The man's name was David Reeves, and according to Nico's research, he had three problems: gambling debts to a Level 5 syndicate, a medical bill from his daughter's emergency surgery, and a boss who was looking for any excuse to demote him back to Level 7.
David Reeves worked in Level 6 Housing Allocation. Mid-level bureaucrat, twenty years on the job, with the access codes to override background check flags and push applications through the system.
David Reeves was, according to three different black market info brokers, willing to take money to make problems disappear.
Nico met him at a bar on Level 6, neutral ground. The place was called The Gradient—generic corporate aesthetic, clean floors, drinks that cost more than a day's food budget in Level 8. The kind of place where mid-tier professionals went to feel sophisticated without actually being wealthy.
Nico had dressed better this time. New shirt, printed to look like actual textile. Cleaned his face, tried to do something with his hair. Kade had laughed when he saw him.
"You look like a Level 8 kid playing dress-up," Kade had said, but not unkindly. "Just... don't act desperate, yeah? These fuckers can smell blood in the water."
Too late for that. Nico was always desperate. Had been for nine years.
He sat at the bar, nursing a drink he couldn't taste—something amber and expensive that burned going down. The bartender had looked at him sideways when he ordered, like maybe he should be checking if the credit chip was stolen.
David Reeves walked in at exactly 1900 hours. Punctual. Professional. He wore a work jumper with Level 6 Housing Authority patches, hair graying at the temples, face lined with the particular exhaustion of someone treading water in the middle tiers.
He looked... normal. Like someone's dad. Like someone who'd probably started with good intentions twenty years ago and gotten slowly ground down by Station life until rules became flexible and ethics became negotiable.
Nico could work with that.
Reeves scanned the bar, eyes landing on Nico with barely concealed surprise. Nico saw him take in the Level 8 markers—the too-new clothes that didn't quite fit right, the nervous energy, the obvious desperation. Saw something shift in Reeves's expression. Not quite predatory. Just... calculating.
"Mr. Chen?" Reeves approached, hand extended.
Nico shook it. Reeves's palm was soft, manicured. The handshake of someone who'd never done real manual labor.
"Thanks for meeting me." Nico kept his voice low. The bar wasn't crowded but he didn't know who might be listening. "I, uh. I appreciate your time."
"Of course." Reeves slid onto the stool next to him, ordered something from the bartender with the casual confidence of someone who belonged here. "Your message was... intriguing. You said you needed help with a housing situation?"
"Yeah. I applied last week, got denied for... reasons. But I got the money to qualify now. Just need someone who can help me navigate the system, yeah?"
Reeves nodded slowly. "The system can be complex. Lots of regulations, procedural requirements. Sometimes good applicants get lost in bureaucracy."
"Right. Exactly." Nico leaned in slightly. "I'm a good applicant. I got funds, I'm serious about relocating. I just need someone who knows how to... smooth things over."
"Smooth things over." Reeves smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "I assume by that you mean bypass certain regulatory barriers?"
"If that's what it takes."
"Mr. Chen, you understand that what you're asking me to do is highly irregular. It could cost me my position. My benefits. Everything I've built."
"I understand. That's why I'm prepared to make it worth your time." Nico pulled out his tablet, showed Reeves the account screen. Not the full amount—that would be insane—but enough to show he was serious. Two hundred thousand credits in a clean account, ready to transfer.
Reeves's eyes widened slightly. Just a flicker, quickly controlled, but Nico saw it. Saw the hunger.
"That's... substantial."
"Hundred thousand upfront. Another hundred when the application goes through." Nico tried to sound confident, like this was business, like he did this kind of thing all the time. "Clean transfer, untraceable. You clear my background flags, push my application to the top of the queue, I'm in a Level 6 apartment in two weeks. Everyone wins."
Reeves was quiet for a long moment, staring at the tablet. Nico could almost see the calculation happening—the gambling debt, the medical bills, the boss breathing down his neck. Two hundred thousand credits was probably more than this guy made in three years.
"What exactly is on your record?" Reeves asked finally. "I need to know what I'm working with."
"Possession charges. Two of them. Past year." No point lying now. "Nothing violent, no theft. Just... personal use stuff."
"Drug charges."
"Yeah."
"Those are flagged at a system level. Not easy to override."
"But possible, yeah?"
Reeves sipped his drink. "Possible. There are... procedures. Errors can be entered into the database. Records can be sealed for 'clerical review' that never quite finishes. Applications can be processed through override channels for 'special circumstances.'" He looked at Nico. "It would take time. And it's risky."
"I got time. And I'm good for the risk."
Another long silence. The bar's ambient music—some corporate-approved synthetic jazz—filled the space between them.
"Alright," Reeves said finally. "But we do this carefully. I'm not putting my neck out for someone who's going to be reckless."
Nico's heart kicked up. Was this actually working? "Okay. Yeah. What do you need?"
"First, I need to verify the funds. Make sure they're clean, not flagged, properly accessible. Can't have them traced back to anything... problematic."
"They're clean. Inheritance."
Reeves smiled that empty smile again. "Of course. Still, I'll need to verify. Standard procedure. I have a contact who specializes in financial verification for sensitive transactions. We run your accounts through him, he confirms everything's legitimate, then we proceed."
"How long does that take?"
"Twenty-four hours. Maybe less." Reeves pulled out his own tablet. "I'll send you the contact information. You transfer fifty thousand to his verification account—fully refundable once confirmed—and he'll run the analysis. Once I have his clearance, I can start the paperwork on my end."
Something itched at the back of Nico's mind. Some instinct screaming that this was wrong, too smooth, too easy.
But Reeves seemed legitimate. Looked tired and nervous and like someone who'd done this before. And fifty thousand was nothing compared to two hundred thousand, compared to fifty million.
"Okay," Nico said. "Send me the info."
The transfer details came through on his tablet. A name—Marcus Flynn, Financial Consultant—and an account number. Generic, anonymous. The kind of setup you'd use for black market transactions.
Which this was, technically. So that made sense, yeah?
Nico initiated the transfer. Fifty thousand credits, sent to Marcus Flynn for "verification services."
The transaction completed. Confirmed. Gone.
"Good," Reeves said, standing. "Flynn will contact you within twenty-four hours. Once he gives clearance, I'll reach out and we'll finalize everything." He extended his hand again. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Chen."
They shook. Reeves left. Nico sat at the bar, staring at his tablet, at the confirmation of the fifty-thousand-credit transfer.
Something still felt wrong.
The message came nineteen hours later, but not from Marcus Flynn.
Nico was in his pod, half-asleep, when his tablet pinged. He grabbed it, expecting clearance confirmation.
Instead: Transaction flagged for review. Additional verification required. Transfer 50K to complete audit.
Nico's stomach dropped.
He pulled up the sender info. Different account. Different name. No connection to the first transfer.
With shaking hands, he pulled up Marcus Flynn's account. The one he'd sent fifty thousand credits to yesterday.
Account suspended for fraudulent activity.
No.
No no no no—
Nico scrambled for his other tablet, the one with the broker contacts. Sent urgent messages to all three: Need info on David Reeves, Level 6 Housing. URGENT.
The first response came back in minutes: Who?
The second: No record of anyone by that name in Housing Admin.
The third: You got scammed, kid. Sorry.
Nico's hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped the tablet. He pulled up the transaction history, traced the fifty thousand credits. They'd gone to the Marcus Flynn account, which had immediately distributed them to fifteen different anonymous accounts across multiple levels. Gone. Untraceable.
And David Reeves—if that was even his real name—had probably never worked for Housing Administration in his life.
Nico had just paid fifty thousand credits to shake hands with a con artist in a bar.
The laugh that came out of him was jagged, painful. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning.
Fifty thousand. Gone. Just—fucking gone.
Kade had warned him. Everyone in the middle tiers knows a desperate mark when they see one.
And Nico had walked right into it. Had practically painted a target on his back. Had been so fucking obvious, so transparently desperate to believe that money could fix his problems, that he'd missed every red flag screaming at him.
The clothes that were too perfect. The immediate agreement. The verification step that required sending money first. The fact that Reeves had never asked for identification, never verified Nico was who he said he was.
Because it didn't matter. Nico was just another desperate Lower-Tier idiot with sudden money and no idea how to use it.
His tablet pinged again. Kade: You okay? Haven't heard from you.
Nico stared at the message. Thought about admitting what had happened. Thought about Kade's disappointment, his I-told-you-so, his dark humor about Nico being a mark.
Couldn't do it.
Fine, he typed back. Just busy.
He needed to use. The craving was beyond singing now—it was howling, demanding, promising that the Veil would make this hurt less, would make the humiliation and anger and crushing stupidity fade into something manageable.
Nico pulled his stash from its hiding spot in the pod's ventilation panel. Two vials left. He'd been rationing, trying to keep his head clear while dealing with the money situation.
Fuck that.
He used both vials. One right after the other, chasing oblivion.
The Veil hit his system like a wave, washing away the sharp edges of reality. The humiliation softened. The anger blurred. The knowledge that he'd just thrown away enough money to feed a Level 8 block for a month faded into distant background noise.
He floated.
Later—hours? days?—Nico woke up with his tablet still in his hand and a new message waiting.
Not from Reeves. Not from Kade.
From Maya.
I heard you tried to apply for Level 6. I'm sorry it didn't work out. If you want to talk, I'm here. I know it's hard to understand why the system is the way it is. But I can explain, if you'll listen. No judgment. Just... let me help you understand.
Nico stared at the message for a long time.
The system. The way it is. Understanding.
He'd just lost fifty thousand credits to a scam artist because the legal system had told him he wasn't allowed to try for better. Because his criminal record—two small possession charges, victimless crimes, the kind of shit everyone in Level 8 dealt with—had permanently locked him out of housing, of opportunity, of everything.
And Maya wanted him to understand why that was okay.
Yeah, he typed. Let's talk.
Because maybe she could explain why he'd just gotten robbed by the system twice in one week.
Maybe she could explain why having fifty million credits still made him a mark, a target, a Level 8 junkie who'd never be anything else.
Maybe she could explain why the money didn't fucking matter.
He closed his eyes and waited for the Veil to pull him back under.