The dim scarlet lights pulsed behind rows of bottles by the bar, where two bartenders hurriedly maneuvered with their heads low, gazes avoidant.

  Glasses slipped into hands as dozens of bodies ground together, laughing under alcohol's haze. The musicians continued their melody by the corner, but their fingers moved in a panicked rhythm, expressions pallid.

  Was it the illusion of the shadows, or were their fingers marked by red?

  One mistake could cost their lives; one mistake could demote them.

  And demotion in the Base nearly always promised death.

  Sylvan dragged Ian to the bar, ordering two glasses of a juice blend. He added a shot of tequila and clinked shot glasses with Ian. Then, he tipped his head back and swallowed. He grimaced.

  It was strange, losing themselves to inebriation in a ruined world, where children starved a short train ride away. Stranger still, how much this hall resembled the Facility's Culling.

  Below ground and above ground. Like hell was there much of a difference.

  Ian's expression remained impassive, pressing the acidic lime to his teeth. A second ago, he was strapped in a dark cell underground, and before that, he'd been living in a bug-infested room with bruised metal walls.

  He felt like a poor television show, although he'd only read about it in books. Jerky scenes flipping to the next without transition, veering from misery to luxury.

  Dazed, he ordered another shot and shared it with Sylvan.

  "Life's easier when my mind isn't functioning," sighed the man. "Will would've hated these places. He liked to drink, though. He drank me under the bus whenever we managed to get a deal, always some cheap liquor. It's all fake these days."

  Ian rested an elbow against the counter, glancing at the crimson cocktail Sylvan ordered. He raised an eyebrow. "You can tell the difference?"

  Sylvan flinched and licked his lips. "Well. I've been lucky to have the real thing. A long time ago."

  The music quickened to a faster tempo, and bodies squeezed together, colliding hips. Ian's ears buzzed. His gaze slid sideways, dark and questioning. A flush took to the corners of his eyes, but all amusement receded.

  "Sylvan." He smiled faintly, his voice a serene whisper. "I don't like liars."

  William came from the outer zones, growing up poor. He lived with his friends after losing his family earlier on, and scraped by to survive, taking on menial tasks. Risky tasks that led to his meeting with Sylvan.

  But the other, the cheerful, pink-haired man, wasn't so simple.

  Ian couldn't trust those with too many secrets to hide. They left unknowns, variables to consider.

  One tiny secret could destroy lives.

  Sylvan hiccuped and slumped against the bar. He ushered the young bartender over with a smile, and the other blushed, passing them two new shots. "Drink, Ian. You should be nicer to children."

  Ian tapped the counter and tipped the liquid back, fire chasing down his throat. His dark gaze fixed on Sylvan. "Should I treat you like a child?"

  "Wouldn't kill you to be nicer when I'm going through it," grumbled Sylvan, and crimson climbed his ears. "I'm from here." He sighed, nursing his glass as his gaze lowered, fluttering hesitantly. "Born and raised here."

  "The Center is everyone's dream."

  "Not mine." Sylvan laughed sharply. "Sure, you get to meet many people. All these privileges. I could've gotten by, until I met—anyway. You hear things, perspectives change, y'know? I felt like a bird crammed into this golden cage. What's the point of gold if I can't leave?"

  Did the material of a cage matter if their wings were clipped?

  Ian sipped his drink, silent. His life was bound underground, where all he knew were white walls and the senseless bar mimicry during the Culling. But did the Center guarantee happiness?

  And if even they couldn't provide joy, what would?

  Glass after glass, in the muddle of flowing bodies, they chased new highs. A moment of pretend, where suffering and misery blurred. But once again, the woman in red entered Ian's peripheral vision, parting her wine-red lips to chortle, arms draped over two pretty girls.

  Even alcohol couldn't wash everything away. Not truly, not even for a second.

  "Ian." Sylvan smacked his hand down, slurring before he exhaled. He pressed his mouth to Ian's ears. "Look at this. All this sparkle in the Center, but it's no less filthy than the outer zones. It's all a mess. Worthless."

  In his drunkenness, his inner thoughts leaked. Darker and hopeless.

  Ian gently pried away the glass in his hand, setting it against the table. He nodded at the bartender.

  "Water, please." Then, he ruffled the mess of pink hair that he hadn't seen in so long. His voice softened. "What do you want to do, Sylvan?"

  Sylvan clung to Ian's arm like a small animal, clutching onto what little he had. His voice trembled. "What do I do? I want to know whom I can direct all this loathing and guilt onto? Who can I despise—" He swallowed, staring intently into the amber liquid. "Aside from myself?"

  His throat strained, veins running along his frail skin from the tension in his jaw. His eyes were pleading, on the verge of tears. But they'd long run dry. It was William who'd died, but he felt like it was him who died that day.

  Ian stiffened and allowed Sylvan to lean into him. "You need an outlet for your despair. Place the blame on me. He followed me."

  Sylvan slapped his arm dizzily, scowling. "You're just a brat. An older brat, whatever! I... would've followed you, too, Ian. I—I'm not trying to blame you. I just, what do I do? What do I do when I roll over at night and embrace nothingness?"

  Ian's throat bobbed. He tilted his chin back to the fractures of light sparking off the high ceilings. He used to stare at white lights, and sometimes, his eyes would burn, and shadows crept into his vision.

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  He liked to pretend it was her ghost, haunting him.

  "You live," his mouth moved, but he seemed to be telling himself. "You live, and figure out what you do with that life."

  He'd chosen vengeance and hatred.

  But hatred didn't bring him wholeness or relief. It brought him purpose—and what would happen when that purpose ended, and his roads led to an end?

  What happened when his roads led to an abyss?

  "William wanted to live peacefully with you."

  Sylvan gulped, trembling. "So, I just keep living? Like a punishment, without him?"

  "It doesn't have to be." Ian sighed, lifting Sylvan's cheek as he examined the soundless tears. The distorted expression. "But I can't decide it for you."

  A wry smile stretched across Sylvan's face. "I wish you could."

  Ian sighed and raised the water glass to his lips. "Drink. This isn't a place to get drunk."

  Sylvan whined. "Don't wanna."

  "I'm not your mother," chuckled Ian quietly. "You're like a spoiled kid."

  Spoiled when drunk, but in soberness, his closeness masked his insecurities.

  He secured himself in tightly bound walls, unwilling to reveal his secrets. Relationships often only ran skin deep. A friend you'd known for years could be a stranger.

  Ian gritted his teeth. Sylvan could've lived a long life, a good life. They would've gone their separate ways had it not been for William's death.

  Yet, Ian didn't regret that Rift.

  The ticket to his sister's truth, and into the Center. He might not have made it in time, otherwise, jumping from Rift to Rift. He needed a miracle, and the price was death. Therefore, he had no right to continue this friendship.

  Ian never wished for William's death, but he wouldn't turn back time.

  His eyes fluttered, and he squeezed Sylvan's cheeks to force his mouth open, tipping the water back in slow trickles. Sylvan struggled. Eventually, his resistance waned, and he swallowed obediently.

  "Good job," muttered Ian, carefully peeling off the clingy creature. "I need to go."

  "Don't leave," Sylvan blinked dazedly. He grabbed Ian's sleeve with sticky fingers. "I'll come with you."

  "You're in no state to. And I don't need the help of a kid who should be taking it easy." He raised his hand to Sylvan's forehead and flicked it.

  Sylvan shot up with a yelp, slapping his hand over it and reddening it more. Clarity returned to his blinking eyes. "Hey!"

  Ian smiled faintly, but his attention strayed. His hands curled against the glass. Already, she changed partners like changing socks, heels strutting against the floor. She'd part her red lips and laugh loudly.

  The music continued buzzing in his ears, and he sank deeper into the counter. His dark eyes glinted, drinking in the scene.

  "She has a taste for pretty faces," he murmured, and Sylvan shuffled on his feet, peering over, and then at Ian.

  "I hate to say it, but I wouldn't put you in that category." Sylvan hesitated. He tried to take a swig of his glass, but Ian's palm moved to cover it. "Let me get drunk again. I'll go."

  Ian's head cocked sideways, taking in Sylvan's appearance. In the black reflected a flushed, pink-haired man with drooping eyes and a little roundness to his cheeks. He stared with such intensity, Sylvan coughed and looked away.

  There were lines Ian couldn't cross.

  Lines that once he did, he would be exactly what Victor hoped him to be.

  "Ian?"

  The rest of the liquid burned a path down Ian's throat. He ordered two more and pushed away from the counter. "I told you. I'm not pretty or sweet, but I can make it work. Don't get involved."

  He placed another glass of water before Sylvan. "Stay. You're staying at Victor's apartment—if you don't return obediently, I'll kick you out."

  "Ian!" Sylvan protested, but the other had already slipped into the crowds. "Hey, that's not fair! Don't pretend to be mean when I know you're not!"

  A smile curled at Ian's lips, but it dispersed quickly. Nausea coiled in his stomach. There were wandering hands and sweaty bodies crammed into a space like squirming maggots.

  Animals sought breeding by instinct, an evolutionary trait to prolong their species.

  Humans, who believed in their own supremacy, were no different.

  So in the end, what was the difference between the meat on his plate and these bodies seeking pleasures of the flesh?

  He approached the sofas by a large window, overlooking the city. There were many windows in the Center, as if desperate to stare at their luxury and prove it real. Rich, carmine curtains were tied with a thick golden knot. He scoffed.

  "Do the curtains amuse you?" A sultry voice wondered, and Ian turned his head to the velvet sofas.

  He raised the fizzing amber liquid in offering.

  The woman smiled. "Apologies, dear, you're not quite the type I like."

  Ian cocked his head, lowering his gaze. "And what is that?"

  Her lips moved slowly, hands gently brushing against the backs of two young men. "Why, the type amusing to break. The sweet, docile, and obedient sweethearts."

  Goosebumps peppered Ian's flesh, a writhing demanding that he leave. He ignored it. Instead, he plastered a charming smile on his face and approached.

  "How about a challenge?" He knew her type—those who believed themselves to be at the top of society. They liked curious things. Toys. He strode closer, and two guards neared, but she raised a finger to dismiss them. He flipped a palm out. "Would you like to test our compatibility?"

  She raised an eyebrow, her leg crossed. Then she leaned forward and placed her hand upon his. Immediately, he felt it. A crackle of energy sparked, and he seized it, enough to create a jolt of electricity.

  Her eyes widened, before her red smile widened.

  The energy fought back, grasping at dominance. Their energies clashed, and sparkles glinted in the air like magic, but Ian allowed her energy to spill into him.

  She was strong. Strong enough that, back in the facility, his meager Reverse Guiding wouldn't have been able to fight back. Espers, with a natural dominating ability, had a talent for leaching Guides dry.

  She was strong. But not as strong as Victor.

  His muscles tensed, straining painfully, and sweat beaded his forehead. He saw her chuckle delightedly, the thrill of conquering submission, and knew he'd won.

  The pleasure of relief coupled with the satisfaction of winning—

  —What could be a better temptation for a greedy pig?

  He yanked away with a gasp, and her fingers slowly curled. She licked her lips and tapped the two men. They glanced at her desperately, but at a glance, they shuddered and fled.

  Ian replaced them, sinking into the cushion as she accepted his glass.

  "You didn't answer my question." She tipped the champagne to her mouth, smirking. "You'll need to do a little more to amuse me, although that was quite the show."

  Ian smiled, resting an elbow against his knees. When his gaze wandered outside, glazed in alcohol's haziness, the Center's endless lights reflected in his black eyes.

  A scatter of false stars. Artificial hope.

  "I miss the stars," he mused. "When I see the lights, I imagine they'd have looked the same, once. This overpriced curtain doesn't suit it."

  The woman laughed mockingly. But her predatory eyes hungered to pierce him apart. "The stars. Boy, you know nothing of the stars. They are a thing of the past."

  Ian hummed. He swayed, and ebony hair scattered over his forehead. "Maybe. But don't we have the right to hold onto our dreams?"

  She tilted her head back, sinking into the sofa. "So you're a dreamer. It doesn't suit you."

  "I've been told." Her bare thigh brushed against his. Ian swallowed, a trickle escaping his bottom lip, to the plunge of his neck. He hooked a finger under his tie. With a sharp yank, it loosened, exposing his sharp collar bones. "Will you crush my dreams, then?"

  Violin and piano blended in harmony, a veil over their ears. Whispers blurred in the crowd of swaying bodies, all seeking a night of debauchery. Here, they enjoyed pleasure by choice, not obligation.

  Though he supposed villainy had a way of reaching even the brightest places.

  "Oh, darling, I create dreams," she smiled, lips glistening.

  She gradually rose, discarding her empty glass on the low table, before plucking his from his hands. Nails scraped against his skin, leaving a hiss of pain. She passed him, and a handkerchief fluttered down.

  Her smile never left. Noise shuffled around them, and nobody paid them any heed. Not one.

  Ian's eyes dipped to the white cloth and then lifted. She waited knowingly.

  To win somebody like her, he had to reach new lows.

  Then he was standing, bending at his waist. His suit outlined the curvature of his torso and hips. His heart hammered. Loud enough to have been heard, but it never was.

  Before he brushed the fabric's edge, a heel slammed onto his hand. Ian winced. The woman only slipped out her slender foot and lifted it.

  Resentment boiled in his stomach. His pride was screaming.

  He sucked in a sharp inhale and bent a knee to the ground in worship. He cradled her foot. Then, against the will of his mind, he pressed his lips to her ankle and lifted his dark eyes to hers.

  "I like your eyes, dear." Like a garnet that demanded possession, like a new jewel she wanted to claim. She observed him with a collector's intensity. "What a rare specimen."

  An airy laugh sounded. She retrieved a single white pill and held Ian's glass in her other hand. It plunked into the liquor, fizzling to the bottom. She gave it a swirl and forced Ian's chin up with a finger. The rim rested against his lip.

  "Drink," she said sweetly.

  And he did.