The 89th floor hallway is a liminal space. Too bright. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that means something bad happened here recently and everyone is pretending it didn't.
I'm walking.
Coffee in hand. (When is coffee not in hand? I've become a bipedal caffeine delivery system. This is my life now.)
Bishop wants me to find Circuitrix. Circuitrix wants me to train her for a press conference. The press conference is about her secret porn empire. And I'm supposed to be the one who teaches her how to lie about it.
My life is a headline I never agreed to.
I turn the corner.
And I stop.
Aurelia is already there.
Still naked.
Still glowing faintly — that post-coital divine shimmer that makes her look like a sunrise that's seen some things.
Still wearing the thigh-high boots from the Lost & Found. Apparently those are non-negotiable.
She's dragging someone by the ankle.
One of the junior interns. Brandon. Or Brian. Something with a B. He's face-down, arms flopping, his keyboard tray still attached to his wrist like a forgotten shackle. His head bumps over the tile grout. *Thump. Thump. Thump.*
He's not unconscious. He's just... resigned. The look of a man who has accepted his fate and is honestly kind of flattered.
"He looked," Aurelia says.
Not angry. Not apologetic. Just stating a fact, like reporting the weather.
I blink. "At what?"
She pauses. Looks down at her own naked body. Looks back at me. Raises one eyebrow.
"Use your imagination."
She keeps dragging. Brandon's head bumps over the doorframe of the 89th floor restroom. The door swings open. She hauls him inside like a sack of potatoes that said something stupid.
The door swings shut.
I stand there. Coffee getting cold.
A pause.
Then, from inside:
A sharp inhale. The kind that could be surprise. Could be arousal. Could be the first sign of a mistake.
A moan. Low. Not quite pain. Not quite anything else.
A wet sound.
Brandon's voice, muffled but clear, slightly breathless, slightly wondering:
"Totally worth it."
Aurelia's laugh — low, smoky, the laugh of someone who has been alive for millennia and is still finding new ways to be entertained.
The door clicks locked.
Silence.
Then, from inside: "Pathetic mortal. I'll teach you to objectify a goddess properly. Touch me."
Nope!
I turn around.
I walk the other way.
I do not run. Running implies fear. I am not afraid. I am *strategically relocating*.
I walk faster.
Behind me, the restroom hums with sounds I will never be able to un-imagine.
I add "89th floor restroom" to my mental list of places never to go again.
The list is getting long.
I turn another corner.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
I'm taking the long way to Circuitrix's lab. Not because I'm lost. Because I'm *avoiding*. The 89th floor restroom is behind me. The sounds are behind me. The memory of Brandon's "totally worth it" is behind me.
Some things you can't unhear.
The hallway to the CYBERNETICS & SYSTEMS WARFARE lab is supposed to be restricted. Keycard access. Biometric scanners. A sign that says "UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL WILL BE VAPORIZED" in friendly Comic Sans.
The door is propped open with a protein shake bottle.
Trailblazer's brand. Of course.
I push the door open.
And I stop.
*Again.*
Circuitrix is in the harness. Not the detached-arm-from-before harness. A new one. More straps. More sensors. More things that beep and blink and look like they'd electrocute a normal person. Her left arm is detached — lying on a workbench across the room, fingers still twitching, like it's bored and waiting for something to do.
Trailblazer is behind her.
She's bent over. Chest harness pulled tight. Her back panel is open — not the ribcage this time. Lower. A port I've never seen before. Glowing faintly orange. Circular. Recessed.
Trailblazer's hands are on her hips.
"Glitch in 3... 2... 1..."
He thrusts forward.
Not with his body.
With a... cable.
A thick, reinforced data cable that he's plugging into her... uh... backdoor. The connection is physical. Aggressive. The kind of plug that clicks twice — first engagement, then lock.
Circuitrix's entire body seizes.
Her back arches. Her mouth opens. No sound comes out — just a rush of static, a burst of feedback from the lab's speakers, a high-pitched whine that makes my teeth hurt.
Her detached arm on the workbench *explodes* into motion — fingers drumming, twisting, signing something in sign language that I'm pretty sure is profanity.
Trailblazer holds the cable steady. His other hand works a keyboard. Code scrolls across every screen in the room.
"Penetration test," he says. Not to me. To Circuitrix. "Packet loss at twelve percent. You're dropping data, Naomi."
Circuitrix's voice, glitching, breaking apart:
"F-f-f-fuck y-y-y-youuuuu—"
"Vulnerability window: open." He twists the cable. Locks it deeper. "Pinging core systems. Dopamine spike detected. Oxytocin spike detected. Oh, that's new — your pleasure centers just lit up like a Christmas tree."
Circuitrix screams.
Not pain. Not pleasure. Something in between. Something machine and human and neither.
Her cybernetic eye spins so fast it becomes a blur. Her organic eye is rolled back, tears streaming down her cheek — not from sadness, from overload.
Trailblazer watches his screen. Clinical. Detached. His other hand is still on her hip, holding her steady.
"Point zero-four seconds of vulnerability," he says. "That's a new record. You're improving."
Circuitrix's response is garbled. Static. Something that might be "kill you" and might be "harder, faster" and might be both.
Trailblazer unplugs the cable.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Circuitrix collapses in the harness. Limp. Twitching. Her detached arm falls still on the workbench.
The lab is quiet except for the hum of servers and Circuitrix's ragged, glitching breaths.
Trailblazer turns. Sees me.
"Oh. Hey, fresh meat."
I'm still standing in the doorway. Coffee in hand. Coffee that I have not spilled. I'm not sure how.
"What," I say, "the fuck."
"Penetration test," Trailblazer repeats, like that explains everything. "Her back port is the primary data interface for her pleasure-reward systems. When she's vulnerable, the encryption drops. We've been stress-testing it for months."
"Months."
"Gotta keep the systems clean." He shrugs. "Malware, corrupted files, emotional baggage. Same difference."
Circuitrix lifts her head. Her cybernetic eye is still spinning, slowly, like it's trying to remember how to focus.
"Toby," she says. Her voice is raw. Glitching. Almost human.
"Yeah?"
"If you tell anyone what you saw — anyone — I will erase your existence from every database on the planet. You will become a ghost. Your student loans will compound forever. Your mother will receive daily notifications that you've been accepted to universities you never applied to. Even your Netflix algorithm will question your taste in movies."
Luckily, I don't have a Netflix account anymore.
I believe her.
"I saw nothing," I say.
"Good girl."
I shut the fuck up. What else I'm a supposed to do?
Trailblazer claps me on the shoulder. "She's nicer when she's glitching. You should see her after the third round. She gets cuddly."
"I will kill you," Circuitrix says. Then detaches herself from the harness. Her legs wobble. She leans on a console. Doesn't even pretend she doesn't.
"Bishop sent you," she says. Not a question.
"She wants me to train you for the press conference."
"Train me."
"Her words."
"I'm a genius."
"I'm aware."
"I have multiple degrees. I built half the tech in this tower. I hacked the government's database to prank the president and his administration."
I blink. "I'm awa— Wait. That was you?"
"Yes." She says it like she's telling me the weather. "So what could you possibly train me to do?"
I look at her. At the harness. At the back port still glowing faintly orange. At Trailblazer, who is now eating a protein bar and watching us like it's a tennis match.
"Ask Bishop, not me."
I sigh.
The sigh does more work than any clever line I could have mustered.
Circuitrix tilts her head. Her cybernetic eye spins once — slow, deliberate, like she's processing something she already knew but wanted to hear out loud.
"Because she's too done with me," she says, "so she sends you. The only man available in this machine."
She says it flat. Not angry. Not grateful. Just... observed.
Trailblazer stops chewing. "Damn. That's harsh."
"It's accurate," Circuitrix says.
"She's not wrong," I admit.
Circuitrix looks at me for a long moment. Then something shifts in her organic eye. Not softer. Just... realer.
"Welcome to the machine," she says.
Then she gestures toward the door.
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Fine. Train me. But if you tell anyone about the 'penetration test' — or the cuddling — I will delete your student loan balance and then reinstate it with interest."
Trailblazer chokes on his protein bar.
"Naomi."
"What? He was going to find out eventually. Everyone does."
"Everyone does not—"
"Trailblazer, you literally fell asleep on my chest last Tuesday. Your drool shorted out a power relay. I had to reboot my left lung."
"That was one time."
"It was the seventh time. I keep a log."
"You keep a log?"
"For science."
Trailblazer turns to me, face red. "She keeps a log."
"I heard," I say.
I don't know what to do with this information. I don't want to know what to do with this information. But I have it now. It lives in my brain. Rent-free.
Circuitrix crosses her arms. "So. Training. Conference room. Witnesses. Let's go."
She walks past me. Trailblazer follows, still sputtering about the log.
I stand there.
Alone.
With the detached arm.
It raises a single finger.
Middle.
"Yeah," I mutter. "I know."
I leave.
---
Later. In The Bullpen.
I'm at my desk. The wobbly one. The one that's slowly disintegrating into its constituent parts.
My coffee is cold. My soul is cold. Everything is cold.
A sticky note appears on my monitor.
"You handled that well. - E"
I look around. No one. Just the hum of servers and the distant sound of someone crying in the break room.
I crumple the note. Drop it in the trash.
Then I take out my phone. I open the draft for Circuitrix's press release. I start typing.
"Naomi Takahashi-Murphy is not just a hero. She's a visionary. Her investments reflect a commitment to the future of entertainment, finance, and technology..."
I pause.
Delete.
"Circuitrix has always believed in pushing boundaries. Her portfolio is diverse because the future is diverse..."
Delete.
"Afterdark Productions is a leader in adult entertainment because the indus..."
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
I put my head on the desk.
The desk wobbles.
Somewhere in the tower, I hear a crash. Then laughter. Then what sounds like Trailblazer yelling "IT WAS SUPPOSED TO DO THAT."
My phone buzzes.
URGENT: Ms. Bishop. Subject line: Your first draft better be on my desk by 9 AM or I'm assigning you to Trailblazer's social media full-time.
I type back: "Yes, ma'am."
Then I throw the phone out the window.
Not metaphorically. Not gently. I wind up like I'm in the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs, and the World Series is on the line. I throw it so hard that for a single, beautiful moment, I hear the whistle of a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball cutting through the air.
The phone disappears into the city skyline.
Somewhere far below, a car alarm starts wailing.
I think I hit something.
I don't care.
The MLB community could never. Aroldis Chapman who? I just threw my entire career out a window and it felt better than any press release I've ever written.
I sit there. Empty-handed. Phone-less. Blissfully unreachable.
For about ten seconds.
Then Ms. Bishop's voice comes from the ceiling speakers. Because of course this building has ceiling speakers. Of course she can see me.
"Williams."
I don't look up.
"Williams, did you just throw your work-issued phone out the window?"
I say nothing.
"The window doesn't even open. How did you—"
I still say nothing.
A pause.
Then, quieter: "I'm not even going to ask. Report to HR in the morning. They'll issue you a new phone. And a bill for the window."
The speakers click off.
I put my head back on the desk.
The desk wobbles.
"There's an HR department?"
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