DISTRICT I – HIGH TOWER - NIGHT
High Tower stood tall over District I—its skyline pulsed with holograms the size of buildings, casting radiant glows over champagne towers and synthetic waterfalls. This was the playground of the elite. Corpo heirs, data barons, and polished politicians moved like sharks in suits, dancing through scandal and scandalously expensive parties.
With elections around the corner, the air was electric. Giant campaign ads danced across the towers: glowing faces of candidates grinning into the night.
The Council—the body that governed Dream City—was at the center of it all, boasting three senior members, each elected by District Heads. These Heads managed entire sectors, from energy grids to entertainment blocks. On paper, they wielded power. In reality, most were puppets of corporate sponsorship.
At the peak of this glitzy political pyramid sat Councilman Marcus Duran—an untouchable figure for over eight years, thanks to relentless backing from Bineth Global, the megacorp with deep pockets and deeper secrets.
But now… there was a shift.
THE CHALLENGER: MAXWELL ERBINGER
Enter Maxwell Erbinger. A self-made industrialist, founder of radical AI labs, and surprisingly articulate firebrand, he was more than just a thorn in Duran's side—he was a viable threat.
Funded by Coretech, Bineth's fiercest tech and arms rival, Erbinger's fiery public takedowns of the Retributors and Bineth's influence had turned heads—especially in the lower districts.
Maxwell was riding a wave of populist anger. And tonight, his name echoed through High Tower's gold-trimmed halls.
Inside his lavish suite—a vertical palace carved into one of the highest spires—a fundraiser was in full swing. The wealthy laughed and toasted; humanoid servers poured crystal-blue liquors into diamond-plated glasses.
Maxwell stood by a glass railing, watching the city beneath like a king surveying his kingdom.
THE MESSAGE
After a brief, charming toast—"To progress, without parasites"—Maxwell excused himself. He sent a message. A signal.
In a hidden lounge several floors below, Butch, Christopher, and two other men arrived.
Maxwell waited in the shadows, slouched in a leather seat, surrounded by synthetic smoke and a full chrome bar.
"Butch," Maxwell greeted, his voice low and frayed like old wire. He inhaled a line of powdered enhancers right in front of them, then laughed and muttered a string of curses.
Christopher flinched. The confidence he'd carried into the tower began to crack.
"Butch, let's clear the room," Maxwell muttered.
Butch turned to the others. "Give us space."
They filed out. In the hallway, a convoy of gold-plated containers floated past, pushed by robotic porters.
"Rich bastards," one of the agents mumbled.
Christopher glanced at the containers. "What's that?" he asked.
The agent didn't turn. "What do you think? Narcotics."
Christopher swallowed hard. His stomach turned. The silence that followed was louder than any answer.
Christopher's thoughts raced. This isn't what I signed up for.
He remembered an old colleague's warning:
"Kid, I like you. You got the bright spots. You got to stay off the cliff. Butch is no good around kids like you. You know what happened to his last partner? Shot in the head. Suspect said Butch did it. Never made it to trial—suspect died in holding. You stay away from the dark horse, kid. Stay alive."
Christopher snapped back to the present just as Butch emerged. No words, just a nod.
They followed.
Christopher glanced back—just for a moment—and caught Maxwell Erbinger watching him.
Smiling. Licking his lips.
There was something dark behind that smile. Predatory. Promising nothing but ruin.
Christopher's skin crawled.
He was afraid—and for the first time, he wasn't sure whose side he was really on.