Raising his charcoal hoodie over his head, Garrett puts his aviator-style goggles in place and heads to the Bubble Car depot. I hurry to keep up with him, certain everyone is staring. He quickly opens a car door and gestures me inside. Our first order of business is to connect with our contact.

“Tell me what to expect when I meet Faye,” I say once we’re safely tucked away and he’s entered our destination in the Marina. “You don’t have to tell me what happened last year, just tell me what she’s like.”

He thinks as the car merges with the traffic flowing through Union Square. “She’s smart,” he says. “A chameleon. She’ll change her personality to fit in anywhere, so in some ways I don’t know the real her. She keeps her truth close to her chest. But I do know this: she’ll do anything to get what she wants. She’s not afraid to make a fool of herself to make you smile—or to manipulate a situation—but mostly, she’s just trying to make you smile.”

Pondering his description, I gaze out the window at the crowds walking past glittering screens that line the buildings, displaying content curated specifically for them. Many of their faces are bare, freely exposed to the recognition cameras, though some wear artfully applied makeup and beads, in keeping with the current fashion. Those who wear masks like mine are few and far between. They walk with their heads lowered in isolation, the crowd giving them a wide berth. Silently, I brace myself for the stares we’ll receive when we exit our car.

“Do you still talk to her?” I ask.

“Not really. She’s in the field, so she isn’t supposed to have contact with anyone at Keystone. It’s too risky. But even though we haven’t talked, I know we’re still close. Partners tend to have lasting relationships.”

Returning my attention to him, I frown. “Does that mean I’m stuck with you forever?”

He grins. “Yep.”

“Lucky me.” My stomach twists, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m oddly relieved to know he’ll be in my life beyond the heist or if I’m terrified of arriving at our destination. Resisting the urge to rub my eyes—they’re already aching from the AMPs—I blink. The car turns down a side street, and I’m blindsided by a row of screens outside, all displaying shirtless guys swiveling their hips. I snap to Garrett.

He can barely contain his smile.

“You.” I point a finger at him. “What did you put in my bio? Why am I seeing this?”

“Seeing what?” His eyes widen, feigning innocence.

“These guys! What are you seeing?” I swipe at the air, navigating my AMP screen, hunting for the “preferences” tab.