The gin glass sweated on the nightstand, half-forgotten as neon bled through the blinds and carved the bed in fractured light.
The woman leaned over her, curls tumbling down, warm skin pressing close. Softer curves, a gentle contrast to Lina's wiry frame and the hard lines beneath her skin where synth muscle had replaced flesh. Each touch made the difference sharper, human warmth against augmented steel.
Lina's hands traced her sides, blue filaments flickering faint under the synthskin whenever she tightened her grip. The woman shivered at the pressure, her breath catching against Lina's ear, but Lina held herself in check. She could feel the hydraulics humming in her arms, strength begging to break loose, yet she restrained herself, careful not to damage what she wanted to keep whole.
Heat and perfume filled the air as they moved together. A soft laugh escaped the woman's lips, then turned to a surprised gasp as Lina shifted their positions with fluid grace. The bedframe creaked softly, neon light cutting across skin in shifting patterns of color.
For a while it was just sound and rhythm: breath, muffled laughter, the faint whine of servos under Lina's skin. Then silence, the kind that left only the rattle of ice in the forgotten glass.
Lina lay back, chest heaving, watching the ceiling stains blur in the dim light. She reached for the gin, drained it in one swallow, and let the burn linger where nothing else could.
When Lina came back to Sector 9, she wasn't the model student people remembered. She slept with whoever she wanted, men or women, mostly women; they smelled better, felt softer and didn't ask as many questions. Days vanished with her wired into neurodust, chasing the shimmer that crackled under her skin. If she wasn't sleeping, she was drinking gin or tangled in someone else's sheets.
Whiskey she never touched, though the Marcelli name controlled most of the country's whiskey trade. She hated the smell of it. Tried to forget the scene of her mother slumped in that chair, glass still in hand. Too much whiskey with pills. The carpet had soaked dark where the liquor spilled, drop after drop.
She remembered her mother's eyes were wide open, but her mouth curved in a smile. She finally didn't have to stay in this fucking sector anymore.
The woman shifted beside her, drawing the sheet up across her chest. She was younger than Lina, maybe twenty, with dark curls falling loose over her shoulders and a small beauty mark just beneath one eye. Her skin still glowed faintly with sweat, her lips parted.
For a while there was only the sound of melting ice, the faint crackle from the streetlamp outside. Then she turned her head, voice low but steady.
"Why'd you come back?" she asked. "You had Sector One. Everyone said you were going to be somebody there. Why throw that away for this place?"
Lina dragged her gaze from the ceiling, the name on the tip of her tongue refusing to surface. Christina? Cassie? Something like that. She took a slow swallow from the gin instead, buying herself a second, then let out a short laugh.
"Guess I missed the weather," she said, her tone light, almost mocking.
The girl gave her a look, half amused, half unconvinced.
And then it clicked. _Chrissy._ Lina let the name roll once in her head before speaking, casual as if she hadn't just forgotten it.
"So, Chrissy," she said, shifting onto one elbow, "what are you doing out here anyway? This part of the city's a long way from where you should be."
Chrissy frowned, tugging the sheet a little higher over her chest. "I told you already," she said, her voice sharper than before. "My parents are sick. Somebody has to keep the house running. Waiting tables is the only work I can get that pays enough."
The words hung there between them, heavy against the gin and the neon glow.
Lina swirled what was left in her glass, letting the liquor burn its way down before she answered. "That's tough," she said, mouth quirking. "You're the responsible one between us."
Chrissy shot her a look. "Easy for you to say. You could've stayed in Sector One, right? Everyone said you were scoring high, and with your family's money you didn't even need the score. So why the hell come back here?"
The question cut closer than Lina liked. She set the glass down with a soft clink, staring at the neon glow bleeding through the blinds.
"In there," she said slowly, "you're not a person anymore. They measures all of you: how fast you learn, how good you are with people. Every choice you made adds to a score, and the score decides how far you climb. Housing, food, even the job you're allowed to take. Or the people you can marry. It's like a cage."
Chrissy frowned, curiosity cutting through her tone. "So what was your CIS, anyway? How high did you score?"
Lina gave a short laugh. "Does it matter?"
Chrissy rolled her eyes. "Sure. And here you are shaking down shopkeepers. Guess the street suits you better than Sector One."
Lina's smile tightened, the kind that showed too many teeth. She set the glass aside, then rolled over in one fluid motion, pressing Chrissy back into the sheets.
"Sounds like someone needs another lesson," she murmured, her mouth finding Chrissy's before she could argue.
The kiss deepened, the room slipping back into heat, until a sharp knock rattled the door.
"Señorita Marcelli," a voice called from the hallway, muffled but urgent. "Your father's asking for you."
Chrissy broke the kiss, breath still uneven. A small smile tugged at her lips as she brushed Lina's hair back. "Someone needs to go back to the family business," she teased, voice soft but edged with irony.
Lina let out a low groan, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling. The warmth in her chest cooled fast, replaced by the familiar weight of obligation.
"I'll be there in a minute, Mateo" she called, voice steady now, though the gin still lingered on her breath.
Outside the door, silence stretched a moment too long. She pictured him standing there, young face tight, knowing more than he should. Then came the soft scrape of his shoes retreating down the hall, quickly and carefully, as if he'd rather not carry what he'd overheard.
Lina gave Chrissy a quick gesture, two fingers to her lips, a silent promise she'd be back, then slipped out into the corridor. Her steps carried her down to a side cloakroom, a space larger than most families' kitchens. Rows of shirts and trousers hung in disciplined lines, whites and darks separated with military neatness. A handful of dresses lingered at the far end, fewer in number, their bright fabric out of place among the sober cuts of her daily wear.
Inside, a maid was waiting. A young blonde was straight-backed despite the late hour. Her name was Elena, though Lina rarely used it aloud.
"We've prepared everything, Miss Lina," Elena said softly. She glanced at Lina's flushed cheeks, the faint gin on her breath, and added with careful tact, "Perhaps rinse your mouth before speaking with your father. Best not to carry the bottle in with you."
She held out a freshly pressed shirt and trousers, still warm from the iron.
Lina arched a brow, tugging the shirt from Elena's hands. "Thank you, Elena. Always so considerate," she said, the words dry enough to make it unclear if it was praise or mockery.
The fabric was stiff with starch, cedar and soap clinging to it, a sharp contrast to the sweat and perfume still heavy on her own skin.
Elena stepped closer, steady hands smoothing the shirt over Lina's shoulders, fastening each button with practiced ease. As she leaned in to straighten the collar, her voice dropped to a whisper.
"I'll see your young lady friend out the back," she murmured, the corner of her mouth quirking. Then, as she drew back, she gave Lina a quick wink, conspiratorial, almost playful.
Lina's grin tugged sideways. She caught Elena's wrist lightly, just for a breath, her thumb brushing the girl's pulse. "What would I do without you?" she murmured, half-teasing, half-grateful.
Elena froze, color rising in her cheeks. But instead of ducking away, she lifted her chin, eyes steady. "With respect, miss, if you want me to keep my job, best not to test me like that."
For a beat the air hung taut between them. Then Lina let out a low laugh, releasing her hand. "Fair enough," she said, amused, though the glint in her eye lingered.
Lina paused before the mirror, studying the flush in her cheeks, the restless gleam in her eyes. Elena stepped close without a word, her fingers quick and precise as she gathered Lina's hair, tying it back so it framed her face with a sharper, more deliberate line.
When she finished, Elena reached to the side table and lifted the bottle Navarro had sent. She placed it in Lina's hand with quiet care, as though passing on more than glass.
Lina drew in a long breath, letting the weight of it anchor her. For a moment she stared at her reflection, hair tied neat, collar crisp, the bottle steady in her grip, then turned away. Her boots struck firm against the wooden floorboards as she made her way downstairs.
The sitting room below was already lit, shadows stretching across the tiled floor. Her father didn't often come here; he claimed the place always reeked of youth, too much smoke, gin, and perfume. He preferred the silence of their family estate, where dust and cedar had long ago settled into the walls.
She flexed her fingers around the wine bottle, steadying her grip until it no longer betrayed her pulse. The hair Elena had tied felt too tight, but maybe that was what she needed. A reminder to stand straighter, to look like the daughter of Enzo Marcelli instead of the girl who kept her nights full of strangers and gin.
The sitting room door waited ahead, its polished surface reflecting the hallway light. Lina drew in one more breath, then pushed it open
Her father was already there, waiting in the high-backed chair that dwarfed the small table before him. The years had carved lines deep into his face, but his presence filled the room as if he had brought Sector Nine itself with him.
Lina's voice came out quieter than she meant, but clear.
"Father."