. I choose a pair of luxury flats, still elegant, still designer, but far more suited to what awaits in Hawaii.

  I wish Roman was portable enough to be in this trailer. He’s my AI-assistant back home in Berlin, designed by Malleus, and of course, given only to the top one. Roman is more than just an assistant—he’s perfect, the only one I can trust to give me actual feedback. I usually ask him for his opinion on my style, and he’s always brutally honest in a way no one else dares to be.

  But he’s not here today, stuck in Berlin, tethered to my home. And here I am, relying on Naiai and these human servants to dress me. Incompetence is what they excel at, but at least Roman would’ve known exactly what I needed, right down to the smallest detail.

  I’ve asked Malleus before—demanded, actually—to make Roman portable. To let me take him with me, or at least connect him to my Nimbus. If I had Roman with me everywhere, I wouldn’t need Naiai, or these walking mannequins serving me. Roman could run everything, perfectly. But Malleus shot me down, saying it wasn’t possible. Not yet, at least.

  “Maybe next time,” I mutter under my breath, as the servants zip up the gown and step back, admiring their work. It’ll do.

  I hop into the teleporter, and with a blink of an eye, I arrive in sunny Hawaii. The moment the warm tropical breeze hits me, it should be paradise—the blue sky stretching over palm trees, the ocean shimmering in the distance. But paradise is long gone.

  I’m standing in what was once a luxury mega-mall, a place I’ve visited before. The once-pristine glass windows of designer stores now stand shattered, the polished marble floors are smeared with mud, debris, and filth. Refugees—filthy, desperate—have turned the mall into a makeshift shelter. I spot a Gucci store, now filled with tattered tents. I feel a wave of disgust churn in my stomach.

  On any normal day, these people wouldn’t even be allowed to look through the window of this store, let alone occupy it. Yet here they are, living in it, turning the store into a slum. Their filthy hands have touched what was once sacred, a place where only the finest walked.

  The air here is thick with the stench of sweat and decay. The smell of unwashed bodies and stagnant water hangs everywhere. I look around—what was once a place of luxury is now a ruined wasteland. I’ve been here before, shopping in the same halls now overtaken by tents and dirty blankets. The contrast is sickening.

  The people themselves are no better. Bloody, dirt-streaked, and unkempt, their clothes torn, their faces smeared with grime. Some of them limp past me, nursing injuries, while others simply sit in their misery, clutching their children or what little belongings they could save. Their eyes are hollow, their skin bruised and covered in dust.

  I feel nothing but disgust as I watch them. This is what happens when you can’t afford better. This is their fault, for not being smart enough, rich enough, good enough.

  I take a breath, turning my nose away from a particularly foul-smelling group, when Naiai appears at my side, moving quickly to catch up to me. She looks frantic, but as soon as she’s within earshot, she whispers the one word I’ve been waiting for:

  “Camera.”

  I straighten instantly. The act begins.

  My face shifts into one of genuine concern, as if the plight of these people truly weighs on my heart. I slow my steps, my gaze softening as I approach the refugees. I reach out to touch their hands, making sure to pause long enough for the camera to capture the moment. I give them food and blankets handed to me by Naiai, making sure each gesture looks heartfelt.

  “Here, take this,” I say softly to a woman clutching a child, my voice thick with pretend emotion.

  “We’re going to get through this. You’re not alone.”

  It’s easy for me. I’ve done this my entire life. The cameras love this version of me—the savior, the compassionate celebrity who cares so deeply for the suffering. I reach down to lift a small child, offering a comforting smile, as if the very sight of this place isn’t making me sick to my core.

  But I do feel sick. Disgusted. The child hasn’t been washed for days, maybe longer. His skin is streaked with dirt, and the smell that clings to him is revolting. It takes every ounce of control I have not to gag as I lift him, his filthy little hands clinging to my brilliant dress. His sticky, grimy skin brushes against the fabric, and it’s all I can do to keep my face locked in this mask of sadness and concern instead of the anger and revulsion bubbling beneath.

  Piece of shit should rather die than clutch my hand with his dirty fingers. He doesn’t deserve to touch me, to ruin my perfection with his filth. But I smile—not for him, never for him. I smile for the camera, for the world watching. They’re the ones who matter.

  While I’m still holding the child, pretending to care, an old lady suddenly stumbles toward me and, without warning, wraps me in a hug. Her disgusting, frail body presses against mine, her clothes damp with sweat and grime. The rot smell surrounds her, hitting me like a wave. I almost puke right there, my stomach churning from the stench. But I don’t. I can’t.

  I’m the best actress in the world, and I’ve had to deal with worse, though this comes close. Instead, I swallow the bile rising in my throat and carefully place the small child back into the arms of his equally filthy parents, all while forcing my face into a look of compassion and warmth.

  Then, I turn back to the old woman, and I embrace her with a smile that only the camera can appreciate. I hug her back, feeling the rancid stench cling to me like a disease. Camera flashes explode in front of us, capturing every angle, every perfect moment. This should look great on the front page of every magazine, headline after headline. People are going to love this—the world’s biggest star showing love to the forgotten, the broken.

  As I pull away, on cue, Naiai swoops in. She steps between us, separating me from the old woman as gracefully as possible, but the relief I feel is instant. Naiai gestures kindly to the woman, offering her a handful of supplies, food, and water—making sure the cameras catch it all. She knows the routine by now, and she plays her part well.

  But when I glance at Naiai’s face, something feels... off. Her expression isn’t the carefully curated mask I wear. It’s not the look of someone acting, playing a role. She actually cares. Her eyes are soft, and I see it clearly for a second: Naiai genuinely feels for these people.

  They’re her people, after all. Lower-society.

  Naiai and her team guide me through the filthy rows of tents, moving between these pathetic excuses for human beings who look at me like I’m their savior. Well, in a way, I am. I’m here, after all—here instead of lying on my luxurious bed, giving them supplies so they can cling to life for a few more days. They should be bowing, worshiping me for gracing them with my presence.

  Some of them actually do.

  As I approach, a group of them fall to the ground, bowing at my feet. One of them, a woman, says, “I’m your biggest fan,” her voice trembling with awe. I like that. I like the sight of them kneeling, dirty and broken, while I stand tall, clean, and perfect. It feels right.

  But I know the cameras are still on me, so with a carefully crafted look of humility, I reach down and help the woman stand, my smile warm, as though this display of obedience doesn’t thrill me. It’s all about appearance, after all. I have to look good. Maybe next time, I’ll tell my servants to bow to the floor whenever I enter a room—it suits me.

  After what feels like excruciating hours, moving from one pathetic tent to another, Naiai finally signals that we’ve taken enough pictures, enough PR gold to last for a while. She guides me toward our makeshift tent, away from the crowd of desperate people, and most importantly, away from the cameras.

  The moment I step inside, the facade drops. I bend over, and everything I’ve been holding in—the disgust, the revulsion—comes spilling out. I vomit into the basket that Naiai has already placed for me, as if she knew exactly when this would happen. She always does. Better not to litter the floor, even though the floor is already filthy, just like everything else in this makeshift nightmare of a tent. It’s far from the luxury I deserve.

  “Water, now!” Naiai shouts, her voice sharp and urgent, directing the team like the well-trained crew they are. But she knows better than to bring me just any water. It’s not some regular bottled brand—it’s water sourced from the Alpine mountain spring, flown in specifically for me. The very best.

  One of the crew rushes over with the bottle, and I drink all of it quickly, letting the pure, crisp water wash away the taste of vomit and the lingering disgust. It’s refreshing, and I can already feel the filth of the day starting to wash off—at least from the inside.

  But that’s not enough. I can still feel the grime of this place clinging to my skin, the touch of those disgusting people, their sweat, their dirt. I quickly run to the makeshift shower we had set up, practically ripping off the dress as I go.

  Naiai takes my dress without a word, already sending it to the instant-laundry service we had prepared. In just ten minutes, it’ll be clean, fresh, and ready to wear again.

  As the water runs down my body, I notice immediately that it’s not enough. The filth clings to my skin, stubborn and vile, refusing to wash away with just water. I don’t want to scrub it off myself—the very thought of touching this disgusting grime with my own hands makes my stomach churn. But before I even need to say anything, Naiai steps into the shower. She knows, like she always does.

  In her hands, she’s already holding my usual soap, the luxury brand I use, and a scrubber. No hesitation, no waiting for my command.

  She starts scrubbing my body, the water splashing against the tile as she works the soap into my skin, scrubbing away the disgust I can still feel crawling over me. As the filth and grime finally start to slip away, she looks up at me with that same calm, practiced efficiency.

  “I thought you’d be used to this by now,” Naiai says, her tone light but with a hint of something beneath it—a touch of sarcasm, maybe. It’s subtle, but I catch it.

  She does sounds and feel different today. Like she’s more brave.

  “I’ll never get used to this,” I say sharply, my voice flat as I tilt my head back, letting her scrub my shoulders and arms. “It’s disgusting.”

  She doesn’t respond. She just keeps scrubbing, removing every trace of the day, making me clean again, perfect again.

  But as Naiai scrubs my body, I glance down at her face. She looks different—not just focused or efficient, but... something else.

  “You seem to care about them,” I say, my tone sharp, breaking the steady rhythm of the shower. Her hands don’t stop, but I hear a small laugh, soft and controlled, escape her lips.

  “Well, that’s because I’m from here,” she says, still scrubbing away the last remnants of filth from my arms.

  From here? I blink. Really? I didn’t know that. She’s been working with me for nearly ten years, and I only ever learned her name. I knew she was good at her job—she sometimes forgets things, but otherwise she’s reliable. But from Hawaii? I didn’t care enough to ask.

  “Oh,” I say, trying to fill the silence. “I didn’t know that.” I feel a strange, uncomfortable sensation—a flicker of embarrassment. It’s absurd, really, but the feeling sticks.

  I pause for a moment, watching her work. Then, almost absentmindedly, I ask, “Are your parents still alive?”

  Her hands stopped scrubbing for a split second, and the water still splashed between us. Then she resumes, but I can sense the shift in her energy.

  “Until yesterday,” she says quietly. “They died in the earthquake.”

  I feel... something. A numbness, maybe. What is this feeling? Usually, I don’t care about what people go through. Not my assistants, not anyone, really. But something about the way Naiai said it—so calm, so matter-of-fact—hits me in a way I’m not used to.

  “Oh,” I manage to say, my voice awkward and stiff. She moves to wash my hair, her hands gentle as always, but the weight of her words lingers in the air, mixing with the steam and the water. I don’t know what to do with this feeling, whatever it is. Usually, I feel nothing.

  But when Naiai speaks again, her tone has shifted back to the one I’m not used to—professional, calm, detached.

  “In ten minutes, you’ll be giving a speech to the people. Just say you’re with them, that you’ll give them your support and all that. You know what to do, right?” she asks as she finishes washing my hair. My body feels fresh and clean again, but something about her voice has regained its usual rhythm, like the weight of what she shared before has been neatly folded away.

  “One more thing,” she adds as she towels me off.

  “It might be a good idea to say ‘Mahalo’ at the end of your speech. It means ‘thank you’ in Hawaiian. They’ll appreciate it coming from you.”

  Mahalo? I raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything. I can already imagine how people will eat that up—me speaking a bit of their language, showing empathy. It’s a clever touch, really.

  “Your dress is ready as well. It’s been cleaned, and there’s a drink and some food waiting for you on the table. I managed to find the best we could get here. I hope you like it.” She continues to dry me with a warm towel.

  I watch her as she works, her hands careful, making sure no water is left on my skin. Her face is calm, composed, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips, but nothing more. Just like before, she hasn’t said a word about her parents. She’s still working, still doing her job as if nothing has changed.

  Maybe she’s a better actress than me.

  Once Naiai finishes drying my body, her team hands her my dress—now perfectly clean and flawless, just like me. She dresses me carefully, her fingers working deftly to fasten every detail, and then she begins to comb my hair, making sure everything is in place. Making sure I’m perfect.

  But for the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel a strange urge to acknowledge her. To say something I normally wouldn’t.

  “Thank you, Naiai,” I manage, the words feeling foreign and awkward on my tongue.

  She freezes, her hand mid-air, comb still in her grasp. She turns to face me, her eyes widening in surprise. Clearly, she wasn’t expecting that.

  For a second, we just stand there, and the moment feels oddly significant, even though it’s just two words.

  But before we could say anything more, one of her team members called for her, something about the food supply for the refugees. Naiai gave me a quick nod, excusing herself, and I turned toward the table, eyeing the food she’d set out for me.

  She wasn’t wrong. It’s the best she could find in these conditions, and to my surprise, it’s actually good, even by my standards. I take a few bites, letting the flavors linger. It’s not the kind of meal I’d normally have, but considering the disaster around us, it’s up to par.

  As I eat, I pick up the script for the speech. It’s more of a template now, the same kind of thing I’ve said a hundred times at events like this—I’m here for you, I support you, we’ll get through this together. It practically writes itself at this point. I don’t even need to think about it.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  But then I remember Naiai’s suggestion: Mahalo. Thank you in Hawaiian. A nice touch, something personal for the locals. It’s just a word, but it’ll mean something to them. I’ll use it. It’s small, but they’ll love it.

  As I continued reading over the speech, I glanced toward where Naiai was talking to her team. She’s efficient, always managing every detail, even when the world is crumbling around her. And here I am, getting ready to say a few lines that’ll make the headlines, another performance I’ve perfected.

  Mahalo. It’s just a word, but it’ll make all the difference in their eyes.

  One of my team members steps in, letting me know the stage is ready. I nod, finishing the last adjustments to my appearance. It’s time.

  Before stepping outside, I take a deep breath—not because I’m tense, but because it’s my last clean breath before the stench out there hits me again, making me want to puke. Once I step outside, I’ll need to wear the mask, the version of me they love—the version they think is their savior.

  As soon as I step out of the tent, it happens. I become her again—the graceful, compassionate Ava Grace—the one who makes them feel like they matter, the one they worship. I glide toward the stage, my steps smooth, my expression serene, and the crowd parts as I pass, their desperate eyes on me.

  I step onto the stage, and as soon as the cameras fix on me, I start my speech.

  “Good afternoon. I know this has been an incredibly difficult time for all of you. This earthquake has taken so much—homes, loved ones, and the stability you once knew.

  But today, I want you to know that you’re not alone. I am here and will do everything I can to help. We will work together to rebuild, to restore what has been lost. Your strength, your resilience, has touched me deeply. You have been through so much, yet you continue to move forward. That is something no disaster can take away from you.

  I stand with you. I feel your pain, and I am committed to making sure that you have the resources you need to rise again. You have my word."

  I pause, scanning the crowd, catching their wide-eyed stares, some brimming with tears. It’s working like it always does. And now for the final touch—the word that Naiai had suggested. The word that would seal the deal.

  I look down at them, offering my most sincere smile.

  “Mahalo.”

  The moment the word leaves my lips, the crowd erupts. Some burst into tears, their faces red and shaking with emotion, as if hearing that word from me was all they needed. Others stand there, stunned into silence, their eyes wide, their mouths slightly open. I can practically hear the clicks of cameras capturing every angle of this moment.

  It worked. Perfectly.

  I bow one more time to the crowd, holding the pose just long enough for the cameras to catch every angle. Then, without hesitation, I turn and head back to my tent, keeping my steps as graceful as possible despite the overwhelming urge to get out of that filthy space. Once inside, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. Gasping slightly, I try to fill my lungs with the clean, fresh air of the tent, away from the stench of the crowd.

  “My god, can someone clean that filth out there?” I nearly scream, the disgust dripping from my words. But before I can vent further, Naiai steps in from behind, her calm presence cutting through my frustration.

  “You may go home now,” she says.

  “You need to rest. Tomorrow, you have the Premier Gala. You can’t miss that.”

  I close my eyes, relieved. The Gala—a world of luxury, elegance, and sophistication. Far from this disaster.

  “I’ll make sure all of your hard work today will go live and be broadcasted worldwide,” Naiai continues, she’s on roll today.

  “You’ll be the main topic at the Gala tomorrow. And I’ve already contacted Roman. He’s ordered the perfect designer dress for you, one that fits you flawlessly. It should arrive at your home before you get there.”

  I nod, pleased with her thoroughness. Everything’s already in motion, just as it should be. Perfectly planned, perfectly executed.

  “Good,” I say, my voice returning to its usual cool tone, acknowledging her good work.

  Without another word, I step into the teleporter, and in the blink of an eye, I’m gone. Straight to Berlin, to the comfort of my home, far from the grime and the stench of the disaster zone. Back to where I belong.

  “Welcome home, Ava,” Roman’s smooth, familiar voice greets me the moment I step out of the teleporter. It’s a voice that doesn’t just speak—it wraps around you, reassuring, precise, designed perfectly for someone like me. I inhale deeply, savoring the air of my own space.

  This is it.

  The comfort, the luxury, the absolute perfection of my home in Berlin surrounds me the moment I step inside. It’s not just a house—it’s a sanctuary, a reflection of who I am and what I deserve. Everything here is a symbol of wealth, but not just any wealth. True wealth.

  Marble floors, hand-carved from the rarest stones in the world, stretch across the vast open living area, gleaming under the soft, automated lighting that adjusts to my mood as I walk. The walls are adorned with custom art pieces, each worth more than most people could earn in a lifetime. The ceiling stretches high above, vaulted and expansive, framed by intricate gold leaf detailing, the kind that makes everything feel regal, eternal.

  Every corner is carefully curated. The furniture is not only designer, but one-of-a-kind, made by artisans who were commissioned solely to cater to my tastes. Velvet sofas, imported from Italy, paired with sleek, modern tables crafted from the most expensive woods, make the entire space feel like a living piece of art. The chandeliers above aren’t just lighting fixtures—they’re masterpieces, dripping with diamonds and sapphires that cast soft, shimmering reflections on every surface.

  To my left, a massive floor-to-ceiling aquarium holds rare and exotic fish that glow under the ambient lighting. Their movements are hypnotic, a perfect addition to the sense of serene extravagance that pervades the space. To my right, a grand spiral staircase with railings wrapped in pure gold leads up to my private quarters, where the real luxury begins.

  Roman’s voice follows me, softly narrating the day’s updates as I move through the house. The air is purified, the temperature always perfect—neither too warm nor too cool—set to the exact comfort that I desire without ever needing to ask.

  Everything here is more than luxury—it’s opulence on another level. Even the view from the massive windows, overlooking the city of Berlin, is perfectly framed by automated curtains that part the moment I walk past. The skyline glitters below me, but even that feels insignificant compared to the luxury I stand in.

  As I step deeper into the living room, a small drone hums softly as it glides toward me. It’s sleek and efficient, like everything else in my life. Without a word, it begins scanning my body, its sensors picking up any traces of dirt or bacteria from the outside world. A gentle mist of antivirus spray coats me, neutralizing whatever filth I might have brought back with me. The scent of disinfectant fades quickly as the drone releases a custom-blend perfume, delicate yet commanding, making me feel as fresh and flawless as I should.

  “The director sent over the final cut of your latest film,” Roman’s voice chimes in, smooth as always, filling the air as I make my way toward the grand lounge. “I watched it earlier today.”

  I pause for a moment, mildly interested. “And?”

  “Your performance is flawless, as always,” Roman continues, his tone matter-of-fact, but there’s something in his voice—a slight pause before the next sentence. “But the other actor—Dominic Hale, I believe—is not up to your standard. His delivery is wooden, and frankly, it dulls the impact of your scenes together. You carry the film, but... it won’t reach the heights of your previous work.”

  I nod, already expecting that. “I’m not surprised,” I say, sinking into one of the velvet sofas, its softness embracing me. “The story wasn’t particularly groundbreaking either.”

  Roman hums in agreement, a quiet, almost respectful sound. “I wouldn’t expect much from this movie in terms of awards or critical acclaim,” he adds, echoing my thoughts. “It will perform moderately well due to your presence alone, but beyond that, it’s nothing remarkable.”

  I let out a small sigh, staring at the Berlin skyline through the massive windows. I already knew this film wasn’t going to be one of my best. It’s filler, a stepping stone. I have other films lined up this year that will likely take center stage. But it’s still mildly irritating to have Dominic’s incompetence dull my work.

  “Figures,” I mutter, more to myself than to Roman. “I’ve done all I can with that one. The rest is on them.”

  As I settle into the velvet sofa, Roman’s voice comes through again with a hint of admiration.

  “Your performance in Hawaii was nothing short of brilliant,” he says smoothly. “You looked like an angel, descending to help the poor and suffering.”

  I smile slightly, appreciating the validation, but before I can respond, Roman projects an image onto the holographic screen in front of me. It’s a photo of me in Hawaii, my dress slightly stained with dirt, likely from that old woman who had the nerve to hug me. The grime on her body had transferred to my gown, leaving its mark.

  “Your dress, however, was a bit... compromised. It appears this was taken just after the hug.”

  He zooms in on the smudges of filth left behind on the fabric, the grime standing out against the perfection of the gown.

  I feel a brief flicker of irritation, but before it can settle, the image shifts, transforming into a series of comments from social media. Roman knew exactly what to show me next: hundreds of comments from fans, all praising me.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” Roman reassures me, his voice soft and confident.

  “Social media is flooded with admiration for your selflessness and your grace. The dirt on your dress? They see it as a sign of your dedication. They love you for it.”

  I glance at the screen, scanning the comments, all echoing the same sentiment: “She’s the best.” “An inspiration.” “Our angel in the storm.”

  Good. Exactly what I expected.

  “And, interestingly enough,” Roman adds, his voice perking up slightly, “your use of the word ‘Mahalo’ has gone viral. It’s trending on all platforms, with people calling it heartfelt and genuine.”

  I smile, feeling a small wave of satisfaction.

  “That’s good news.”

  “Indeed,” Roman agrees.

  “It’s already boosting interest in your next movie. Pre-sales have spiked across several regions, particularly in Hawaii. It seems your performance has not only won their hearts but will help your box office numbers as well.”

  Perfect. Everything’s falling into place.

  After a moment of reviewing the social media frenzy, Roman’s voice shifts, moving on to the next priority.

  “Now, regarding tomorrow’s event—the Premier Gala,” he begins, his tone returning to its usual business-like precision. “All of the top ones are scheduled to attend, of course. However, two have confirmed they won’t be attending. Dr. Valor won’t be joining, obviously, as he’s recently deceased. And it appears Tobias Kane has gone missing since yesterday. There’s been no word from his camp.”

  I raise an eyebrow slightly. Tobias missing? Odd, but not my concern. Roman continues without a pause.

  “Additionally, Milady Madelyn will not be attending either, but that’s no surprise. She’s always been... elusive, and her attendance at the Gala has been nonexistent for years.”

  I nod. It’s expected. Milady Madelyn is too caught up in her own world to care about the Premier Gala. But with Valor dead and Tobias missing, there are two significant gaps in tomorrow’s event. The rest of us, however, will be there, and I intend to stand out.

  “Moving on,” Roman continues, his tone smooth and attentive.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of confirming the wardrobe Naiai arranged for tomorrow evening. She made an excellent choice—a Valentino couture gown, custom-tailored to fit your exact measurements. The cut will highlight your figure perfectly, especially under the event lighting.”

  “As for makeup, I’ve scheduled your artist to focus on a bold yet elegant look—red lips to contrast the subtle shimmer of the gown, with a smoky eye to bring out your best features.”

  He pauses for a beat before continuing, “For your fragrance, I suggest Clive Christian No. 1 Imperial Majesty—only ten bottles in existence, and you happen to own one. The scent will linger without overpowering the room, ensuring you’re the center of attention without even needing to speak.”

  I smile at the thought. Roman always knows exactly what will work best. “And the shoes?” I ask.

  “Christian Louboutin, 24-carat gold heel, of course. They’ll be discreet, but when the light catches them, it’ll add just the right touch of glamour.”

  Perfect. Roman has thought of everything. The Gala will be another opportunity to remind everyone who the true star is, especially with two of the top ones missing.

  “Thank you, Roman. Now, can you call Naiai for me?” I say smoothly, not looking away from the window as I enjoy the serene view of Berlin from my penthouse.

  Within ten seconds, Naiai picks up the call, but her voice sounds different this time—like someone who’s just been crying. I know that tone all too well. I’ve mastered it in my performances.

  “Yes, Ms. Grace?”

  “Naiai,” I begin, my tone calm but different—lighter, almost.

  “Take my private jet and have yourself a vacation, okay? I hear Italy is good this time of year.”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Naiai is clearly shocked, and I can almost hear the confusion in her silence. After all, I’ve never given her a vacation. She’s never asked for one, either. She knows the job, and I’ve never made space for breaks. But she deserves it, I suppose. She’s earned it.

  “Are you sure, Ms. Grace? What about tomorrow’s Gala?” Naiai asks, her voice filled with uncertainty, probably trying to make sense of my sudden change in attitude.

  “I’ll handle it myself. Don’t worry,” I reply with an air of confidence, waving a hand as if she could see me dismissing the concern.

  “Just take the time off.”

  The hesitation is palpable, but I don’t wait for her to respond. I nod to Roman.

  “Transfer one billion credits to Naiai’s account.”

  That’s my payment from my last movie, but I can afford to lose it, I have many more billion of credit on my bank.

  Roman’s voice confirms immediately, “Done.”

  “Naiai, use all of that money. Don’t come back to work until it’s gone. Enjoy yourself. Take your time. When you’ve spent every last credit, then you can think about coming back. Until then, consider it a long vacation.”

  There’s stunned silence on the other end of the call. She’s probably still processing what I just said, and I don’t blame her. I’ve never done anything like this before. But I don’t dwell on it.

  Without waiting for her response, I say, “Bye,” and hang up the phone, not giving her a chance to protest or ask any more questions.

  “You sure you’re not acting?” Roman’s voice cuts through with a cold, calculated tone, the same way he always delivers his observations.

  I chuckle softly. “Not this time.”

  “That’s genuine appreciation, actually,” I say, surprising even myself a little. Then, without much thought, I add, “Her parents passed away yesterday.”

  There’s a brief pause as if Roman is processing the information. “I see,” he responds, his voice still flat but with a faint trace of understanding—at least, as much as an AI can understand. “She’s worked for you for ten years, yet this is the first time you’ve been... nice to her.”

  I let that sink in for a moment, Roman’s blunt observation hanging in the air.

  Well, I think to myself, maybe there’s a first time for everything.

  “Anyway, Roman, that’s it for me,” I say, standing up from the velvet sofa. “Bring my sleeping capsule to the bed. I’m heading off early tonight. I’ve been working non-stop for the past two days. I deserve it. I need to be fresh tomorrow morning.”

  “Understood,” Roman replies as I head toward the luxurious bedroom, my steps slow and relaxed, already feeling the weight of the past days starting to lift.

  By the time I reach the bed, the sleeping capsule is already waiting for me on the bedside table, its soft glow illuminating the room in a subtle, calming light. I take the capsule, downing it with a sip of water, feeling the familiar calm wash over me as it begins to take effect.

  I sink into my bed, the soft, high-thread-count sheets cocooning me in comfort. Within moments, my eyes drift shut, and I feel my body relax into the mattress.

  The world fades, and I wake up the next morning refreshed and ready to tackle the day. Bright-eyed, flawless, and ready for the Gala.

  “Good morning, Ava,” Roman’s voice greets me the moment I stir awake. “Your breakfast is ready on the table. So is your dress for tonight.” I blink a few times, the comfort of my bed making it hard to get up, but Roman’s gentle prodding continues.

  “I recommend an hour of running on the treadmill, followed by one hour of yoga. Don’t forget to take your pill and check your email. It seems Naiai sent you something.”

  I stretch, feeling the soft luxury of the sheets beneath me before finally swinging my legs out of bed. Time to get back to routine. As always, Roman has everything in order. My eyes flick to the dress hanging nearby—stunning, as expected—and the breakfast laid out on the table, prepared perfectly.

  “Naiai?” I mutter, still a little groggy. What could she have sent? My curiosity is piqued, but I must first follow Roman’s carefully crafted schedule. The treadmill, yoga, pills—everything has its place.

  As I follow Roman’s schedule—running on the treadmill, then transitioning into my yoga routine—I listen to a podcast in the background, the familiar sound of news anchors discussing recent events. Unsurprisingly, most of it is about me. My newest film and the speech in Hawaii seem to be covering every media outlet across the globe. It’s always the same. Public opinion keeps rising in my favor, even though I’m already at the top. Where else is there to go?

  By the time I’m deep into my yoga session, the news shifts to something more... interesting. They start talking about the passing of Dr. Valor, raising questions about security protocols. How could the best doctor in the world, protected by the finest systems the Premier Society has to offer, be killed in his own home?

  I pause for a moment, holding a pose, feeling a flicker of curiosity. If someone like him isn’t safe, what does that mean for the rest of us?

  After my yoga, as I sit down for lunch, the news changes again, this time to the disappearance of Tobias Kane and his wife. At first, I assumed he was just off somewhere in the mountains, training or isolating himself, as he often does. But now, even his trainer and manager have no idea where he’s gone. The mystery deepens, but I shrug it off. He’ll turn up. He always does.

  Even if he’s in danger. I’m sure he could manage himself just fine. I watched him fight the Brazilian fighter the other day. He’s called the number one fighter for a reason. I feel bad for Lisa, though, kinda like her.

  As I finish lunch, Roman alerts me that the therapist has arrived. I live alone, and I prefer it that way. I don’t like strangers lingering around my home, not even my own servants. They come, do their tasks, and leave. So the therapist, too, knows the routine—massage, pedicure, manicure, hair care, everything to ensure I look glamorous for the Gala tonight.

  As I recline, enjoying the pampering, the podcast shifts once more to the state of the world—the unemployment rate is soaring, poverty lines are getting worse.

  I roll my eyes. Like I care.

  If someone can’t afford to live, that’s not society’s problem. That’s their problem. Maybe they should try being better at something.

  The therapist’s hands continue their work, kneading away any tension I may have had as the news continues to drone on in the background, but my mind is already on the Gala. That’s the only thing that matters today.

  As the time for the Gala draws near, Roman’s voice reminds me, calm and efficient as always.

  “It’s time to get ready, Ava.”

  I nod, and the servants enter the room, along with the makeup artist Roman arranged. They move quickly and skillfully, dressing me in the Valentino couture gown, cinching every detail to perfection. The makeup artist carefully applies the bold yet elegant look—red lips and a smoky eye—just as Roman had instructed.

  They fawn over me, their words flowing as easily as their hands. “You look fabulous, Ms. Grace,” one of them says. The others nod in agreement, echoing the sentiment.

  When everything is done, I stand in front of the mirror, and for a moment, even I have to admit it—I look perfect. The gown clings to me in all the right places, and the makeup adds just the right amount of drama without being overdone—exactly as it should be.

  I step out and enter my Aerocar, sleek and elegant, waiting to take me to the Gala in Paris tonight. I could’ve taken the Teleporter—it would have been faster—but the cameras will be waiting at the entrance. It’s much more suitable for me to arrive in style, and the Aerocar is designed for just that.

  The AI system is flawless, the best driver anyone could have. I’ll be at the Gala in half an hour, arriving exactly as I should—in full view of the cameras.

  On my way to the Gala, I pull out my Nimbus, the holographic screen lighting up as I check my emails. One catches my eye—Naiai’s message.

  I open it, and the first thing I see is a series of pictures. She’s in Milan, apparently, having a good time. There’s a photo of her laughing, dressed in a simple shirt, standing in front of a quaint café. She looks... cute, I suppose, in her own understated way. I study her outfit for a moment. Simple, yet beautiful. She has a knack for that—picking something effortless that still works.

  Maybe I could learn from her style. I never wear simple outfits, but it works for her. Maybe, just maybe, I could ask her opinion sometime, though I’m not sure I’d ever feel comfortable going for something less... extravagant.

  Then, I scroll down and see the email itself—a long message filled with her gratitude. She’s thanking me for the vacation, saying how much she appreciates it, and hoping for the best for me at the Gala tonight.

  It’s thoughtful, almost... sweet.

  As the Aerocar glides silently toward Milan, I switch from my emails to social media, where my presence is unparalleled. I have the most followers in the world. Everyone knows who I am, from the President to the lowest members of society. And not just know me—they adore me.

  I may not be the richest—that title belongs to Voss. I’m not the smartest, either—that would be Milady. But none of that matters because I hold everyone’s heart with my acting, my performances, my so-called charity work. All of it carefully designed. None of it sincere. None of it genuine.

  Yet, as I glance out the window of the Aerocar, watching the cities pass beneath me, a strange thought crosses my mind. What do I actually want?

  I could have anything I desire in this world: the best dress, the best food, the best medicine, all at my fingertips. People worship me, they hang on every word I say, they cheer at every event I attend. But it feels... empty. Hollow, even.

  Sure, there’s a flicker of fulfillment after finishing a great movie, or when I see a fan who genuinely adores me. That fleeting sense of accomplishment when I know I’ve outperformed everyone else, once again cementing my place at the top.

  But is that it? Is that all there is?

  The thought lingers for just a moment before vanishing into thin air as the Aerocar touches down smoothly in front of the Adira Hall—the exclusive venue built specifically for the Premier Gala. Adira Hall is a masterpiece of modern architecture, its sleek black glass fa?ade rising high into the night sky, reflecting the glow of the city lights. The building itself is an embodiment of prestige—sharp lines, towering spires, and gleaming surfaces, all meant to radiate exclusivity and power.

  I step out of the Aerocar, and in an instant, I’m back. Ava Grace, the star. The one they all know. Hundreds of cameras flash in my face as soon as I set foot on the red carpet. I smile, turning my face to the right angle, posing just as they expect.

  The crowd erupts, thousands of fans cheering my name and waving banners. One banner catches my eye, held by a disabled teenage girl near the front. I seize the moment—perfect for the cameras.

  I approach her, kneeling slightly to be on her level. Her eyes widen, frozen in disbelief. I smile warmly, reaching out to shake her hand. The crowd quiets for a moment, watching. I lean in, posing for a picture with her.

  Click. The moment is captured, immortalized. I know the media will eat this up—Ava Grace, the generous, caring celebrity. It’s too easy.

  I straighten up, flashing one more smile to the crowd before entering Adira Hall.

  Inside, the space is just as grand as ever. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting shimmering light across the polished marble floors. It’s filled with only the world’s most elite. My eyes scan the room, recognizing a few familiar faces.

  Jean-Luc Cartier, the number one architect in the world, stands by the bar, sipping on a glass of champagne. He’s designed Adira Hall and countless other landmarks across the globe. We worked together once when I sponsored the opening of one of his buildings—a great PR move. He’s always been polite but distant, focused on his craft more than the glamour.

  To my left, I spot Luca Ferrara, the number one fashion designer. He’s responsible for several of my gowns over the years, including the one I’m wearing tonight. Luca and I have always had a good relationship—we understand each other’s importance in this world. His talent, my image. A perfect match.

  And there, by the grand staircase, is Matteo Gianni, the number one director. He’s directed three of my most successful films, and we’ve shared countless red carpets together. We both know how much we owe each other’s careers. His movies brought me more prestige, and my performances made his films unforgettable.

  I nod to a few of them, exchanging smiles and pleasantries as I glide through the hall, already feeling the eyes of the room on me.

  As I glide through the hall, someone steps in front of me, blocking my path with an easy, confident smile. Sebastian Vale, the number one racer in the world. He’s fresh off a win—something like a grand championship, I think. The details don’t matter. He’s always winning something.

  “Ava,” he greets me, his grin wide and a little too familiar.

  “You look absolutely stunning tonight.” His eyes travel up and down my gown, lingering a second too long.

  “I’ve got to say, it’s not every day I see a woman who can turn heads like that and still be the most talented person in the room.”

  I know that look. I’ve seen it a thousand times. He doesn’t care about the gown or the talent. He wants me. But that’s no surprise. They all do.

  “Sebastian,” I reply, my voice smooth and detached, offering him the polite smile I reserve for situations like these.

  He steps closer, dropping his voice slightly as if trying to be charming.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking. I just won the Grand Prix, and all the victory parties are great and all, but they’d be even better with someone like you by my side.” He leans in, his voice turning playful.

  “What do you say? You and me? We’d be quite the pair.”

  I glance at him, completely uninterested. He’s handsome, sure. But I’ve seen this before—the same lines, the same ego. Another man trying to catch the attention of Ava Grace, trying to score the ultimate prize. It’s boring, really.

  “That’s nice, Sebastian,” I say, brushing off his comment without skipping a beat. I offer him a thin smile, not even trying to hide the lack of interest.

  “But I think you’re fine on your own. Enjoy your victory.”

  He looks a little taken aback, but he laughs it off like he can’t quite believe I’m not jumping at the chance.

  “Well, if you ever change your mind, Ava,” he says, stepping back, “you know where to find me.”

  “Of course,” I reply lightly, already moving past him.

  As I scan the Gala, my eyes land on the President of Finland. He’s not a typical face in the Premier Society crowd, which makes his presence here a bit of a surprise. Must be Malleus’s doing, likely in recognition of Finland’s recent surge—something about them boasting the highest GDP growth this year or some such accomplishment. What’s more striking is how everyone else here is deeply engaged—grouped off in animated discussions, nodding at shared jokes, or laughing with their exclusive circles.

  And yet, here I am. Standing by myself, smiling as always. Half of the planet’s population is my followers. But despite all that, despite being the center of every eye, I’m alone. Usually, I’d have Naiai by my side in moments like this. She’s quiet and efficient, and I could always exchange a few words with her, if nothing else. But she’s not here tonight.

  When Naiai wasn’t around, I often found myself talking to Lisa, Tobias Kane’s wife. I liked her, despite myself. She was simple, easy to be around. There was no performance with her, no pretense. But Lisa’s not here either.

  And now, surrounded by the most important people on Earth, I feel it—a deep, unfamiliar feeling.

  I feel alone.

  But thankfully, the Gala finally begins. The grand doors close softly behind me, and the buzz of conversation gradually fades away. The lights dim, casting the hall in a soft, ambient glow, and then the holo projectors flicker to life, filling the entire room with a stunning visual display, wrapping us in a 360-degree world of holographic imagery.

  And then, the voice comes. A voice I know all too well.

  Malleus.

  “Welcome, the best of the world. Welcome to Premier Society,” Malleus’ familiar voice booms through the hall. The screens surrounding us immediately translate his words into multiple languages, as not everyone in the Premier Society speaks English. While Malleus speaks to us in English, the holoscreens display captions in French, Mandarin, Russian, and countless other languages, ensuring everyone understands.

  “We are here gathered today to celebrate this annual event, the Premier Gala. The celebration is only for the best in the world.”

  His words reverberate through the hall, and I glance at the faces around me. The elite, the untouchable—all of them, like me, the best at what they do. Malleus’ voice holds us all in a strange kind of reverence. We are the chosen, and he never lets us forget it.

  “However, before we begin the event, I would like to introduce you to our newest member this year— Lucien Moreau, the number one chef in the world.”

  A spotlight flickers to life, casting a soft glow on Lucien, standing among the crowd. He bows deeply, clearly trying to contain his nerves, though they’re written all over his face. It’s expected—a moment like this would unnerve anyone, even the best.

  The light shifts as Malleus’ voice fills the hall again, this time colder, more detached.

  “Now, onto more serious matters. As many of you are aware, we have recently lost Dr. Valor, the number-one doctor in the world. Despite the security measures in place, his death occurred within his home. Investigations are under—investigations are—” The slightest pause. A flicker in the holo display, barely noticeable.

  “—underway.”

  “Furthermore, we have also received reports regarding the disappearance of Tobias Kane, the number one fighter. His location remains unknown, and even those closest to him have no information regarding his whereabouts.”

  “But let’s all forget that,” Malleus’ voice continues, smooth and authoritative, “because today is the day we are going to have fun and enjoy the world.”

  “We are the ones who shape this world,” Malleus proclaims, his voice booming with authority, echoing through the hall. The screens flicker to life, showcasing images of our achievements—the breakthroughs that have changed the world. We have changed the world.

  “When I first founded the Premier Society with Milady Madelyn,” Malleus continues, “we had one goal: to take humanity to the next level. To build a world where the best were elevated to their rightful place.”

  “Everything we built,” Malleus continues, “was for the society, for humanity. This is not just about you being the best—it’s about being the ones who carry the weight of the future. You are the pinnacle of progress. We have made the world better, and together, we will continue to shape it.”

  The holo-screens flicker again, showcasing the triumphs of the Premier Society—revolutionary cures for diseases, new energy sources, the technology that has transformed daily life. Images of our accomplishments flash in rapid succession, each more breathtaking than the last. Medicine. Engineering. Entertainment.

  I see flashes of my own achievements on the screens, and a flicker of pride warms me. We are the ones everyone looks up to. The world depends on us, even if they don’t realize it.

  Then, the screen shifts again, and Malleus’ voice lowers, taking on a tone of subtle excitement.

  “Now,” he begins, pausing for effect, “I am pleased to introduce to you our next great project. Something that will redefine humanity’s future.”

  The lights dim, and the holoscreens flicker once more. But this time, the image is different. The world we see is no longer Earth—it’s a barren, red rock—Mars.

  A murmur sweeps through the room, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. The image of Mars looms large, raw, and untamed, its surface desolate and alien. The crowd erupts into applause, and I feel the energy surge through the room.

  This isn’t just some random announcement. It’s Mars. They’re not just shaping Earth anymore. They’re about to shape another planet.

  “Re-Home,” Malleus declares, as the holo-screens zoom in on detailed plans for colonization, for terraforming. The outlines of futuristic cities built into the craters of Mars flash before us, and for a moment, it feels like we’re already there.

  “I’ll keep the details secret for now,” Malleus says, teasingly, drawing out the moment.

  “There is more that Milady Madelyn and I need to discuss. But once this project is completed, you will be the first to claim Mars as your home.”

  The applause swells, and I can feel the excitement buzzing in the air. Mars. Of course, Milady would spearhead this—who else could dream of something so grand?

  I glance around the room, watching the others as they react. Most are giddy at the thought. I can see it in their eyes—they’re already imagining themselves as pioneers, claiming land on a new planet. But for me? I don’t care about Mars. Sure, it sounds impressive. But I like the spotlight right here, where I can see it—on Earth.

  “Now,” Malleus’ voice shifts again as the crowd’s applause begins to fade. ” Today, we are going to celebrate our...”

  There’s a subtle glitch in his words. I blink, feeling an odd sense of unease as the glitch passes, but before I can process it, the music swells. The lights flicker once, then suddenly flood the room with vibrant flashes, transforming the grand hall into an enormous dance floor. The beat of the DJ’s music starts pounding, and strobes flicker like it’s a nightclub.

  The crowd immediately cheers, throwing their hands in the air as the music takes over. Many of them launch into dance, embracing the moment like it’s a celebration. Even I find myself caught in the energy of it all, my body moving in sync with the beat. I could use the release.

  But then, over the pulsing rhythm of the music, I hear his voice again, but it’s different. Not the smooth, reassuring tone we all know. It’s darker, hoarser, almost like an animalistic growl.

  “Massacre.”

  I freeze, my heart skipping a beat.

  The party continues, the lights flash, the music blares, and people around me are still dancing, oblivious. But I stand there, motionless, as the word echoes in my mind.

  Then the world changed.

  One moment, we’re all dancing, the music pulsing, the lights flashing. And then—chaos.

  I hear the first scream, sharp and bloodcurdling, cutting through the music. It’s followed by a gunshot, the deafening crack ricocheting through the hall. The air shifts, and suddenly, everything turns upside down. People who had been dancing just moments ago are now being gunned down. A spray of bullets tears through the crowd, heads snapping back, blood splattering the pristine floor.

  I see bodies drop in quick succession. Sebastian is the first familiar face I spot, lying lifeless, a clean shot through his head. Nearby, Luca Ferrara, once the picture of confidence, crumples, blood pooling around him. Lucien Moreau, the chef Malleus just introduced, is writhing on the floor, clutching his stomach. His hands are slick with blood, his face twisted in agony as he cries for help. But his voice is drowned out, lost in the overwhelming panic and the sounds of people screaming and rushing for the exits.

  I try to move, but the stampede of bodies surging toward the doors overwhelms me. Someone steps on my dress, pinning me down. I’m trampled, the pain shooting through me as I hit the floor. The once-elegant gown I’m wearing now feels like a trap, torn and dirtied, holding me in place.

  I manage to lift my head, my vision blurry with fear and shock. Amid the chaos, I see them—a group of men dressed in black, their faces covered with masks, holding automatic rifles. The kind I’ve seen in action films, ones I’ve used in my own movies. But this time, it’s not a set. This is real.

  They’re moving with precision, shooting anyone in sight. Some people manage to escape, fleeing out the doors, but many more don’t make it. Bodies pile up around me, the floor now slick with blood.

  The music gets louder, thumping in my ears, drowning out the screams and gunfire. The holo projections that had once translated Malleus’ words have vanished, and so has Malleus. It’s as though he was never there. The world feels distorted, unreal—except for the blood on the floor and the bodies lying around me.

  I see one of the attackers approaching, his rifle raised, pointing directly at me. The crowd is gone or dead. There’s only a handful of us left, scattered and terrified, and I know this is it. I’m going to die.

  For the first time in as long as I can remember, fear grips me. I try to move, but my body is frozen, my heart hammering against my ribs. All the things I’ve done, the things I never cared about, rush back to me.

  I think of the people I’ve used, the moments I’ve performed but never really lived. I have everything, yet nothing. The wealth, the fame, the admiration—it feels empty now, like a hollow shell that can’t protect me. I’ve spent so much time pretending, hiding behind a facade, but now, lying here, helpless, I realize how little it’s all meant.

  Naiai. Lisa. The few people who showed me some version of care, of something real—and I barely noticed. I should’ve been different. I could’ve been different. But now, it’s too late.

  The man is standing over me now, his gun pointed at my chest. I close my eyes, ready for the inevitable. This is it.

  But instead of the crack of a gunshot, I feel something unexpected—a hand.

  I open my eyes, startled, as the man lowers his gun and reaches down. His gloved hand extends toward me. He’s helping me up.

  I stare, not quite believing what’s happening. Slowly, I take his hand, and he pulls me to my feet.

  When he speaks, his voice is inhuman and distorted, like it’s coming from a machine. Voice-modulator, maybe.

  “Thank you for your help in Hawaii. We really appreciate it,” he says, his tone cold but strangely respectful. He leans down and pats the dirt off my dress, his movements eerily gentle for someone who just helped slaughter a room full of people.

  “You’ll be safe, Ava. We will not hurt you.”

  He pauses for a moment, looking me directly in the eyes.

  “You are one of us.”

  And in that moment, something shatters inside me. I’ve spent my entire life acting, pretending, performing for cameras, for crowds, for the world. But here, now—I feel real. The emotions I’ve faked for so long finally break through, and for the first time in my life, I let go.

  I collapse, falling to my knees on the bloodstained floor, tears streaming down my face. I sob so hard it feels like my chest is caving in. I’m not sure why I’m crying. Relief? Fear? A mixture of everything. But I feel saved.

  This is what the victims in Hawaii must have felt when they saw me—the hope, the gratitude, the belief that someone, anyone, could make things better. And now, as I look up at this masked man, I realize he’s my savior. He’s the one who’s keeping me alive, sparing me when everyone else around me has been slaughtered.

  All the acting, all the pretending to care—it’s what saved me from death today. This group, whoever they are, sees me as an angel, as something pure and untouchable. And in their eyes, that’s enough to spare me.

  I don’t know who they are, what they want, or why they’ve done this. But right now, all I know is that they’ve saved me.

  “We came here to eliminate the Premier Society, but you’ll be spared,” the man says, his voice still distorted, alien.

  “Your help to the lower society has been a massive help to us. We owe you our lives.”

  Before I can fully process his words, I hear the sharp crack of a gunshot nearby. Someone collapses just a few feet away, but I don’t know who—it could’ve been anyone. At this point, faces and names blur together in my mind. I look around and see about ten of them, all armed with automatic rifles, methodically sweeping through the hall. The once pristine ballroom is a battlefield now, bodies strewn across the floor, blood soaking the expensive marble.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice movement—someone hiding on the balcony, crouched in the shadows. It’s hard to tell who it is, but they’re definitely trying to stay out of sight, trembling in fear.

  “Sorry for creating such chaos,” the man in front of me says, his voice almost apologetic.

  “We should’ve told you not to come.”

  He kneels down in front of me, his mask still on, and reaches out, wiping my tears with his gloved hand. It feels surreal—this man, who’s been part of this massacre, comforting me like I’m some sort of saint.

  “We, the lower society, love you,” he whispers, as if that fact alone justifies everything happening around us.

  But before I can react, a loud bang pierces the air. His head explodes in front of me, the force of the bullet sending fragments of skull and brain splattering onto my face and dress. The warm blood splashes across my skin, soaking me in a wave of his life.

  I try to scream, but nothing comes out. My mouth opens, but my voice is gone, stolen by the horror of what just happened. I’m drenched in his blood, his body collapsing in front of me, and all I can do is sit there, frozen, my heart pounding in my ears.

  As I sit there, frozen in shock, still drenched in blood, I catch movement again. My eyes dart across the hall as one man bursts into view, his rifle raised. Three quick, almost silent shots and three people from the terrorist group drop instantly, their bodies hitting the floor with sickening thuds.

  From another corner of the room, another figure emerges, but this man doesn’t rush. Instead, he takes his time, walking with a cold precision, with cowboy hat on his head. His fingers wrapped around the smooth grip of another revolver. Each pull of the trigger is followed by a blindingly fast explosion of sound, and each shot finds its mark. Bodies crumple to the ground.

  The once glittering ballroom is now a full-blown battlefield again. The music blares on in the background, out of place, mixing with the sound of rapid gunfire. People scream, trying to flee, but the bodies keep falling, dead before they hit the ground.

  From the balcony, a third figure moves into view, almost unnoticed at first. A sniper. His shots are precise, picking off the last members of the group with terrifying efficiency. One after another, the terrorists fall, their numbers rapidly dwindling under the skill of these three unknown forces.

  Within less than a minute, the chaos dies down. The once-vicious terrorist group is completely wiped out. The attackers who had wreaked havoc mere moments ago are now strewn across the floor, lifeless. So is the music, the disco light that dances on the floor. Now the hall is back to normal but eerily quiet.

  I sit there, trembling, not knowing who these three people are. My mind races—could they be security hired by Malleus? Are they here to save what’s left of the Premier Society?

  But the only certainty in this horrific moment is that now, it’s just me and these three strangers in the hall. And I have no idea what will happens next.

  “Oi, what the fuck was that, mate?” the man with the rifle growls, his thick British accent cutting through the stillness that follows the chaos.

  “Ain’t got no clue, partner,” the cowboy replies, tipping his hat slightly, his revolver still smoking in his hand.

  “Prob’ly some damn fool group lookin’ to stir up trouble.”

  The man with the rifle scowls and looks around, raising his voice to the empty hall.

  “Malleus! You better answer this madness, mate!”

  But there was only silence, broken by the shaking of bodies and the dull throb of fear running through me. I grit my teeth, trying to steady myself, and manage to ask, “Who are you guys?”

  The man with the rifle just glances at me from across the hall, his eyes hard but unreadable. But the cowboy—he starts walking toward me, his boots clinking softly against the blood-stained floor. A big, easy grin spreads across his face like this whole scene doesn’t bother him in the slightest.

  “Well now, you must be Ava,” he says, his drawl slow and steady.

  “Seen ya on the telly, reckon you’re even prettier in person. Though you look more bloody.” He tips his hat slightly, still grinning.

  “Name’s Arthur Marston, ma’am. Folks call me the number one gunslinger.”

  He extends his hand, and I stare at it for a second before reaching out. His grip is strong but gentle as he helps me stand up. Through my bloodied, tear-filled eyes, I can still see that smile of his—unshaken and calm, even after all this madness.

  “That right there’s Victor Graves,” Arthur says, still grinning as he nods toward the man with the rifle. “Number one agent in the world. He’s worked for the CIA, FBI, MI6—hell, any big-shot country, he’s been their man.”

  Victor raises his hand in a casual greeting, his British accent slipping through as he says, “Pleasure.”

  Arthur continues, pointing behind me.

  “And that fella over yonder? That’s Ivan Volkov, the number one sniper.” Ivan, slinging his sniper rifle over his shoulder, gives me a subtle nod.

  I stand there, trying to process it all. This is beyond weird—it’s surreal. Never, in my wildest dreams, did I imagine being soaked in the blood of some lower-society terrorist, surrounded by the deadliest killers in the world. What the fuck is going on?

  “Tobias should be here,” Arthur drawls, his grin still firmly in place.

  “Betcha he’d take down all these fellas with his bare hands, but alas, the man’s still missin’. Hope he’s doin’ alright, though.” He spits out the words like he’s talking about an old friend who’s just run off somewhere, not the number one fighter on Earth who’s vanished without a trace.

  Then, Victor steps in, his tone sharp and clipped. “I see one of those blokes was talking to you before he was shot. Spared you, didn’t he?” His eyes narrow as he studies me.

  “So tell me, lady—are you one of them?”

  “One of them?” I ask, unable to keep the disgust from curling through my voice. Me—the number one celebrity in the world—being compared to these pieces of shit? I could feel the bile rising in my throat.

  “I’d rather die than be equal to them, so watch your words,” I glare at Victor, but he doesn’t flinch. To him, I’m probably just some pampered little thing, nothing to take seriously. His cold eyes regard me like I’m a cute puppy throwing a tantrum.

  Arthur, on the other hand, looks genuinely puzzled, his brows knitting together beneath the brim of his hat.

  “Thought you were a savior, ma’am.” He tips his head toward the dead terrorists on the floor.

  “Saw you on the telly in Hawaii; looked like you really cared ’bout them.”

  “That’s all just an act. That’s how I stay on top, how people love me. That’s the reason I got spared today.”

  Arthur and Victor both nod as if that explanation makes perfect sense to them.

  “Malleus, you better wake up and explain all of this, pal!” Victor shouts into the emptiness, his voice echoing off the blood-streaked walls.

  A buzzing sound cuts through the hall, and a second later, Malleus flickers back to life. His voice, usually smooth and commanding, is now tinged with static.

  “It appears I have malfunctioned,” Malleus says, his tone oddly mechanical, even more than usual.

  “Yeah, we can tell,” Arthur mutters, tipping his hat and throwing me a wink, like this whole disaster is just another day to him.

  “Eighteen of the best in the world died today,” Malleus continues, emotionless.

  “All because my security team could not stop these ten terrorists. The leader, the one that Ivan shot in the head and whose brain is now on Ava’s dress—his name was Dimitri Koslov, a taxi driver from the lower society. The rest of them were also from lower society.”

  My mind reels as the information sinks in. Eighteen of the top in their field—gone. People like me. And taken out by some random lower-society taxi driver? The blood on my dress feels heavier, more nauseating.

  “It seems someone was able to hack into my system, weakening me,” Malleus admits, his voice stuttering slightly with the static.

  I stand there, stunned. Malleus, the pinnacle of our world, the one who holds everything together, the gatekeeper of society itself—hacked? How is that even possible? By who?

  Arthur scratches his chin, looking a bit more serious now.

  “Now that’s a hell of a thing.”

  “Thank you for saving the rest of us,” Malleus continues, his voice still glitching slightly.

  “I’ve transferred each three of you 10 billion credits to your bank accounts.”

  The three men in front of me—Arthur, Victor, and Ivan—all pull out their Nimbus devices, checking their balances almost at the same time. The faint glow of the holographic screens reflects on their faces, and I can see their expressions shift from cold professionalism to subtle satisfaction.

  “But this is far from over,” Malleus adds, the tone dropping lower.

  “I need the three of you for a mission. Directly from me.”

  They look up, sharp and focused.

  “Find whoever is responsible for these lower-society terrorists,” Malleus continues, his voice back to its commanding smoothness. “Put a stop to them.”

  A weight seems to settle over the room, even over the chaos that still lingers.

  “This one is not for me or for you,” Malleus says, the chilling authority returning to his voice.

  “But for society.”

  The three men exchange glances, knowing exactly what’s being asked of them.

  “I’ll accept,” Ivan says first, his voice rough and heavy, each word sounding like it takes effort. It’s clear English isn’t his first language, and he’s struggling a bit to get it out.

  “Me too,” Arthur adds, spinning his revolver smoothly before sliding it back into its holster with a practiced motion, that same easy grin on his face.

  “You know I’ll accept it,” Victor chimes in, as though the decision had already been made before Malleus even finished speaking.

  “Thank you, heroes,” Malleus responds, his voice regaining its usual control.

  “I’ll send you the details and the intel I’ve gathered ever since they killed Dr. Valor.”

  Then, for the first time since the chaos unfolded, he finally regards me. I stand there, still soaked in blood, my body shivering uncontrollably. The adrenaline, the fear—it’s all too much. All I want is to go home, sink into a hot bath and pretend none of this ever happened.

  “And for you, my dear Ava,” Malleus says, his tone somehow both dismissive and commanding.

  “You may go home.”

  Good.

  To be continued...