Madrid, Spain, 2072.
The terrace of the eighty-story building was a small oasis above the city. Luxurious, artificial, and so expensive that even the wind seemed filtered. Narrow water channels ran between slabs of polished white marble, reflecting the soft glow of decorative lights. Small gardens of genetically modified flowers spilled fluorescent petals onto the floor, forming a scene as delicate as it was undeniably synthetic. All around, holographic butterflies floated among the guests, dissolving into particles of light whenever someone came too close.
At the center, a runway stretched for twenty meters, its end extending beyond the edge of the building, suspended in empty space three hundred meters above the ground, with no protection whatsoever for the models parading in extravagant outfits worth thousands of eurodollars. In the background, an orchestra of twenty musicians, all with golden implants in their heads and hands, played a smooth, refined melody that set the rhythm of the night.
Waiters in white tuxedos glided through the crowd with trays of champagne, bourbon, gin and any other drink a guest might request.
Amid it all, a blond man made his way through the crowd toward the bar, adjusting the collar of his black suit, perfectly tailored to his body. His movements were firm, elegant, yet marked by the impatience of someone disconnected from the atmosphere, clearly wishing he were anywhere but there.
[Are you at least going to pretend you're enjoying yourself, or will you keep that funeral face all night?] A female voice, lightly sarcastic, echoed directly into his private neural channel, as clear as if she were standing beside him.
[Pretending requires an emotional investment I find… deprecating. Especially for this event.] Reaching the bar, he rested one hand on the matte marble counter and gave the place a quick visual sweep, his blue eyes catching every detail he deemed useful, which was not much.
[What do you have against an "ecologically conscious" event where absolutely nothing here is even remotely sustainable?] the woman asked, with a faint hint of irritation.
[I didn't know you cared about the hypocrisy of the rich.]
[Well, isn't that what gave you that expression?]
[I just hate wearing a tuxedo.]
[…how ridiculous. Even for you.] she said, her voice heavy with obvious disappointment.
Not bothering to respond, the man sat down, signaling the bartender with a slight nod. "A bourbon." In less than a minute, the drink arrived. He took the glass, gently swirling it as he observed the amber liquid before taking a long sip. [Has he arrived yet, Canary?]
[Not yet. I'll let you know as soon as the target crosses the entrance.]
[Right…] Setting the glass back on the counter, he was about to stand and look for some distraction to make time pass faster when someone took the seat beside him.
"C'est votre première fois dans un événement de ce type ??"
He turned his head and found himself facing a woman with long copper-red hair tied in a high ponytail. Golden-yellow eyes gleamed under the bar's lights, pale skin dusted with freckles, and a small beauty mark just above the left side of her red-painted lips.
She was a beauty, in every sense of the word, the kind any man would be happy to talk to… except when one is in the middle of an espionage mission with the potential to turn into an assassination.
"What did you say?"
"Ohh, un Américain." She switched to English, though her French accent remained unmistakable. "For a moment, I thought we were compatriots."
"And why would you think that?" He turned fully toward her, senses alert, examining her not as a man looks at a woman, but as a professional assessing a variable.
She tilted her head, studying him as if dismantling his behavior piece by piece. "Mm… you have the manner." A small smile curved her lips, elegant and undeniably sensual. "That posture of someone who clearly does not wish to be here, yet pretends to have very important reasons to stay. French people do that all the time."
She rested her elbow on the counter, leaning in a few centimeters, close enough to move beyond casual conversation, but not to invade his personal space. "So, is this your first time at this kind of event?"
"Yes. And, as you may notice, it will probably be the last."
"Oh, non, that would be an unforgivable waste." She waved a hand lightly. "You must attend at least once a true fashion event."
He raised an eyebrow. "A true fashion event?"
"Exactement." Her golden eyes sparkled. "I have attended shows in Paris, Berlin, even on the coast of Morocco. So I can say with confidence that what we are seeing here is not a fashion show, but a…" She paused, glancing around with a clearly critical expression. "Well, this is what happens when people try to copy elegance. Spaniards have this irritating tendency to confuse ostentation with style. They mix shine with money and call it high culture."
"Is that so?" He lifted the glass again, finishing the drink in one go. "Perhaps I'll give it another chance."
"I am pleased to hear that." She turned to the bartender, raising two fingers to call him over. "Un bourbon. Pour moi. Et…" She glanced sideways at him, measuring him once more. "I believe monsieur here is also drinking something strong, non?"
"Another bourbon," he replied, handing the empty glass back to the bartender.
"So, besides boredom, we also share the same taste in drinks?" she remarked cheerfully.
Before he could answer, Canary spoke again over the channel. [The target has arrived, along with two guards.]
He didn't react. Didn't move a muscle. He simply gave a slight nod to the woman beside him. "Looks like it." The bartender returned, sliding two glasses toward them. Jon quickly picked up his glass and raised it to her. "I believe we haven't been introduced yet...?"
"Aurore Cassel," she said, mirroring the gesture.
He tapped the rim of his glass against hers, producing a soft clink. "Jon Lee."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Jon Lee," Aurore said, bringing the glass to her lips.
Jon did the same, keeping his senses split. Half of his attention was on the woman in front of him, on her relaxed yet calculated posture, on the way her eyes seemed to notice everything without ever looking like they were watching. The other half stayed locked on the target, who was walking toward a group of people gathered around the host.
"So, Aurore Cassel," he began, setting his glass back on the counter. "How does a genuine fashion enthusiast end up at an event... not so genuine?"
She smiled, slowly, the small beauty mark above her lip shifting just a little. "I was passing through the city when I saw I had received an invitation. I thought: why not? I gave it a chance. Instant regret."
[Something's wrong. I lost access!]
[What do you mean?]
[They found me! I've been compromised!]
[What do you mean?] Jon asked again, alarmed, but there was no reply. [Canary? Canary?! Canary?!]
"Is the drink not to your liking, Jon? Your face suddenly went pale," Aurore asked, not sounding the least bit concerned.
"I received a message from a relative. Unfortunately, I'll have to leave," he replied, already getting to his feet. There was no time to waste.
"What a pity. I was enjoying our conversation."
Jon gave a quick smile, too brief to be polite, long enough not to seem rude. He inclined his head slightly in farewell. "Perhaps another time." With brisk steps, he melted into the crowd, leaving Aurore and the bar behind.
[Canary, last call. Can you hear me?]
Silence.
No echo, no static, no interference. Just silence.
He crossed the terrace, cutting between loudly laughing guests until he reached a more secluded area, where a discreet side door stood, marked with a symbol indicating staff-only access. Jon pulled a credential from his pocket and passed it over the sensor, the door sliding open to the side.
The interior corridor was a harsh contrast to the terrace's luxury: gray walls, cold lighting, non-slip flooring, and the constant hum of engines and ventilation.
Cameras were positioned every fifteen meters, but they weren't a problem. One by one, they powered down as Jon passed, the result of quickhacks. At the same time, he tried to reestablish contact with the outside. [Mission compromised! I repeat. Mission compromised!]
Nothing came back.
He passed a storage area filled with stacked crates, cleaning drones parked in standby mode, and two exhausted employees quietly arguing about delayed wages. Neither of them looked up more than once, barely registering the man in a suit moving past like a shadow.
After a few more meters, he finally saw his objective: the service elevator. A wide, reinforced cabin used to transport equipment and staff.
Pressing the button, Jon watched a red light blink once, twice, three times. Then, with a rough groan, the doors slid open.
He stepped inside the elevator, which, luckily, was empty, flooded with an aggressive white light that seemed to bleach everything. Jon pressed the button that would take him to the lower levels, toward the planned escape route.
The doors began to close. But at that exact moment, when the metal met at the center, something inside him shifted. First came a faint pressure behind his eyes. Then an uncomfortable heat crept up his neck, sliding down his spine like a serpent tightening around him from within.
"Ugh...." He braced a hand against the wall. His vision blurred slightly. The lights on the elevator panel doubled for an instant, lines smearing into a shapeless blur. The air felt heavy in his lungs, each breath turning short, insufficient, dense.
Jon clenched his teeth. [I think I've been... poisoned—] Before he could do anything else, his legs gave out and everything went dark.
*******
[Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, images or songs featured in this fic. Additionally, I do not claim ownership of any products or properties mentioned in this novel. This work is entirely fanfic.