Sector K was a vertical wound packed with life. It did not smell of recycled ozone and sterile compliance. It smelled of a thousand competing realities: grilling meat, damp concrete, ozone from jury-rigged electronics, and the sweet, cloying scent of illegal hydroponic tobacco. Neon signs in a dozen languages, some long dead, flickered and hummed, casting pools of lurid pink and electric blue onto the faces of the crowd. The noise was a constant, chaotic symphony of shouted deals, unsanctioned music with a real drumbeat, and the hiss of steam from leaking pipes overhead.
Sineus moved through it all, a ghost in a borrowed skin. He and Ksenia were dressed as traders, their clothes a patchwork of worn synth-leather and rugged fabrics that offered a passable anonymity. Their disguise was, Ksenia had calculated, approximately 80% effective. The other 20% was in how you walked. You had to walk like you belonged in the dirt, like you weren’t afraid of the beautiful, unpredictable mess of it all. For Sineus, it wasn’t hard. This place, with its honest decay and vibrant struggle, felt more real than the pristine, silent arcologies he had once called home. This was proactive. This was a choice.
— There, — Ksenia’s voice was a low murmur in his ear, cutting through the noise.
She pointed toward a stall tucked between a drone-parts chop shop and a noodle bar. It was overflowing with green. Real, dirt-grown vegetables. Kale, spinach, peppers. Their colors were deep and imperfect, a vulgar display of authenticity in a world of nutrient paste. This was their landmark. They moved toward it, melting into the river of people. Sineus bought two cups of something that smelled like coffee, a bitter, burnt aroma that was an act of rebellion in itself. The price was a few digital credits, untraceable and meaningless. The real cost was being here, exposed.
They waited. Sineus watched the faces in the crowd. A man with old Slavic features argued with a vendor over the price of a water filter. A group of young Africans in brightly colored clothes laughed, their voices loud and free. A woman in a sari, its fabric worn but clean, haggled for a memory chip containing pirated films from the last century. This was the world the Ministry of Public Harmony had tried to pave over, to sanitize and make uniform. And it was still here, breathing in the dark.
He saw his reflection in a puddle of grimy water, the neon lights turning his face into a fractured, colorful mask. The image wavered, and for a heartbeat, it wasn't his face at all, but the fanatical, cruel mask from the Consensus Chorus broadcast. The flickering reflection was a constant reminder of the ghost they were hunting, the ghost that wore his face.
A woman materialized beside them, a wraith of frayed nerves and terror. Dr. Aris Brandt. She was thin, her lab coat stained and rumpled over civilian clothes. Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, darted everywhere, scanning the crowd, the gantries above, the shadows between stalls. She couldn't stop moving, her hands twisting a loose thread on her sleeve. Her stress was a palpable thing, a field of pure panic.
— You are him? — she whispered, her voice thin and brittle. She didn’t look at Sineus, but at a point just past his shoulder.
Sineus gave a slow nod.
— The data, — Ksenia said, her tone calm and steady, an anchor in the woman’s storm.
— They know, — Brandt stammered, her gaze flickering between them. — They know someone is asking questions. His name is Maximilian Voss.
The name landed in the air between them, heavy and real. It was the first piece of solid ground they had touched in days. No more ghosts. A name.
— Who is he? — Sineus asked, keeping his voice low.
— Senior executive. Applied Memetics, — she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. — He’s an innate. Like you.
Sineus felt the world tilt. The noise of the market seemed to fade to a dull roar. He was not an anomaly. He was not a miracle or a curse. He was a type. And there was another. His enemy was his own reflection, cast in a corporate mold. The thought was colder than any fear he had felt before.
— Why? — Ksenia pressed, her voice sharp, pulling him back. — Why frame him?
Brandt let out a sound that was almost a laugh, a dry, broken thing. — You think this is about ideology? About politics? This is a product launch. Voss doesn’t see Oblivion as a threat. He sees it as a growth market.
She finally looked at Sineus, her eyes filled with a terrible, clarifying pity. — When reality starts to fray, when the world you know becomes unstable, what is the most valuable commodity in existence? A stable, curated, guaranteed memory. A safe space. He’s not just a sadist. He has a business plan. He’s creating the disease so he can sell the cure.
The sheer, smiling evil of it was so perfect, so beautifully corporate, that Sineus could only stare. It was the logic of their entire world, distilled to its most poisonous, profitable form.
— The technology, — Sineus said, his voice flat. — The mimicry.
Brandt flinched, a wave of guilt washing over her face. — My research. He commissioned it. I designed the core protocols. I thought… I thought it was for therapeutic applications. To help people integrate trauma. I didn’t know he was building a weapon. I didn’t know until I saw your face on the news.
She looked down at her shaking hands. — He wears a smile and a collar. The collar is the company. He’s their perfect, loyal monster.
She fumbled in her pocket and pushed a small, cold object into Ksenia’s hand. A data shard. It was black, featureless, and heavy with the secrets of a man who wanted to sell the apocalypse. 1.2 terabytes of damnation.
— It’s all there, — Brandt whispered. — His internal project files. The schematics for the Void Catalyst. The real one. Everything. Now get me out. You promised.
— We will, — Ksenia said, her hand closing around the shard. But before she could say more, Brandt was gone. She didn’t run. She simply dissolved into the river of people, another piece of flotsam carried away by the current. She had given them the truth. The price was her life, one way or another.
Sineus and Ksenia stood in silence for a moment, the noise of the market rushing back in. They had it. The name. The motive. The proof. It wasn’t a victory. It was a key. A key to a room where a monster was waiting for them.
Ksenia met his eyes, her own gaze hard and clear. She held up the shard.
He held the proof and knew the trap was about to spring.
