Victor had checked in to oversee a big transaction with a rich client, anonymous but present for those who worked for him, in case anything went wrong. He never dealt drugs, but could get you just about anything else. Lingyi had told me Vic once got hold of a dozen sought-after purses before they were even set out for display in the Paris flagship’s storefront, causing an actual riot among the you girls and their moms.

Aircars and -peds glided overhead, disappearing into Rockaroke’s private garage for yous twenty floors above us. They never needed to set foot on a filthy sidewalk if they didn’t want to, could avoid the sickness and poverty that we meis lived with every day. I entered from the ground floor, adjusting my face mask and pulling my cap lower. I had already memorized the entire lobby from scoping the place virtually on the undernet.

The opaque glass doors closed behind me, and it was like stepping into another world. The air cooled, and the loud noise and honking from the city streets were replaced with the soft notes of Mozart being played on a grand piano in the middle of the foyer. I breathed the clean, regulated air and walked across the plush carpet toward the elevators. Gigantic chandeliers hung from the magnificent arched ceiling, casting a soft, muted glow on everything below. There were more solicitous attendants—young women and men dressed in brocade jackets—than there were clients.

Rockaroke prided itself on its impeccable service. The establishment reeked of money and class. A pretty veneer for all the depraved indulgences that took place in the private suites above.

Even as I quickened my step, a young woman approached me, trailed by a silver barbot floating behind her shoulder. Her pale pink lips pulled back to reveal perfectly white teeth. None of the attendants were you, but Rockaroke hired only the most attractive meis—attendants who were willing to use their pay to make themselves even more beautiful. Saving up for an ass injection here, pec implants there. Lingyi told us how she had met one beautiful woman who worked as a Rockaroke attendant, and said she was altering her face, one feature at a time, to look more like Mingmei, the hottest singer in Taiwan. It guaranteed higher tips, she had divulged to Lingyi with a bright smile.

“Can I help you, sir?” The attendant inclined her head.

“I’m meeting someone,” I said in a brusque tone. “I’ve got the access codes.”

“Can I offer you a complimentary beverage, sir?”

The barbot whirred behind her, its blue buttons flashing as if eager to serve.

“I’d kill for a cold beer,” I said.

Her lips pursed for a moment. “I apologize, sir. My barbot only provides wines. But I could call my colleague over—”