System Overflow

Chapter One: Night Maintenance

Incident Report ID: LW-2123-10-15-A
Time: October 15, 2123, 2:47 AM
Location: Lustwave Studio, VR Suite 7, Metro Station 23, Neon Verge District
Technician: Anna Reynolds (Employee ID: VS-4471)
Maintenance Type: Routine Neural Calibration

Neon Verge never truly sleeps. Through Lustwave Studio’s soundproof glass, I could see the web of neon lights outside, lost souls wandering the streets in search of momentary escape. And here I was, Anna Reynolds, preparing for my second late-night maintenance shift this week.

Three years. Three years since I’d left CoreLogic Industries for the embrace of the Velvet Syndicate, and I kept asking myself—what had I really escaped? At CoreLogic, we quantified human consciousness into data streams; here, we packaged human desires into commodities. The only difference was that the cage here was more ornate, the chains studded with Swarovski crystals.

I crossed the empty reception hall, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor. Holographic projections on the walls displayed this week’s trending experiences: “Absolute Domination,” “First Love Redux,” “Forbidden Boundaries.” Behind each title lay carefully designed neural stimulation sequences, guaranteed to provide clients with “satisfaction beyond reality.”

The VR suite corridor carried that distinctive smell—ozone, disinfectant, and a faint metallic tang from Blue Core energy discharge. Suite 7 was the latest model, upgraded just last week with fourth-generation neural interfaces and an enhanced Blue Core matrix.

I swiped my card to enter. The ambient lighting activated automatically, bathing the space in a soft blue-purple glow. The experience pod lay silent in the center of the room like a giant metal cocoon, its nano-coating surface rippling with light as I moved.

“System check,” I said to the air.

“Good evening, Technician Reynolds,” the AI’s voice emanated from all directions, carrying the Velvet Syndicate’s signature seductive tone. “Current system status: Standby. Last use: 6 hours ago. Client satisfaction: 97%. Initiate maintenance program?”

I approached the control console, fingers flying across the holographic interface. All parameters appeared normal—neural conductivity at 98.3%, sensory feedback precision at 99.1%, memory rendering fidelity at 96.7%. The only anomaly was the Blue Core’s energy fluctuation, showing slight irregular spikes.

“Initiate maintenance program,” I said, removing my jacket, leaving only my form-fitting technician uniform. The maintenance program required complete neural connection; any excess clothing could interfere with the signal.

The version information popped up on screen: MW-7.3.2

I frowned. That version number looked familiar—last month’s security bulletin had mentioned that version 7.3.2 contained a remote access vulnerability that could cause crosstalk between maintenance mode and client experience mode. IT had promised to push an update this week, but clearly they’d dropped the ball again.

“Whatever,” I muttered. It was just routine calibration, fifteen minutes tops. The Syndicate’s IT department had been inefficient for ages; if we waited for them every time, us technicians would never get anything done.

I lay down in the experience pod, the cool gel padding slowly conforming to my body shape. The neural interface probes at the head automatically deployed, reaching like metal tentacles for the implant ports at the base of my skull.

“Neural interface detected,” the AI reported. “Model: NI-7700, Firmware version: 12.4.1. Compatibility check passed. Continue?”

“Continue.”

The sensation of probes sliding into the ports was always uncomfortable—not painful, but that feeling of foreign objects invading your nervous system triggered an instinctive urge to resist. I forced myself to relax, breathing deeply, letting the implant chip complete its handshake protocol with the pod.

“Neural link established. Current fusion level: 5%. Beginning baseline system scan.”

Blue scanning light illuminated from above, slowly sweeping across my entire body. The sensation was peculiar, like countless tiny fingers caressing every inch of skin, recording every nerve ending’s response. I closed my eyes, waiting for the scan to complete.

But as the scan entered its third cycle, the anomaly occurred.

[Warning: Non-standard data packet detected]
[Source: VS Employee Database/Deep Memory Archive/Reynolds.A/2120-2123]
[Data size: 47.3TB]
[Access permission: Administrator authorization required]

My eyes snapped open. Deep Memory Archive? What was that?

“Abort scan!” I commanded loudly.

But the AI didn’t respond. Instead, the scan intensity suddenly increased, the Blue Core’s hum rising from low to high frequency, the entire suite vibrating slightly. I could feel the implant chip heating up, sharp pains shooting through the neural interface.

[Error: Insufficient maintenance privileges]
[Override protocol activated]
[Loading archive: Reynolds.A/CoreLogic Period/Intimate Memories]

No! My heart rate spiked. When I’d joined the Velvet Syndicate, they had indeed performed a “holographic scan,” claiming it was to ensure I wasn’t carrying trade secrets from my former employer. But they’d never mentioned saving personal memories, let alone… intimate ones.

[Neural fusion level: 15%…27%…43%…]
[Warning: Maintenance mode and experience mode boundaries blurring]
[Recursion error: Unable to distinguish technician from client identity]

The pod’s lid closed automatically, locking me inside. The emergency release button was unresponsive. I tried sending an emergency signal through my implant chip, but all external channels were blocked.

“Fucking outdated software!” I cursed, but it was too late.

The maintenance interface before my eyes began to twist and shatter, like a hologram being torn apart by invisible hands. In its place came darkness, then…

Lights came on.

Chapter Two: Past Resurfacing

VR Timestamp: September 18, 2120, 8:17 PM
Location Reconstruction: CoreLogic Industries, Quantum R&D Division, Lab B7
Fidelity: 97.8%
Time Flow Ratio: 1:12

I stood in a lab so familiar it hurt. Every detail was precisely accurate—the project progress charts on the walls, the scattered data pads, that 3D printer in the corner that always jammed, even the mixed smell of solder and stale coffee in the air was perfectly recreated.

This was that night three years ago. I remembered it crystal clear because it was the night everything began to change.

“The neural mapping algorithm still won’t pass testing,” I heard my own voice, younger then, tinged with frustration.

I wanted to turn and leave, but my body wouldn’t obey. This wasn’t just watching a memory—the maintenance program’s error had locked me into my past self, forced to relive every moment.

“Let me take a look.”

Ethan Valdez’s voice came from behind, deep and magnetic. Even now, even knowing how it all ended, that voice could still make my heart skip a beat.

He walked over with his characteristic confident stride. Ethan was the lead researcher in the quantum encryption department then, two levels above me but never one to pull rank. At thirty-two, he had deep brown eyes and perpetually slightly messy black hair, fine lines appearing at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

“You’ve been here too long,” he said, standing behind me looking at the dense code on the screen. “What time did you get here?”

“Two PM,” my past self answered, rubbing tired eyes.

“It’s eight PM now.” His tone carried reproach, but more concern. “You need rest.”

“After I fix this bug…”

“Anna.” His hand gently touched my shoulder, warmth seeping through the thin lab coat. “We’ve been optimizing this algorithm for three weeks. Maybe the problem isn’t in the code, but in our approach.”

His other hand braced against the desk, almost encircling me in his arms. The position was excessively intimate, but at the time, we both pretended it was just normal colleague interaction.

“You’re right,” my past self turned, only to find his face inches away.

Time seemed to freeze. There was something in his eyes I’d never seen before—not just appreciation or friendliness, but something deeper, more dangerous. We stared at each other like that, only the hum of servers filling the lab.

“Anna…” his voice turned hoarse.

[External intervention detected]
[Modifying memory parameters]
[Emotional amplification: 200%]
[Physical perception enhancement: 350%]

Wrong! This memory had been tampered with. In the real version, we’d only held eye contact for a few seconds before looking away. But now, the experience system was rewriting history, magnifying the tension, erasing the restraint.

Ethan’s eyes flickered with deep light under the Blue Core enhancement. What had been a natural gaze was now twisted by the system into a hungry stare. His hand slid down from my shoulder, palm pressing against my back, warmth seeping through the thin lab coat into my skin. That touch, magnified into a wave of heat, spread from my spine outward, making my knees go slightly weak. The real me shouted “Stop!” but the voice was swallowed in the VR tide as my body—my past body—responded involuntarily, leaning slightly toward him.

“Ethan, we can’t…” I whispered, but there was hesitation in my voice, even desire. His breath brushed my face, carrying the mixed scent of coffee and male hormones. The Blue Core made my sense of smell a hundred times more sensitive, each breath like inhaling his essence. His hand stopped at my waist, fingertips pressing gently, the force tender yet firm, pulling me closer. His chest pressed against mine, solid muscle compressing my soft curves, heat transmitting through the fabric. My breasts were squeezed, the friction sending currents straight to my nerves, nipples hardening with stinging sensitivity.

The Blue Core fusion let me feel his heartbeat, synchronized with mine, each pulse amplified into a low-frequency vibration flowing from chest downward. His lips captured mine, the kiss exploratory at first, gentle brushing of lips, then deepening, tongue probing, passionate and heated. The Blue Core amplified taste—I tasted the bitter mixed with sweet desire on his lips, his tongue like silk sliding over mine, rolling up waves of heat. His hand moved up from my waist, brushing my side, cupping my breast, palm covering the full curve, gently kneading. His thumb teased the sensitive peak, each rotation like electric shocks spreading outward, wetness beginning to pool below, heat flowing.

My hands instinctively wrapped around his neck, fingertips threading through his hair, those messy strands soft and real. His body pressed closer, his hardness pressing against my lower abdomen through clothing, that burning pressure rubbing against my skin, making me gasp. His kisses moved downward, from lips to neck, sucking at my pulse point, teeth gently biting, bringing pleasurable stinging. The Blue Core made every lick exponentially stronger, as if his tongue ignited sparks beneath the skin, moving down from neck, across collarbone, reaching the edge of my chest.

He tore open my lab coat, exposing my chest. Cold air stimulated the bare skin, but his lips immediately covered it, sucking on the left nipple, tongue swirling, wet and passionate. The Blue Core enhancement made pleasure surge like a tide, my back arching, moaning aloud. His hand gripped the other side, kneading, thumb and forefinger rolling the peak, each pull tugging at nerves below, wetness overflowing. His knee pushed between my legs, gently rubbing my inner thigh, the rough fabric stimulating sensitive skin, heat flowing from my core.

“Anna, you’re so beautiful,” he panted, hand moving downward, sliding past my abdomen, delving into my waistband, fingertips touching the edge of my underwear. The Blue Core amplified touch—his fingertips moved like electricity, gently pressing the wet folds, each slide bringing tremors. My body responded, legs parting slightly, allowing his fingers to delve deeper, finding the slick core, curving to press the sensitive spot on my inner wall. The rhythm went from slow to urgent, each thrust drawing out wet sounds, the Blue Core making the sounds echo in my mind, amplified into a deep melody.

But in the waves of pleasure, I felt the distortion. Ethan’s movements were rougher than in my memory, his eyes flashing blue—that wasn’t the real him, but system intervention. Fear mixed with desire, making my struggle more complex—I wanted to escape, yet was addicted to this amplified intimacy. The Blue Core fusion let me feel his “emotions,” a digitized desire yet carrying real warmth. This confused me more: was this my memory, or an edited fantasy? His fingers accelerated, adding a second, stretching my walls, each impact nearing the G-spot, making my body spasm, wetness flowing down my thighs.

He pushed me against the lab bench, my back meeting cold metal, the temperature contrast stimulating my skin. His lips moved downward, kissing my abdomen, then lower, tongue probing the wet folds, licking the core, sucking the sensitive bud. The Blue Core amplified taste and touch—I felt his tongue moving like electricity, each swirl bringing orgasmic tremors. His hands gripped my buttocks, pressing hard, pulling me toward his mouth, exploring deeply. Pleasure accumulated like waves, my legs wrapping around his shoulders, body arching, but in my mind I screamed “This is fake!” trying to find flaws.

At the edge of climax, he stood, removing his pants, his hardness pressing against my entrance, the burning tip rubbing the wet lips, each slide teasing the edge of entry. The Blue Core amplified the friction’s pleasure, making me moan his name. His hands gripped my breasts, kneading, thumbs rolling the peaks in sync with the teasing below. Finally, he entered, the fullness spreading like electricity, the Blue Core making each thrust amplify into tremors spreading from core throughout my body.

The rhythm went from slow to wild, each impact going deep, hitting the sensitive depths. His hand moved from breast downward, pressing my lower abdomen, increasing pressure, intensifying the pleasure. The Blue Core resonance let us share the edge of climax, his growls mixing with my moans, echoing in the lab. But in the waves of orgasm, I saw code strings on the wall—system flaws. My body spasmed in release, wetness enveloping him, but reason grasped that thread of clarity: this wasn’t real.

When the enhanced scene finally ended, I found myself still in the lab, but the environment was beginning to glitch. Walls pixelated, furniture flickered, Ethan’s face occasionally replaced by code strings.

[External user access detected]
[User ID: VIP_Client_7749]
[Payment tier: Black Diamond Member]
[Purchased service: Exclusive Memory Experience Package]

Fear washed over me like ice water. Someone was “experiencing” my memories, and they were a paying premium client. The Velvet Syndicate hadn’t just saved my intimate memories—they were selling them as merchandise!

Chapter Three: Memory Abyss

VR Timestamp: Jumping…
Neural Fusion Level: 78%
System Status: Multiple recursion errors

The scene suddenly shifted. This time it was Ethan’s apartment, a rainy night three months later. I remembered that rain because it lasted a full week, setting a fifty-year precipitation record for Sultry City.

But this version of the memory was even more distorted. Colors were oversaturated, sounds had been deliberately processed, every detail optimized to provide the “ultimate experience.” I could feel the system analyzing the client’s neural responses in real-time, constantly adjusting parameters for maximum stimulation.

“Come in, you’re soaked,” Ethan in the memory opened the door, wearing a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still damp from a shower.

I wanted to resist, but my body automatically walked in. The apartment wasn’t large, a typical CoreLogic employee residence—open kitchen, minimalist furniture, city lights blurred by rain through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Let me get you a towel,” he said, heading to the bathroom.

My past self stood in the center of the living room, rain dripping from my hair. I remembered the emotions then—nervousness, anticipation, and a thread of desire I shouldn’t have felt. For three months, we’d been testing dangerous boundaries, and tonight seemed to be some kind of tipping point.

[Client neural feedback: Arousal rising]
[Auto-optimization: Increasing environmental detail rendering]
[Loading olfactory memories: Rain, male cologne, sandalwood candles]

Ethan returned with a towel, naturally helping dry my hair. His fingers occasionally brushed my cheek, each contact shooting through my body like electricity—the sensation amplified tenfold by the system.

“Why did you come to me tonight?” he asked, voice low.

“The quantum entanglement algorithm had a breakthrough,” my past self said. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”

His hands stopped, brown eyes gazing at me: “Just for that?”

Time froze again. Rain sounds, heartbeats, breathing all wove together. I could feel the system waiting, like a predator waiting for prey to enter its trap.

“No,” my past self finally admitted. “Not just that.”

[Warning: Memory tampering deepening]
[Fidelity dropping to: 61%]
[Beginning to load fictional elements]

What happened next was partly real, but more was fictional plot added according to “client preferences.”

Rain streaked the windows, blurring the city lights, but the Blue Core enhancement made everything sharp and intense. Ethan’s eyes flickered with desire, his hand moving down from my cheek, trailing along my neck, fingertips leaving trails of fire. The Blue Core amplified touch—every slide awakening nerve endings beneath the skin, bringing waves of tingling. My body trembled slightly. In the real memory, it was just drying hair, but now it was twisted into intimate exploration. His palm pressed against my neck, pressing where my pulse beat, the warm pressure making my breathing erratic.

“Anna, you know how long I’ve waited for this moment,” his voice was low, carrying fictional hunger. He pulled me close, lips capturing mine, the kiss wild and urgent, tongue probing, rolling up heat waves. The Blue Core made taste explode—I tasted the salt of rain mixed with his scent. His hand moved down from my neck, tearing open my wet clothes, exposing my chest. Cold air stimulated the bare skin, but his lips immediately covered it, sucking the left nipple, tongue swirling, wet and passionate. Teeth gently bit, bringing pleasurable stinging, the Blue Core amplifying it into tremors flowing down from chest, wetness beginning below.

My hands instinctively wrapped around his back, feeling those solid muscles, but reason screamed: This is fake! I pulled up his t-shirt, exposing his chest, my hands caressing that smooth skin, fingertips tracing abs, each touch sharing pleasure through the system. His body pressed against me, pushing me toward the sofa, knee pushing between my legs, his hardness rubbing my inner thigh through clothing, the burning outline teasing my core. The Blue Core made the friction’s heat amplify into waves, I moaned, body arching to meet him.

“Feel me,” he panted, hand exploring downward, sliding into my pants, fingertips touching wet underwear, gently pressing the folds. The wetness coated his fingers, he growled low, tearing away barriers, delving directly. Fingers curved, pressing the sensitive spot on my inner wall, rhythm from slow to urgent, each thrust drawing wet sounds. The Blue Core made the sounds echo, amplified into melody, my legs wrapped around his waist, body spasming. But in the gaps between pleasure, I glimpsed code in the rain streaks on the window—an exit!

I pretended to be lost in passion, flipping to straddle him, hands pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. His hardness pressed against my core, I undulated in friction, the pressure through fabric bringing waves of heat. The Blue Core shared his excitement—I felt his pulse surging like a tide. His hands gripped my buttocks, pressing hard, guiding the rhythm, making the friction deeper. “Anna, you’re so wet,” he whispered, voice distorted into the client’s fantasy.

I lowered my head, kissing his chest, tongue licking skin, leaving wet trails, but eyes aimed at the window. His hands moved upward, gripping my breasts, kneading, thumbs rolling the peaks, each pull tugging nerves below. The Blue Core synchronized pleasure, my body nearing climax, but reason seized the chance—I stretched my arms, pretending to embrace while actually moving toward the window. His hardness entered, the fullness spreading like electricity, the Blue Core amplifying each thrust, spreading from core throughout my body. The rhythm was wild, each impact going deep, hitting the G-spot, wetness overflowing.

Just as the fictional passion was about to swallow me, I saw hope—

In the rain streaks on the window, traces of code faintly appeared. It was the emergency entrance to the maintenance interface! Before the memory was completely rewritten, the system’s protection program was trying to give me a way out.

I had to seize this chance.

Chapter Four: System Crash

Real Time: 3:42 AM
VR Experience Duration: 5 hours 37 minutes
Neural Fusion Level: 91%—Dangerous threshold

But to reach the window, I had to cross the entire desire-twisted memory scene. With each step, the false sensory stimulation grew stronger, trying to drag me back into the script.

“Anna?” Ethan in the memory noticed something wrong, but his voice was beginning to distort. “Where are you going?”

I didn’t answer, focusing on that window. The system seemed to realize my intent, frantically adjusting parameters:

[Increasing tactile sensitivity: 500%]
[Activating deep emotional memories]
[Releasing dopamine simulation…]

“No!” I shouted, lunging toward the window with all my strength. The moment my fingers touched the cold glass, the hidden code interface finally appeared.

“Emergency interrupt!” I input the command. “Authorization code: Reynolds-4471-Omega! Override all protocols!”

The world began to collapse. Ethan’s apartment shattered like a jigsaw puzzle torn by giant hands, memory fragments flying through the air. I saw the truth—not just my memories, but other employees’ intimate moments, all stored in this massive database, ready to satisfy paying clients’ demands.

[System emergency brake initiated]
[Forcing neural disconnect]
[Saving error log…failed]

In the final moment, I saw the client information:

VIP_Client_7749 Real Identity: E. Valdez
Special Request: Anna Reynolds exclusive memories, CoreLogic period, intimate moments
Payment Amount: 150,000 credits

It was him. It was Ethan.

The pod lid popped open, cold air flooding my lungs as I sat up coughing violently. Drenched in cold sweat, burning pain radiating from the neural interface.

On the control console, red alerts flashed:

[Maintenance program crashed]
[Illegal data access detected]
[Incident report logged]
[Recommendation: Seek immediate medical attention for neural damage]

I staggered to the control console, pulling up the complete logs. The evidence was irrefutable:

• The Velvet Syndicate collected intimate memories without employees’ knowledge
• These memories were packaged as “exclusive experiences” sold to VIP clients
• The MW-7.3.2 vulnerability was deliberately preserved to bypass employee permission protections
• Over 3,000 “memory experiences” had been sold, involving 127 employees

My hands trembled, whether from anger or neural damage aftereffects, I couldn’t tell. Three years ago, I’d left CoreLogic because I was sick of treating human consciousness as data to process. Now I discovered the Velvet Syndicate went even further—they directly sliced and sold employees’ souls.

And Ethan… why was he buying my memories? To relive the past? To satisfy some twisted possessiveness? Or simply… missing me?

Epilogue: Dawn of Compromise

Time: 5:30 AM
Location: Lustwave Studio, Employee Break Room

I sat in the empty break room, hands wrapped around a cup of warm synthetic coffee. The neural stabilizers had taken effect, but my hands still trembled slightly.

The data pad before me displayed two options, but I knew there was really only one choice.

The door opened silently. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was—Isabella Chen’s perfume was too distinctive, jasmine mixed with the metallic scent of Blue Core.

“Hard work, Anna,” her voice was elegant as always, as if what I’d just experienced wasn’t my soul being trafficked, but just routine overtime.

“You knew.” It wasn’t a question.

“Of course,” her voice remained elegantly composed. “I personally requested that the MW-7.3.2 ‘vulnerability’ be preserved. It allows us to… maximize resource utilization.”

My stomach churned. “So every employee’s memories…”

“Are valuable assets,” she added with a smile in her voice. “Anna, you worked at CoreLogic. You should understand the value of data. And human memories, especially those intimate moments filled with emotion, are the scarcest data of all.”

“This is illegal,” my voice was small.

“In Sultry City, ‘law’ is a relative concept,” Isabella crossed her legs elegantly. “The Treaty of Consciousness prohibits forced consciousness manipulation, but says nothing about… supplementary clauses after voluntary employment.”

She pushed a document toward me:

[Employee Memory Monetization Agreement – Supplementary Clause]
According to Article 47, Section 3 of the original employment contract, the company reserves the right to archive and commercially develop all neural data during employment…

“This is…”

“Part of the contract you signed when you joined,” Isabella said. “Page 186, fine print. Legal, valid, irrevocable.”

I felt a wave of desperate vertigo. Three years ago, eager to escape CoreLogic, when would I have read through 200 pages of contract?

“Ethan…” I forced out the name with difficulty.

“One of our premium clients,” Isabella’s expression didn’t change. “His needs are very… specific. Only your memories. Monthly regular purchases, never haggling. In a way, you should feel honored.”

Honored? My ex-lover paying to experience our intimate moments over and over, and I should feel honored?

“I want to resign.”

“Of course you can,” Isabella’s smile deepened. “The breach penalty is 5 million credits. Or you can choose our memory erasure service, free of charge. But that means you’ll lose all memories of working at the Velvet Syndicate, including the truth you just discovered.”

She stood, leaving another document:

[Incident Report Template]
Maintenance program experienced routine malfunction, successfully repaired. Recommend continued observation of current activities. No casualties, no data breach.

“Fill out this report, and everything returns to normal.” Isabella walked to the door, turning back to add, “Oh, and given your… extra work tonight, there’s 5,000 credits in overtime pay. Also, Mr. Ethan was very satisfied with tonight’s experience. He left a 10,000 credit tip, designated for you.”

The door closed, leaving me alone to face this cruel reality.

I looked at the incident report template, then at the truth I’d angrily typed. The delete key was right there, just a few seconds needed.

[Delete original report? Yes/No]

Tears blurred my vision. Not from betrayal, but from realizing my own weakness. In this city, we’re all selling something—some sell labor, some sell bodies, and I sell the most intimate parts of my soul.

[Yes]

The original report vanished, replaced by that cold template. I mechanically filled it out:

Technician: Anna Reynolds
Incident Type: Routine maintenance malfunction
Cause: Outdated software version
Solution: System restart
Recommendation: Update ASAP
Loss Assessment: None

[Report submitted]
[Overtime pay received: 5,000 credits]
[Client tip received: 10,000 credits]

I closed the data pad and washed my face at the break room sink. The person in the mirror looked calm, as if nothing had happened.

This was Sultry City’s law of survival—learn to compromise, learn to forget, learn to say thank you after being violated.

I straightened my uniform, preparing for the new day’s work.

Suite 7 needed cleaning and disinfection, new client appointments at 9 AM. Life had to go on, bills had to be paid, and my memories…

Would continue to be priced, packaged, and sold to anyone willing to pay in some database.

Including Ethan.

Maybe someday, I’d get used to all this. Like everyone else in this city, dissolving dignity and anger in daily numbness.

But at least today, leaving the break room, I allowed myself one last cry.

Then wiped away the tears and put on a professional smile.

“Good morning, Anna,” colleague Rebecca happened to pass by. “Heard you worked late last night?”

“Yeah,” I answered, my voice surprisingly steady. “Just some routine maintenance.”

“Must be tough,” she patted my shoulder sympathetically. “This month’s performance should be good though?”

“Not bad,” I said. “At least rent’s covered.”

We walked toward the work area together, talking about the weather, about new VR movies, about everything inconsequential.

This was another of Sultry City’s survival laws—

Pretend everything’s normal until one day, even you believe it.