A filthy pigeon flew by, and I felt the flap of its wings. My body seemed to vibrate, strung too tight. A maniacal chuckle escaped my mouth, irritating my dry, swollen throat, and in that instant, the glass panel opened behind me, releasing a whoosh of cool, clean air. Victor threw his arm around my waist and dragged me backward. I fell in a heap, boneless, to the carpeted floor. The panel closed, shutting the noise and heat out once more.

“You all right, kid?” Vic was kneeling beside me, a hand on my shoulder.

I laughed, my body shaking. He was six months older than me but used it to his advantage, asserting his seniority at every turn, like some pain-in-the-ass big bro. I loved that about him. As well put together as he was, Vic knew what it was like to be an underdog, an outsider. He was a self-made success, and he had clawed his way to the top. My laugh turned into a rasping cough. “A drink?” I asked between breaths. But it was like he didn’t hear me. I rose unsteadily and grumbled at the barbot; it floated over, giving me an ice-cold bottle of beer. I drank half of it in two long gulps, savoring the sensation of the liquid sliding down my throat. My scalp tingled.

Victor was still kneeling on one knee, his tanned face pale. “What happened?” I’d never seen him so obviously scared before, and it was weirding me out. “Did they rough you up?”

He glanced over after a long moment. “No.” Vic straightened, so out of sorts he didn’t smooth his hair, didn’t adjust his expensive cuff links. “We had a lot of fun drinking and playing with the sim suits. I charmed them. They loved me.”

I shrugged. It was what Victor did; he rolled high in charisma. “Great. The better to get info from them.”

Victor’s expression darkened. “They were out for blood—and Rockaroke actually gave them access to do this, go from suite to suite. It’s unheard-of.”

“What’d they say?” I leaned against the back of the sofa, still feeling unsteady on my feet.

“All they had was that bad image of you. Made up some story that you were a murderer—some sick sociopath.”

I snorted.

Victor scrolled through his Palm. “The leader gave me his contact info. Said his boss wanted to bring you ‘to justice.’ That’s thug-speak for ‘dead.’ ”

I shook myself, trying to get rid of the queasy feeling in my stomach. “Great,” I said and rolled over the back of the sofa to slide down onto its thick cushions. I stared at the wall screen. “What in all hells . . . ?”