Gaston steps out of the alley and onto the main thoroughfare of the Ironworks. The street is nearly deserted, lit only by flickering lumen-strips and the occasional arc-weld flash from a late-night repair shop.

  He raised his hand. A sleek black hover-taxi detaches from a queue further down the street and glides silently toward him. The passenger window descends with a soft hum. The driver is an older man with a weathered face and a pair of old-fashioned optical lenses grafted over his eyes. They whir as they focus on Gaston. "Destination?" he asks, his voice raspy. "The Gilded Grind. Mid-Spire commercial arcade," he states, already reaching for his coin purse. The driver's lenses whir again. "That's a long hop this time of night. Checkpoints at the district border. Rush surcharge applies." He names a price: 70 Crowns.

  “50 Crowns. House business, and I’ll give you the extra twenty if you make it fast and don’t ask questions.”

  The driver's lenses narrow slightly. He glances at his fine, if damp and grime-spattered, clothing. He makes a decision.

  "Fifty now," he grunts. "Twenty on arrival if you're not lying about the speed."

  He doesn't wait for Gaston to agree; the taxi's rear door clicks open. Gaston slides into the plush interior. The door seals shut with a soundproof thump, and the vehicle lifts smoothly off the ground.

  Gaston hands over fifty gold Crown coins through the partition slot. The driver takes them without a word and stashes them in a console. The taxi accelerates, weaving through the canyon-like streets of the Ironworks with practiced ease. The driver clearly knows his shortcuts, dipping into service tunnels and back alleys to bypass the main, slower traffic flows.

  As they approach the shimmering energy barrier that marks the border between the Lower Sprawl and the Mid-Spire districts, a floating checkpoint kiosk manned by two city guards in polished armor comes into view.

  The taxi slows to a hover in the queue. The driver taps his console. A small holo-badge—a legitimate-looking mercantile transit permit—flashes on his windscreen. One of the guards approaches, scanning the badge with a handheld device. He peers into the taxi's darkened cabin at Gaston.

  “Purpose of transit?” the guard asks, his voice filtered through his helmet's vocoder.

  The driver remains silent, leaving it to Gaston.

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  “Inter-house business.”

  Gaston kept his posture relaxed, his gaze level and slightly bored as he meets the guard's visor. He doesn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The phrase "interhouse business" in that tone, coming from someone in clothes that were clearly expensive before they got dirty, carries a specific weight in Veridia. It means none of yours. The guard hesitates for a second, his device still pinging softly. He looks from Gaston to the driver's transit permit, then back to Gaston. The unspoken rules of Veridia's hierarchy do their work

  He gives a curt nod. “Proceed.”

  The energy barrier ahead of them shimmers and parts just enough for the taxi to glide through. The transition is immediate. The grimy ferrocrete and rusted iron of the Ironworks give way to clean, white permastone avenues, elegant floating lampposts casting a soft golden glow, and manicured greenery even at this hour.

  The taxi accelerates onto a main boulevard. The driver doesn't say a word, but he pushes the vehicle a little faster. The journey through the Mid-Spire is smooth. They pass silent galleries, closed boutique shops, and the illuminated towers of lesser noble houses. After about twenty minutes of travel, the driver takes a final turn into a wide, circular plaza—the commercial arcade.

  At its center is The Gilded Grind. Even closed, it's impressive: a three-story structure of polished dark wood and brass, with enormous crystal-clear windows. A single light glows within.

  The taxi settles into a designated landing spot nearby. The time is 1:25 AM. They’ve made good time. The driver turns in his seat, his lenses whirring. "Twenty," he says simply.

  Gaston hands the twenty gold coins through the partition. The driver takes them with a grunt of acknowledgment. The taxi's door clicks open, and he steps out onto the immaculate permastone of the plaza. The hover-taxi lifts off silently and melts back into the night traffic.

  He’s alone. The air here is cooler, cleaner, scented faintly of night-blooming jasmine from hidden planters. The silence is profound, broken only by the distant hum of the city's perpetual energy grid.

  Gaston stands before The Gilded Grind. Memories surface, unbidden and vivid:

  The warmth of the shop in the afternoon, sunlight streaming through those giant windows...

  Noelene sitting across from him at a corner table, a half-smile on her lips as she stirred a tiny spoon in her porcelain cup. She wasn't discussing poetry or gossip like the other nobles. She was asking him about economic pressures on the Lower Sprawl, about the flow of illicit arcane components. Testing him.

  Her laugh, rare and genuine, when he’d made a particularly sharp observation about her own father's trade policies.

  The charged silence afterward, the understanding that this connection was dangerous for both of them. It ended not with drama, but with a mutual, unspoken retreat back to the safety of their respective cages.

  Gaston exhaled slowly and looked up at the darkened windows of The Gilded Grind.

  If Noelene still remembered those conversations, he might have a chance.

  The "usual side entrance" is an ornate brass door set into an alleyway beside the main shop. A sliver of golden light appears around its edge—the door is already unlocked.

  She's here. And she's waiting.