Megablock 8 looms against the bruised purple sky as I approach, an enormous slab of concrete and steel that houses hundreds of people stacked like cargo. Home sweet home. It's nearly 4 AM by the time I reach the building. The biometric scanner on the lobby door glows faintly. I press my thumb to it and it stutters before unlocking – the thing's so ancient, I'm always half-afraid it'll malfunction and trap me outside. Wouldn't that be the cherry on my night.
The elevator is out of order again (flashing a pathetic ERROR 21 on the panel), so I take the stairs up eight flights. By the time I reach my floor, I'm winded and sore, cursing under my breath. The narrow hallway lights flicker as I trudge to unit 805. The whole block smells like mildew, cheap takeout and misery.
I listen... no footsteps on the stairs, no voices in the hall. I let out a shaky breath. Maybe I wasn't followed. Maybe it was just my nerves playing tricks again. Or maybe I'll never know for sure.
I palm open the door to my apartment and step inside to darkness. "Lights, dim," I mumble and the overheads flicker to life at half-strength, casting a dull yellow glow. Tiny doesn't begin to describe my flat – it's basically a closet with delusions of grandeur. Bed, kitchenette, a folding screen for a bathroom. But it's mine, for what that's worth.
I lock the door behind me, sliding three separate bolts shut. I peel off my boots and drag off my hoodie, the fabric catching on my tangled hair. The jeans are next, stiff with city grime, tossed onto the foot of the bed. Underneath, it's just a thin bra and those black strings barely holding together at my hips, a dancer's after-hours uniform. Goosebumps prickle along my bare arms and belly as I sit on the edge of my creaky bed, hugging my knees up. Rhea's tear-streaked glare, Gold Tie's smirk, Jim's limp hand on the floor, those words on the door... They all spin through my head, tangled and raw.
I'm about to bury my face in my hands when a sharp ping makes me jump. The harsh digital tone echoes in my silent room. I glance up and see a red notification blinking on the wall panel by the kitchenette – the building's central system has a message for me. They always send these in the dead of night, when they think you're too tired to fight back.
Dread pools in my stomach as I cross the few steps to the panel. A biometric scan confirms my ID and the message expands in cold, bright text:
NOTICE: Effective next month (20/06), your monthly housing fee will increase by 22%. This adjustment is in accordance with CityZone Housing Ordinance A-14 and reflects current market value. We appreciate your cooperation. Please ensure your account has sufficient funds to avoid penalties.
I read it twice, my vision blurring at "22%". Twenty-two percent.
"No, no, no…" I whisper, voice trembling. I scroll to see if there's more. There is – a breakdown of the new charges, the date this goes into effect (barely two weeks from now) and a cheery note about payment plans. My new rent is an impossibility. It might as well say bend over and die.
I sink back against the wall, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor, the cold from the concrete seeping through my leggings. A 22% hike... That's hundreds more credits a month. I can hardly scrape by as it is. Where do they think I'll conjure that money from? I stare blankly at the notice, a heavy numbness spreading through me. I press my palm to my eyes, dizzy with it all.
For a minute I just sit there, breathing shallow, eyes unfocused. An unwelcome wetness pricks at the corners of my eyes. Don't cry, I scold myself, clenching my fists.
Anger bubbles up from beneath the despair – a scalding, desperate anger. I get up abruptly, swiping away the tears that escaped. My heart is pounding again, but this time it's not from fear or sadness. It's anger, pure and simple, laced with panic.
I storm over to the corner where I usually toss my bag. My comlink hums as I swipe open my interface. I pull up the Megablock's resident portal—virtual menus blur at the edge of my vision, half the site timing out before I can even read it. I try every dumb trick I've ever overheard at the club: poke the maintenance tab, start a fake repair request, search the legal fine print for a loophole. The site times out again. I reload. I don't even know what I'm hoping for, just something to crack open, some button I can press to stop this from happening.
I'm no netrunner. Hell, most days I can barely work the club's schedule system. But I can't just sit here and do nothing.
All I get for my trouble is a blinking error and a cheerful link to contact management for billing disputes. Useless. My shoulders sag. I let my forehead drop against my knees, the weight of it all pressing in.
My comlink pulses again, cutting through my scattered thoughts. JAX. The sender name alone makes my skin crawl.
A preview image hangs at the edge of my vision, half-blurred but unmistakable: my naked back, his hand tangled in my hair, both of us caught in some cheap neon hotel light. He always wanted proof. Control. I don't even need to open it to feel his stare.
The message floats in after the image: miss me?
My throat tightens. Heat flares... Shame, fury, the kind that sours your mouth. He still has this. He still wants to remind me. Still thinks he can crawl into my head and take whatever he wants.
I lock down the connection, block his ID order the comlink to quarantine everything with his signature.
Another ping. New ID, same tone. bet you still taste the same. A second later: got more where that came from.
My fists clench. I can feel my nails digging into my palms. A sick, hot wave rises in my gut—anger, shame and something old I wish I could peel off my skin. Why does he want to keep me this way? Why can't he just leave me alone? He acts like every moment I ever wanted him still belongs to him, like he can reach through the years and claim me whenever he wants. I hate that part of me, the one that once trusted him.
I block the new sender, then another. The messages keep popping up, each one another scrape, another twist. I slam the block routine again, but my hands are shaking so hard it's a miracle I hit the right commands.
I collapse onto my bed, curling tight, the city's neon bleeding through the blinds and striping my skin in sickly pink and electric blue. My face is wet. I press my forehead to my knees, breath coming in little shudders, trying not to make a sound.
The rhythm of the street below thuds through the walls. Music, shouting, the thrum of air vents, the city never stopping for heartbreak. Neon lights, neon dreams, promises as empty as the night.
My fists are sore from clenching, my breath ragged. There's so much more to gain, I think, but all I feel is how easy it is to lose. I blink up at the ceiling, but I can hardly see the moon. Maybe it's there, hidden behind smog and glass. Hope I'll get there pretty soon. I want to be free, to make somebody see what I see, to hold on to something better than this.
Velvet's voice slinks in cool, bittersweet, almost mocking. Hold on to your wishes, Lyra… if you can't hold on to me.
I sob into my pillow, biting down hard so the sound stays trapped in my throat. Forgive me for letting you down. Forgive me for letting you down again. I guess I'm not strong enough. Not right now.
The city outside blazes and burns. In here, the shame burns hotter. All I can do is lie in the dark, aching and awake, until even Velvet's voice fades and it's just me, raw and alone.
Not tonight. Not ever. You don't own me. Nobody does.