The Ryzen drifted to the curb in front of Cole’s building. Cole watched through the tinted window as Ashley emerged from the building’s main entrance. She moved with a confident gait that made her stand out from the hurried, shuffling crowds.

  She slid in. The gull-wing hissed open on a proximity sensor before she could touch the handle. The cabin was a sealed vacuum against the street filth. Clean lines. Temperature controlled synth-leather. The dashboard bled the soft neon of status lights.

  Her gaze took in the cabin. "Nice ride. Didn't figure you for the luxury type."

  The vehicle pulled away from the curb, lifting off with barely a vibration. Cole punched it into the traffic stream.

  "Impulse buy. Sort of."

  "Sort of?" She cocked a brow.

  Cole winced. "I picked up Lia for dinner a month ago. On my motorcycle. It was... raining."

  Ashley stared at him for a few seconds, her expression perfectly blank. Then she threw her head back and laughed. "Cole, you didn't."

  “It was a slight drizzle! Barely even a class-two atmospheric event! You should have seen the look on Lia’s face though. This mixture of annoyance and amused disbelief. She just stood there under the building’s awning, soaked from the splash-back, with her arms crossed, her forge-ports steaming slightly in the cold. We scrubbed the reservation. Went straight to the dealership.”

  Ashley doubled over. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. “You’re hilariously clueless in the most simple of things. Picking up a Forge Domain—a woman who literally radiates heat—on a motorcycle in the rain? That’s a science experiment gone wrong.”

  “I’m not that clueless…. Am I?”

  “Kinda,” she said. The laugh faded but the smile held, turning into something more knowing, almost teasing. She leaned in just a fraction. Close enough to catch the scent of her perfume, synthesized orchids and honey. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, but her silver irises never left his. “How much did you end up dropping?”

  “Sixty thousand credits.” Cole’s hands tightened on the steering controls, the memory of the transaction still a fresh sting. “Still can’t believe the salesman tried to get me to trade in my motorcycle.”

  Ashley’s smile flickered. "Not the vintage.”

  “Yeah. Told me it was an antiquated combustion relic with a massive carbon footprint. I told him his personality was a massive carbon footprint.”

  “Good,” She ran her hand along the dashboard, fingers tracing the chrome details. “Some things are more important than credits. Still. Sixty thousand. Not cheap.”

  “It has armor plating and can go from zero to two hundred in four seconds,” Cole said, unsure why he felt the need to justify the purchase.

  "It's a very expensive, very beautiful coffin." She grinned. "But at least you'll die in style. Speaking of which—ready to look like you belong somewhere that charges a thousand credits just to walk through the door?"

  “I have no idea what that looks like.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ashley said, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “I do. And it’s going to be fun.”

  The Ryzen cut through the lower district like oil through water. The architecture shifted with the altitude. Concrete turned to chrome. Graffiti bled into corporate holograms. Desperation morphed into aspiration.

  “You've reviewed the security specs?" Ashley asked, her tone shifting to business even as she stayed turned toward him.

  "Memorized them. Probability engine, Vance's range, exit routes, Calder's patterns." Cole navigated through a construction zone where workers were installing new holo-projectors. "Spent five hours on it last night."

  "Then you know we have one shot." Ashley tapped her wrist unit. "Which means today is about making sure you can sell the role."

  Cole expected schematics. He got a surveillance feed of a high-stakes table.

  "See the guy in the charcoal suit? Fourth table, standing left?" She isolated the feed, zooming in. "Watch his eyes. He's scanning constantly but it never looks like work. That's what you need."

  Cole studied the man's movements. Relaxed shoulders, casual stance, but his gaze moved in a pattern—principal, crowd, exits, repeat.

  "Most bodyguards telegraph what they are," Ashley continued. "They stand too rigid, check their weapons too often, look like they're waiting for a threat. The expensive ones?" She flicked to another recording. "They make it look effortless. Like they just happen to be standing in exactly the right position."

  The new feed showed a woman in sharp black structure at a corp gala. She held a champagne glass she never sipped. She hovered in the principal's shadow. The body language read boredom. The eyes read threat assessment.

  "That's the performance. You're not a merc playing dress-up. You're someone who's done this so many times it's muscle memory."

  "Where'd you get this footage?"

  "Same place I got Calder’s behavioral patterns and the tournament floor plans." Ashley closed the hologram. "The real question is whether you can internalize within two days."

  "I'll manage."

  "You'll need to. Grand Mirage security profiles every bodyguard who walks through their doors. They're looking for tells—people who don't belong, who might cause problems, who are pretending to be something they're not." She glanced at him. "The suit will help. But if your body language screams 'hired muscle,' we're flagged before we reach the tournament floor."

  Cole watched the city shift around them as they climbed toward the Crystal District. "So this tailor appointment isn't just about looking the part."

  "It's about becoming the part. Clothes, cologne, posture, movement—it all has to align. One wrong note and Vance's people will be watching us the entire night."

  The Ryzen spiraled down into the Crystal District’s sub-level. The garage looked like an operating theater. Pristine white tile.

  They took a dedicated lift to the surface. The doors opened on a different planet. The buildings were architectural aggression. Shards of glass and steel trying to stab the sky. Gardens of bio-luminescent flora bled soft blue light onto the pavement. The sidewalk heaters kept the concrete at a steady seventy-two degrees.

  The tailor occupied the ground floor of a structure that mimicked a growing geode. No neon. No holographic spam. Just a brass plaque. Castellan - By Appointment Only.

  "You have an appointment?" Cole asked.

  "I have something better. Money and blackmail material."

  Before Cole could process that, the door opened. The man who greeted them looked like he'd stepped out of a pre-Collapse fashion magazine. He had silver hair slicked back and augmented eyes that shifted through different colors as he examined them.

  "Ms. Voss." His accent was Old Euro. A dialect that had been long dead. "I wasn't anticipating a visit."

  "Emergency appointment, Castellan. My friend needs to not look like he kills things for a living."

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Castellan's color-shifting eyes locked onto Cole, scanning him with the intensity of a medical examiner. "Kills things for a living. Yes, I can see that. The stance, the scarring pattern, the way his jacket hangs to conceal at least two weapons."

  "Can you help him or not?" Ashley asked.

  "My dear, I could make a feral cat look presentable at a corporate board meeting. This will require work, but not miracles." He clapped his hands twice. "Samson! Prepare the measurement suite. And bring the good scanner, the one from Rome."

  The next two hours were a test of endurance. The process involved standing rigid while laser grids mapped the topography of his body. Then came the textiles. Castellan treated the fabric selection like he was handling holy scripture.

  "No." The tailor tossed swatches of fabric that all looked identical to Cole. "Too common. Too cheap. Too... obvious." He held up a piece of midnight blue fabric. "This. Vantablack weave with micro-LED threading. It can shift patterns subtly, breaking up your profile to surveillance systems while appearing as simple executive fashion."

  "I just need to look like a bodyguard," Cole protested.

  "You need to look like a bodyguard who works for someone who matters," Castellan corrected. "The Grand Mirage also vets the help. If you show up looking like dockside muscle the security grid will flag you before you hit the lobby."

  Ashley watched from a leather wingback. She nursed a glass of champagne. "Listen to him. Castellan drapes half the boardroom sharks in the city. He knows the uniform."

  "Power," Castellan said. He pulled another bolt. "Is ninety percent projection. You could be the deadliest person in the room, but if you look like you shop at military surplus stores, no one will take you seriously. Put a sanitation worker in a five-figure suit and he walks into any office in the sprawl."

  He presented a jacket. The material shifted between black and deep void blue. "This will be your armor. Not literally—though it does have some ballistic weaving—but socially. This suit says you're expensive. That whoever hired you has money to burn."

  "That is a lot of trust to put in thread," Cole said.

  "Is it?" Castellan began taking manual measurements. "Tell me. What do you see when you look at Ms. Voss?"

  Cole glanced at Ashley. "Trouble."

  Ashley raised her champagne glass in a mock toast.

  "Besides that," Castellan pressed. "Look at how she's dressed. Simple gray jumpsuit, yes? But notice the cut. Tailored precisely, not a wrinkle or excess fold.The fabric has a specific sheen. Synthetic spider silk blend. About three thousand credits per meter. Her boots? Real leather, not vat-grown. In this economy, that's a statement. She's wearing probably fifteen thousand credits, and making it look effortless."

  Cole looked at Ashley with new eyes. He'd noticed she dressed well, but hadn't considered the economics of it.

  "Now," Castellan continued, "imagine she showed up to the Grand Mirage in street clothes. How far do you think she'd get?"

  "Point taken."

  "Good. Now hold still while I measure your inseam, and for the love of pre-Collapse Paris, try not to flinch."

  While Castellan worked, Ashley pulled up more data on her wrist unit. "We'll have maybe forty seconds during the distraction to get close enough for contact. The tracker needs three seconds of skin contact to burrow in and activate."

  "Three seconds in a room full of security and a Perception Domain who can read hostile intent."

  "Which is why it can't look hostile. You're a bodyguard doing your job—scanning for threats, staying close to your principal, maybe getting a little too close to other players in the heat of the moment." She enlarged an image of Thomas Calder from multiple angles. "He's left-handed, wears his watch on his right wrist. When I create the distraction, he'll instinctively turn toward the commotion. That exposes his right side and his wrist."

  "And you're sure he'll turn?"

  "It's human nature, even for someone as controlled as Calder." She pulled up another file, behavioral analysis from his previous casino visits. "He's confident in his bodyguards' abilities. The kind of man who thinks threats come from a distance, not from bumbling contact at a poker table."

  "What kind of distraction are we talking about?"

  "Big win followed by an accusation of cheating. Maybe I catch a dealer's tell, make it look like they're signaling another player. Security gets called, everyone's attention locks on the table, and in that moment of chaos, you're just another concerned bodyguard checking if the situation might escalate."

  "And if Vance reads my intent?"

  "Then we abort and try another approach. But Vance can't monitor everyone simultaneously, and during a cheating accusation, his focus will be on the accused parties and the dealer. You're peripheral, background security doing background security things."

  Castellan had moved on to selecting accessories—watches, cufflinks, even specific cologne. "Scent is crucial," he explained, holding up various bottles. "Too cheap, you're trying too hard. Too expensive, you're overcompensating. You need something that says 'I have money but I don't need to prove it.'"

  "This is insane," Cole muttered. "I've faced down Rift Beasts. Now I'm getting a lecture on pocket squares."

  “The Grand Mirage is about performance. Everyone there is playing a role—wealthy entrepreneur, mysterious heiress, dangerous criminal with legitimate business interests. If you can't sell your character, you've lost before the first card is dealt." Ashley said.

  Castellan finally settled on a cologne that smelled like leather and gunpowder with hints of something citrus. "Perfect. Masculine but not overwhelming. Dangerous but refined."

  "It smells like a wealthy murderer," Cole said.

  "Exactly!" Castellan beamed. "You understand fashion after all."

  The fitting burned another hour. Castellan made microscopic adjustments that Cole couldn't even perceive

  "Shoulder articulation needs tolerance for the draw stroke," Castellan noted. He tweaked the jacket. "There. Now you can draw from either shoulder holster without the fabric bunching."

  "You assume I'll be armed?"

  "I assume you'd feel naked without multiple weapons on your person. The Grand Mirage allows bodyguards one visible sidearm and one concealed backup. I'm designing the suit to hide at least two more."

  "I like him," Cole said to Ashley.

  "Everyone likes Castellan until they get his bill," she replied.

  Castellan finally stepped back to admire his work. Cole stood in front of the mirror barely recognizing himself. The suit transformed him from a Merc who cleaned up nice into someone who belonged in the Crystal District. The cut emphasized his height while downplaying his bulk, making him look lethal rather than thuggish.

  "Now for the final test," Castellan said. "Walk."

  Cole took a few steps. The tailor shook his head immediately. "No. No. You're walking like you're checking for landmines. In this suit, you own whatever room you're in. Shoulders back, smooth stride, purposeful but not hurried."

  "I walk how I walk."

  "You walk like someone who expects to be ambushed. In the Grand Mirage paranoia is a weakness. Predators don't check corners. They make other people check corners for them."

  Ashley stood up, setting down her champagne. "Like this." She walked across the room, and Cole saw what Castellan meant. She moved with grace. Smooth. Inevitable. It was the walk of someone who knew exactly where she was going and expected everyone else to get out of her way.

  Cole tried to imitate it, feeling ridiculous.

  "Better," Castellan said. "Practice that. In two days, it needs to be natural." He began packaging the suit in a garment bag. "The suit will be delivered to your address tomorrow morning. There are four shirts, two ties, and coordinating accessories. Everything is labeled with wearing instructions."

  "Wearing instructions?"

  "Which shirt with which tie, how to fold the pocket square, optimal cologne application points. I've dressed enough new money to know they need guidance."

  "I'm not new money."

  "No, but you spend like someone who'll drop sixty grand on a car with armor plating and balk at buying real coffee." Ashley said.

  She transferred payment with a gesture. Cole glanced at the transaction total and nearly choked.

  "Fourteen thousand credits? For clothes?"

  "For armor," Castellan corrected. "Social armor. In the right rooms, this suit is better protection than military-grade plating."

  They exited the shop back into the Crystal District. The Ryzen waited at the curb.

  "That was..." Cole started.

  "Overwhelming?"

  "Educational. I never thought about clothes as weapons."

  Ashley settled into the passenger seat. "Image. Reputation. Fear. Desire. They're all tools. The suit just helps you aim them."

  As they drove the city flowed past in streams of neon and shadow.

  "Tomorrow we do a dry run," Ashley said as they neared their building. "I’ll pulled VR mapping of the Grand Mirage interior. We run the operation in the sim until it's muscle memory."

  "And if something goes wrong on the day?"

  "Then we improvise. You're good at that, right?"

  "I'm good at not dying. There's a difference."

  "Not in this business." She glanced out the window as the Ryzen hovered to a stop in front of their building. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we run simulations until you can do the whole thing blindfolded."

  "Can't wait."

  Ashley smiled. "Don't worry. You've got a good teacher."

  Cole watched her disappear into the lobby. He wondered what kind of contract he had signed himself into. The smart money said this was going to end badly. But the smart money would have said the same thing about his first Sequence Five hunt and he was still breathing.

  Two days until the tournament. Two days to learn how to be someone else entirely.

  In Forge City, everyone wore masks. He was just adding one more to his collection.

  The expensive kind that might actually keep him alive.