Neon striations painted Vivian's cheeks as she hurled her VR headset onto Nexus CyberHub's console. Two circuits of Canyon Run had ended in digital carnage—courtesy of Bryce Sterling's rogue hovercraft.
"Holy circuit boards, Sterling!" She kicked his ergonomic chair. "Were you targeting my chassis or just blind?"
Bryce caught her ankle, thumb brushing the lace hem of Cassandra's sundress. "Tactical advantage, Wildcat. Floral prints make easy targets." His gaze snagged on the dress's neckline—damp with exertion, clinging to curves previously hidden beneath Eldenwood's boxy blazers. He released her abruptly, as if scorched.
Dylan gyrated in his racing pod. "Suck it, Vaughn! Arctic Fox still rules Highway Sprint!" His avatar screeched across the finish line, taillights bleeding pixels.
"Highway's for rookies," Vivian retorted, crushing a lollipop between her molars. Sugar crystals rained onto her keyboard.
Zane didn't glance up from his flight simulator. "Lobby's live in Sector 3. Invite before stream-snipers flood it."
Bryce created the room, attention drifting to Lily. She hunched over her InstaFeed, lower lip gnawed raw. Zane's indifference had transformed her earlier bravado into brittle silence.
Lily: (Tentative) "Vivian? How do you get holographic filters on InstaReels?"
Vivian: "Gold-tier subscription. Fifty bucks monthly."
Lily: (Deflating) "For... sparkly borders?"
Dylan: "Welcome to capitalism, Rao! Pay to pretend you're relevant!"
Zane: "Relevant? Your feed screams 'aspiring influencer'—minus the influence."
Vivian shoved past them toward the chrome-plated restrooms. The corridor reeked of synthetic sweat and desperation. Then—unmistakable sounds: slick gasps, the rhythmic thump of bodies against steel.
She rounded the corner and froze.
A console commander had a crimson-haired woman pinned against the sinks. The woman's peep-toe stilettos dug into his lower back, hiking his black muscle tee to reveal a tattooed serpent coiling around his spine. Her skirt bunched at her thighs as she arched against him with theatrical moans.
Vivian's lollipop stick snapped. Amateur hour.
The man turned—razor-sharp jawline, gunmetal eyes. A scar bisected his left eyebrow, quirking upward as he smirked. When he deliberately licked his lower lip, Vivian flipped him off.
Woman: (Sliding down) "Jealous, princess?"
Vivian: "Just allergic to trashy public displays." Shouldering past, she slammed the restroom door.
Dylan's shriek fractured the cyberpunk soundtrack. "REBOOT TERMINAL 7! NOW, YOU GLORIFIED KEYPUNCHER!"
The console commander—same tattooed serpent from the bathroom—slouched against a malfunctioning VR rig. "Try Terminal 12. Or vanish."
"I'm mid-boss fight, dickweed!"
The commander moved like struck lightning. He hauled Dylan up by his collar, kneed him in the solar plexus, and slammed him into Lily's console. Neon margaritas exploded across her screen as she scrambled backward.
Bryce intercepted, shoving Vivian behind him. Zane rose slowly, palms open. "Stand down, Cobra. Kid's neural pathways are still buffering."
The commander released Dylan, who crumpled like corrupted code. "Respect the hardware," the man growled, adjusting his fingerless gloves. "Or become scrap metal."
Bryce scattered hundred-dollar bills across the command station. "We're done."
Outside, acid-rain slicked the pavement. Dylan retched into a dumpster while Lily trembled. Zane lit a clove cigarette, unfazed.
Bryce: (Eyes on Vivian's clenched fists) "You hurt?"
Vivian: (Staring at the neon-lit entrance) "That commander... I know his face."
Lily: "He could've broken Dylan's spine! Why didn't security stop him?"
Zane: "Security? Kane Volkov is Nexus security."
Dylan: (Wheezing) "Screw you, Xu! My dad'll bankrupt this cesspool!"
Bryce: "Your dad's suing his yacht club for overcooking his steak. Priorities."
Vivian: "Volkov? The guy from the bathroom?"
Zane: "Ex-underground cage fighter. Rumor says he shanked a bouncer at The Neon Viper."
Bryce: "Why's he working consoles?"
Zane: "Owns the franchise. Calls it 'legitimate rehabilitation.'"
A black Ducati Panigale roared from the alley. Kane Volkov rode one-handed, the crimson-haired woman clinging like a succubus. His eyes—predatory and gleaming—locked onto Vivian's. That smirk returned, carving a challenge into the rain-smeared night.
Vivian's phone buzzed: Adrian Stone's contact photo flashing. A misdial? Her pulse stuttered.
Bryce: (Watching her) "Stone?"
Vivian: "Pocket-dialed." She silenced it, ignoring the electric jolt in her veins. "Who names their kid 'Kane' anyway?"
Zane: "Men who fillet you for asking."