"Welcome, Oliver," a robotic voice echoed as soft white lights blinked to life one by one, illuminating the interior.
The BMW Blazer drifted smoothly into a vertical shaft, hovering above a crystalline landing platform that refracted light beneath it like fractured ice.
The car settled gently, magnetic locks clasping with a muted click.
Oliver stepped out, letting the shaft seal shut behind him as he moved deeper inside.
The space opened into a circular room—modern, minimalist, quiet.
To the left sat a separate bedroom behind a curved partition, and in the center of the room stood a wide circular table cluttered with scattered electronics and half-finished devices.
On the right, a transparent desk awaited, paired with a streamlined chair designed more for work than comfort.
Oliver exhaled and tilted his head slightly, speaking under his breath.
"Let's see how far behind I've fallen…"
He walked to the desk and settled into the chair.
The moment his palm touched the handle, a soft hum filled the air.
A holographic display surfaced from the desk, followed by a glowing keyboard forming itself in midair.
He gestured, pulling the keyboard toward him with a smooth motion.
A few taps later, a massive panel of academic information flickered into view.
"Oh." His lips curled faintly. "I missed the entire first semester."
He scrolled further, relief softening his expression.
"Second semester hasn't started yet… Looks like I can still get in this year."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He swiped to the side.
The display slid away, making room for another holographic window that materialized instantly.
"And now… let's check on my little secret," he muttered.
The keyboard shimmered as he compressed it with both hands. The light folded inward until it formed a compact glowing sphere.
Oliver tossed the sphere lightly toward the main screen.
The transparent display pulsed, then burst into a large illuminated world map.
At the same time, a new holographic control orb materialized at Oliver's side, floating patiently for his touch.
He placed his right hand over the orb, gliding his fingers across its surface.
The map responded immediately, expanding outward, zooming in and out as if breathing beneath his control.
Oliver lifted his left hand as if giving a casual signal, and right on cue, the speakers kicked in.
Doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo…
The familiar beat of Shape of You slipped into the room, steady and pulsing, the kind of rhythm that got into the floor and into his bones.
He didn't dance, not really, but the beat made his shoulders move a little as he pulled up the holographic map.
Every time the bass hit, the map zoomed in another level—not because he timed it, but because the pacing just fell into place.
The club isn't the best place to find a lover…
The music floated through the air while Oliver scanned the map, eyes sharp, mind locked in.
The location snapped into view just as the next drum hit. He leaned closer, studying the small, untouched marker.
"So no one's found it," he muttered, almost amused, and the music filled the space drowning his words.
The holographic windows faded out, and the chorus slipped right in behind the silence that followed.
I'm in love with your body…
He hummed along without thinking, moving with the rhythm as he pulled his t-shirt over his head.
The song had played enough times that his movements fell into its tempo naturally—smooth, unforced, like he'd rehearsed this scene even though he hadn't.
His bare skin hit the cool air, and the next beat landed as he grabbed the grey suit.
The fabric slid up his legs while the chorus looped again, the timing almost perfect. He zipped the suit just as the line repeated,
Oh-I-oh-I-oh-I-oh-I…
And he couldn't help humming under his breath, the sound muffled once he clicked the helmet on.
As the verse rolled back in—
Girl, you know I want your love…
—He opened the drawer and pulled out the pen drive.
The music sank into the moment, not dramatic, not symbolic, just naturally syncing with the shift in his expression.
"Reed," he muttered, turning the drive between his fingers, the beat tapping lightly against the inside of his helmet.
"And... Tina!"
The thought of that night flickered through his mind, brief but noticeable, while the song played in the background.
He didn't comment.
Because... he didn't need to, the music carried that weight for him.
Come on, be my baby, come on…
Come on, be my baby, come on…
The repetition filled the room as he stepped forward, the rhythm guiding his pace.
Oliver stepped back into the illuminated shaft, the white lights humming quietly as they brightened his suit.
The BMW Blazer floated in its usual spot, but what drew the eye was the machine beside it — a compact, razor-sleek rocket, the Ford XVII.
In this century, calling it a "rocket" would be an exaggeration; at the end of the day, it's just a motorbike.
Cables were threaded into every part of it, feeding power, calibrating systems, monitoring internal pressure.
The bike looked like a creature still hooked to life support, breathing electricity.
Oliver approached calmly, each step echoing off the crystalline platform.
He crouched beside the Ford XVII and began disconnecting the cords one by one. Sparks of light danced briefly with every release.
Once everything was unplugged, he slid the silver data drive into the key port. It locked in place with a magnetic click.
The engine answered instantly.
A low, rising growl built into a powerful mechanical roar that reverberated through the whole shaft.
The lights across the bike lit up in sequence, forming a neon spine down its frame.
Oliver swung a leg over and settled into the seat. A port on the side of the bike extended toward him, linking into the connector on his suit.
The moment the cord snapped in, the interface inside his helmet lit up, syncing with the bike's system.
He lifted the Ford XVII off the platform.
The thrusters hummed, and the bike hovered, holding perfectly steady. Slowly, the shaft door slid open.
Outside, the city unfolded in all its vertical intensity — towering cylindrical megastructures stretching into the clouds, lights flickering across their surfaces like digital veins.
Oliver leaned forward slightly.
The bike responded instantly.
It shot out of the shaft like a bullet breaking free of a barrel, cutting through the air with a smooth, controlled precision only machines of this century could manage.
"Time to make some money," he murmured.
Inside his helmet, another classic track queued up — Hit you with that ddu-du ddu-du du — heavy beat, sharp percussion, the kind of aggressive anthem built to spike adrenaline.
The rhythm pulsed through his ears as he steered the Ford XVII into the maze of skyscrapers.
"Hit you with that ddu-du ddu-du du"