As far as my date for tonight knows, my name is Willa Miniex, and I’m an art Influencer studying at Carnegie Mellon University. For the two weeks I’ve been casing the Andy Warhol Museum, I’ve fooled their facial recognition (FR) cameras into believing I’m her by wearing a black, flat top cap that was a parting gift from Professor Allard, my mentor at Keystone—the secret school where I’ve been learning to steal analog history for the last year. The hat’s visor is wired with tiny infrared LED lights that are invisible to the human eye. When they’re arranged to shine on my face correctly, they can trick FR technology into reading my features as someone else’s. But I can’t wear the hat tonight because the lights have been rearranged to make my face read as my date’s later on. And though I’ve managed to make myself look enough like the real Willa to deceive the human eye, I have no hope of tricking the artificially intelligent ones. Instead, I’m relying on Disconnect makeup to keep the cameras from placing me at all—or recognizing me as my true identity, Influencer Ella Karman.

I pucker my lips, forcing a flirtatious sparkle into my eyes, mimicking one of the real Willa’s favorite expressions from her Network feed that I’ve obsessed over.

“Hi. I’m Willa,” I say to her—my—reflection, willing her essence to shine out my pores. I’m Willa. My brain buys in, even if my heart scoffs.

Click.

I jerk my chin over my shoulder and scan the empty bathroom, holding my breath, waiting for clacking heels to signify someone is coming. But all is silent. I might be hearing things, but some deeper part of me knows I’m rightfully on edge. This night won’t go as planned.

They never do.

With a glance at my wrist screen, I note the time. 8:23. The clock starts now. I straighten my skimpy black dress, clenching my stomach muscles against the hollowness in my core. After confirming my infrared goggles, grappling hook, LED hat and scrambrella—an umbrella designed to scramble all tracking signals, rendering me virtually invisible—are safely tucked inside in my handbag, I drape the beaded strap across my body and head for the exit. My high-heeled boots echo across the cement floor and my head swims with the possibility my footsteps are loud enough to alert security to my presence.

I’m here to steal an audio cassette from one of Andy Warhol’s Time Capsules and if I get caught, it will not only mean the end of my career as a thief, but it could put me back on the grid—back in the public eye—and I’ll do anything to avoid returning to my old, apathetic Influencer life.