The apartment is bigger than Tilda’s ever was—Gods, there’s a thought I do not need right now—but it’s all surface. Long windows. Gloss walls. Good view of the mid-tier transit veins. The illusion of success laid over cash-flow rot. Every object in here was bought by a version of me who assumed there would always be another crowd, another show, another night where the room would open for me like a flower.
I bark a laugh at myself. “You absolute idiot.”
The laugh doesn’t stick. It falls flat against the walls.
I stand, step over the curtains, and start rummaging anyway. Cabinets. Cases. Jacket pockets. Old instrument bags. I find credits here and there, enough for a meal, a cab, a hangover cure. Not enough for Mysk. Not enough for anything.
The smell of dust rises from the cabinets. My fingers come away gray. There’s a half-eaten protein bar in one drawer that has become geological. I throw it out. I find a stage pass fromtwo years ago and sit on the edge of the bed staring at it longer than I mean to.
I was good.
No, that’s not right.
Iamgood.
But good and solvent have never been faithful companions.
My gaze snags on myself in the mirrored closet panel. Barefoot. Hair wrecked. tattooed shoulders tense and shining faintly with sweat. Eyes bloodshot. Too much man in too little room, and somehow still not enough to hold his own life together.
“Pathetic,” I tell the reflection.
It doesn’t argue.
I toss the pass aside and head back into the living room, because if I’m going to drown, I may as well do it with noise. I slap the wall screen on. Static flares, then a midday stream of ads, commentary, market updates, celebrity scandals, and one panel discussion about whether cybernetic tails are back in fashion or a sign of spiritual decline.
I’m halfway through ignoring all of it when the audio spikes.
Triumphant music.
A blaze of silver graphics.
A voice like somebody poured sugar over a grenade:
“Citizens of the galaxy, do you have grit, guts, and a concerning disregard for personal comfort?”
I stop.
The screen erupts into spectacle.
Contestants sprint through fire-lit obstacle tunnels on some jungle world. A woman swings over acid fog with a laugh in her throat. A four-armed Khepri veteran lifts a wrecked engine block while a crowd screams. Then a wide shot: stadium lights, banners, impossible terrain modules unfolding beneath a roaring sky.
GALACTIC EXTREME CHALLENGEblazes across the screen.
The host—Captain Photonic himself, teeth bright enough to signal aircraft—throws both arms wide. “This season’s prize purse is the largest in Challenge history!”
Numbers explode onto the display.
My whole body goes still.
That is a lot of money.
That isexactlythe kind of money that turns curtains back into decor.
The ad keeps going. Sponsors. Rankings. Triumph packages. Human-interest clips. Contestants grimacing nobly into the middle distance while inspirational drums try to bully the audience into feeling destiny.
I step closer to the screen.
“Ordinary people,” the host declares, “pushed beyond their limits for glory, fortune, and galactic fame!”
