Focus Character: Zara
For Zara, getting ready was not an act of vanity; it was an act of munitions appraisal.
She stood before the cracked, dim mirror in the Deathpigs Hall communal bathroom.
The lighting was terrible a flickering, sickly yellow that would make anyone look desperate. Zara refused to look desperate. Desperation lowered your asking price.
She applied her eyeliner slowly, taking her time, sharp enough to wing out like a blade.
She layered glossy, dark red lipstick that looked like a fresh bruise.
Her uniform skirt was hemmed three inches higher than regulation; a calculated risk. It invited judgment, yes, but it also invited attention. Attention was useful, and that could be leveraged.
In the wider world, her body had been a enemy something people took without asking. At Vara Rose, she intended to make it beneficial to her. It was the only currency she had left that didn't require a fluctuating Horacatein score to validate.
"You're going out?"
Zara didn't flinch. She finished applying her mascara before turning to see Mina standing in the doorway. The small girl was clutching a textbook to her chest like a shield, looking at Zara with wide, terrified fawn eyes.
"It's Saturday night, sweetie," Zara said, her voice a practiced purr that hid the grinding tension in her jaw. "The 'Mixer' is mandatory. Didn't you read the fine print? 'Social cohesion is a graded metric.'"
"I thought that meant... study groups," Mina whispered.
"Everything here is a test," Zara said, snapping her compact shut. "If you aren't at the party, you're invisible. If you're invisible, your rank drops. If your rank drops, you disappear. It's simple math, sweetie."
Mina shrank back. Zara felt a flicker of annoyance—not at Mina, but at her innocence. It was a luxury none of them could afford.
"Don't wait up," Zara said, brushing past her. She needed to get to the field before the best territories were claimed.
The Mixer was held in the Whalebone Atrium, a massive glass structure grafted onto the side of the original entrance hall.
It was deafening. Heavy, industrial bass shook the floor, vibrating up through Zara's heels. The air was thick with expensive perfume, sweat, and the zesty tang of "Haze" smoke drifting from the upper balconies where the Tier 1s were bunched up together.
Zara didn't head for the balconies. You didn't attack the top until you had the weapons to get there.
She moved through the crowded floor, her hips swaying in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music and everything to do with vector control.
She needed to find a target. Someone high enough to boost her standing by association, but insecure enough to be susceptible to her particular skill set.
She spotted him near the bar: a Tier 1 named Kenneth Vincent.
He was huge, physically imposing, ranked 015. But he was standing alone, looking uncomfortable in the chaotic noise. A physical threat, but socially isolated. Perfect.
Zara adjusted her trajectory. She didn't walk directly to him; that showed need. She walked past him, letting her shoulder brush against his arm—just enough contact to register, not enough to be an overture.
She stopped at the bar, ordering a sparkling water she didn't want. She felt Kenneth's eyes on her. The hook was set. Now, the reel.
She turned slowly, feigning mild surprise. "Oh. You're the one who broke the sparring dummy in KN101 yesterday. Impressive torque."
Kenneth blinked. He hadn't expected technical talk. "It was substandard equipment."
"Or maybe you're just above standard," Zara said, stepping closer. She entered his personal space, tilting her head back to look up at him. It forced an intimacy, a physical realignment of power. "Rank 015. That's high for someone who hates parties."
Kenneth's stoic expression cracked slightly. "I don't hate them. I just find them... tactically unsound. Too much noise. Too many variables."
"I can help with the variables," Zara murmured, letting her hand ghost over his forearm. She felt the muscle twitch beneath his uniform sleeve. He was responding. Good.
It was a simple transaction: she provided social lubrication and ease; he provided status elevation.
"Well, well. Look what crawled out of the basement."
The voice was cold water on a hot skillet.
Zara didn't drop her hand from Kenneth's arm, but she felt him stiffen, withdrawing emotionally before he even moved physically.
Phina Kroyx (Rank 004) materialized from the crowd. She didn't look at Zara; she looked exclusively at Kenneth, as if saving him from a tedious chore.
"Kenneth darling," Phina drawled, her perfect platinum hair shining under the strobe lights. "Damian Varn is looking for you upstairs. Something about actual strategy for class. You know, things that matter."
"I was just—" Kenneth started.
"Being charitable," Phina finished for him, her eyes finally sliding to Zara. It wasn't a look of jealousy. It was worse. It was an assessment of her value.
"Cute attempt, honey. Really. But we don't do... people of no value up here."
Zara felt the heat rise in her chest, but she kept her face perfectly smooth. "I wasn't aware Vara Rose had a caste system for conversation."
Phina smiled. It was thin and sharp as a razor wire. "Oh, it's not a caste system. It's just quality control. You see, when you offer goods that everyone has already deemed failing, the market value tends to crash. We prefer exclusivity."
It was a precise, surgical strike. It didn't just call her a loser; it framed her tactics as cheap. Useless and common.
Kenneth looked between them. He was a fighter, brave in physical combat, but here, in the brutal arena of social capital, he was a coward. He stepped away from Zara.
"I should go," he muttered, not looking at her.
Phina watched him leave, then turned back to Zara, her smile vanishing instantly into bored indifference.
"Listen closely, Pig," Phina said, her voice low enough that only Zara could hear it over the thumping bass. "Your little tragic backstory might have worked on the outside. Here? It's just clutter and noise."
"You want to climb? Find a better ladder. You try to touch one of ours again, and I won't just block you. I'll have you reclassified as a biohazard."
Phina walked away without waiting for a response.
Zara stood frozen in the middle of the dance floor. The flashing lights felt like targeting lasers.
She wasn't heartbroken. She didn't care enough about Kenneth to be heartbroken.
She was terrified.
Her primary asset had just been declared worthless by a market leader. If she couldn't use charm to advance, she had no other viable strategy. And if she didn't advance, the asylum Vara Rose promised her would evaporate, sending her back to the scandal that was waiting to devour her.
She turned and pushed her way toward the exit, no longer caring about her hip sway or her vectors. She just needed to get back to the dark, damp safety of Deathpigs Hall before she did something truly stupid, like cry.