Elsewhere beneath the glass canopy, Mikey drifted through the crowd, navigating clusters of laughing graduates and congratulatory hugs. His footsteps tapped softly against the marble floors as he scanned the venue, eyes eventually catching a familiar silhouette. Under a smaller canopy near the edge of the dome, Desmond stood in quiet conversation with Payne Morrison. Their voices were low, heads leaned in close. Something about the tension in their posture pulled Mikey's curiosity like gravity.
He glanced around, then slipped behind a nearby column, edging toward the canopy's back entrance. He pressed himself against the structure, listening. Desmond's voice came through first, sharp and incredulous.
"Are you serious, Payne?!"
There was a heavy pause.
"I know…I couldn't believe it either."
Mikey leaned in just a little more.
"Who is it? Who's the mole?"
"We don't know. Not yet. But our team's close. We think we've narrowed it down."
"How close?" Desmond's voice dropped, intense now.
Payne replied grimly. "Close enough to know it's someone in your division."
Silence. Then the sound of glass shattering against marble.
"Really? I've got one of those damn defectors in my division?" Desmond muttered, half to himself. "Dammit..."
Mikey winced at the sharp smash of the wine glass, then peeked around the edge of the canopy. He stepped forward.
"Whoa! You good, Dad?" he called out, feigning innocence with a half-laugh.
Desmond turned toward him, rubbing his temples like he'd been holding his breath. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about that, champ. Work stuff."
Mikey nodded slowly, his eyes flicking from his father to the Secretary of Defense. "Am I interrupting anything?"
Payne and Desmond exchanged a silent look. Then Payne gave a subtle shake of his head, signaling the conversation was over. "You're alright," Desmond said, exhaling. "We just wrapped up."
Mikey shifted his weight and looked directly at Payne.
"Actually… I was wondering if I could speak to you, sir."
Payne raised a brow and motioned him over. "Go ahead, son."
Mikey approached, hands tucked in his pockets, trying to keep his voice steady.
"I've been thinking. I need a letter of recommendation. I was gonna ask one of my teachers, but... well, you're here. And you're kind of a big deal. I figured, why not try?"
He gave an awkward laugh and scratched the back of his neck.
Payne looked at Desmond, who gave a subtle nod of approval.
"Well," Payne said after a beat, "I don't know you all that well. But given who your father is… I'll write you one."
Mikey blinked. Then gave the tiniest, victorious fist pump in the air.
Payne chuckled. "Ballsy enough to ask, too. That's a good trait. Persistence."
"Thank you, Mr. Morrison! I really appreciate it."
"Please," he said with a friendly smile. "Call me Payne."
"Thank you, Payne," Mikey corrected quickly. "I was freaking out earlier—deadline's tonight. So, thanks for taking this on such short notice."
Payne glanced at his watch, the soft light from the glass dome reflecting off its polished face.
"I've got a packed schedule today. Honestly, I've already overstayed my welcome here."
"So… when works for you?"
"Tomorrow," Payne said simply. "They'll accept it."
Mikey blinked. "But I thought—"
"They work for me," Payne interrupted with a small grin. "Trust me. It'll get through."
He reached out, resting a firm hand on Mikey's shoulder.
"Meet me at the Crying Wolf Lounge in Sector B. Seven sharp. We'll talk over dinner. Tell me a few things about yourself, I'll use it in the letter."
Mikey lit up.
"Sounds great. Sector B. Crying Wolf. Seven. Got it."
"Good man," Payne said with a nod. "See you tomorrow, bud."
As Mikey turned and walked away, still stunned by his own luck, he couldn't help but smile. Getting a rec from Payne Morrison? He could already see the doors opening. Back under the canopy, Payne turned slightly toward Desmond, his expression unreadable. Desmond didn't say a word.
Meanwhile, Mikey was finally leaving the venue.
The glass dome was far behind him now. Mikey took the E-train this time—no jumping out of windows, no Delivery-craft joyrides. Just the quiet hum of the commuter line as it snaked through the underbelly of the city, its sterile lighting flickering across metal walls. He stood near the back of the car, watching the blur of neon-blue infrastructure whip past the windows, his reflection staring back at him in faint, flickering double.
The car slowed with a hydraulic hiss. Mikey stepped off into the lift hub and made his way toward the entrance of his building. The complex towered like a blade of black glass over Sector C, its top floors disappearing into the haze of upper-atmosphere lights. Residents didn't walk in so much as arrive—via private pods or teleplatform—but Mikey preferred the old-fashioned way. Through the lobby, up the elevator, alone with his thoughts.The ride to the top took a full minute. Quiet music played in the background—something orchestral and vaguely military, a nod to the building's elite occupants. Mikey leaned against the back of the lift, eyes half-lidded, still reeling from the fact that he'd gotten Payne Morrison to say yes.
The doors finally opened to his penthouse. The place was massive—polished floors, soft ambient lighting, and a view that stretched for miles. But Mikey didn't linger. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his blazer, and collapsed backward into the bed, letting out a breath that seemed like it had been stuck in him since the ceremony. For a few long minutes, he just laid there, staring at the curved ceiling above. The quiet hum of air purifiers and the distant whoosh of skydrones outside his window were the only sounds. He rolled over, tapped the time on his interface: 7:04 PM.
The sun was starting to dip below the cityline, casting long golden streaks across the skyscrapers. That girl—Nadia—had mentioned a party. Some councilman's kid throwing an exclusive end-of-term bash. Mikey wasn't usually into those things. Too much pretense. Too many names he was supposed to remember and laugh at the right time for.
Still… she said she'd be there.
He sat up, rubbing his face. Then pulled open his closet, throwing on something sharp but casual: a dark zip-jacket, clean sneakers, a shirt that didn't look like he tried too hard but still made his arms look decent. Just as he tucked his necklace into his shirt and headed for the door, it slid open on its own—motion triggered from the hallway. His father stood there, arms crossed, still in his suit.
Desmond raised an eyebrow. "Where the hell you going?"
Mikey blinked, caught like a kid sneaking out. "Uh… somewhere fun."
Desmond tilted his head. "Fun, huh?" Mikey tried to step past him. "Just a party, it's not—"
His father squinted. "A girl?"
Mikey hesitated. "…Maybe."
Desmond let out a laugh—gruff and real. "Finally. My boy's seeing a girl. About damn time."
Mikey groaned, face going red as he tried to slip on past. "Yeah yeah, whatever—gotta go, bye!"
Desmond called out as the door slid shut behind him. "Don't be out too late! You still owe me dinner, kiddo"
"You'll get your food old man!" Mikey shouted back through the closing lift doors.
And then he was gone—descending fast, his heart thudding a little louder than he expected.