I still can’t help fearing I’ll like the dreams so much that I become someone who can commit murder. Someone like Tila could be.

No. Don’t think about that. But that re-creation of a holographic Tila stabbing Vuk, wrenching the blade up into his heart, haunts me just the same.

The orderly puts on a mask. It’s just for show—for all of Zeal’s dangers, there’s no risk of infection, even in a shithole like Mirage. He plugs us into the slots on the wall, starts up the program.

“Ready?” Nazarin asks. Lying supine, his face doesn’t look so harsh. His features look almost tender.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.

The orderly has connected the wires on our Chairs, so that we’ll feed into Mia’s program when the drug hits us. Couples and such will do it sometimes, so that they can revel in the Zealscape together. The thought makes me sick. “Sweet dreams,” says the orderly.

I feel the prick of the syringe.

Then we’re gone.

11. Taema

ELEVEN

TAEMA

I don’t like the inside of Mia’s head.

Everything in the dream world has a soft quality of washed-out gray and muted reds, blues and browns. I’m standing outside a building, gazing up at its broken windows. It’s a scaled-down version of the tower complexes in San Francisco, all steel, concrete and glass, five stories tall instead of fifty. The sky is dark, the clouds bruised black, blue and purple. Warm wind blows my hair, and the air smells like a storm is about to break. I’m wearing the mini-dress I wore to Zenith, for some reason, and the straps of leather dig into my legs. I can see, hear and feel everything, but it’s dampened in the way of dreams.

“Nazarin?” I call out, but there’s no answer.

Up above, the angry, frozen sky rumbles. Rain begins to fall, and my dress is soaked, my hair plastered to my head. Like Tila on Thursday night. Shivering and alone, I go into the house. Mia will be inside. Some part of me feels it.

The lobby of the minuscule apartment complex is empty. Crumpled leaves on the ground crunch beneath my feet. I climb the stairs, following the vague prickle of intuition that leads me to the top floor.

I hear the screams first.

The door opens for me into a barren room as long as the building. The concrete floor is cracked, the paint on the walls peeling off in layers. Exposed wires hang from the ceiling, and a flickering overhead light casts a harsh light on the two figures before me.