Victor’s sim girl-pony had morphed into a buxom, blue-eyed blonde with three pairs of gigantic breasts lining her torso. The fact that she remained upright defied gravity. Two curved horns protruded from her forehead, and her lower body was that of a white goat’s.

“Vic, I’m worried about you.”

He didn’t laugh, didn’t even crack a smile. He sat down beside me, crossing his long legs in front of him. “It’s Victor.”

“ ‘Victor’ makes you sound like a grandpa.”

“And ‘Vic’ makes me sound like a scrappy teenager.” He flicked something off the sleeve of his expensive shirt, then nodded toward the wall screen. “It served as a distraction. One of those goons wanted to try his hand at character creation. Let’s say the group lost its focus on the mission for a bit.”

I smirked, then, suddenly realizing, said, “You planned it. Showing that naked sim pony.”

“Of course.”

We sat for some time in silence, each watching the sim’s strange, goatish cavorting, her short tail wagging with enthusiasm. It was grotesque, yet hypnotic.

“They say money can’t buy you happiness,” Victor said, clicking the screen off. “But those you kids try hard. They spend and spend. Then when things aren’t enough, they plug into the sim world so they can create and be whatever they want.”

I flipped my butterfly knife out, turning the blade through its familiar rhythm. “As if being filthy rich weren’t enough.” My hand wasn’t quite steady yet.

“You don’t know how often a you kid has to be dragged off by ambulance because he’s been plugged in for too long,” Victor said. “A few have actually died. ‘Sim sickness,’ the medics call it.”

I shrugged, unsympathetic to their tragic ennui as meis died on the streets below their glittering high-rise worlds. Because what, they were bored? Because they couldn’t find meaning in their lives?

“So now what?” I asked.

He shook his head, looking tired and weary. “We have to call it off.” When he brought a tumbler of scotch to his lips, his hand shook hard enough for the ice to clink against the glass.

“What?” I stared at him, trying to process what he meant. Why he was suddenly so afraid.

“Me going in as a you,” Vic said. “I’m out.”

“We have to have someone on the inside. You’re the only one in the group who can—”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s call Lingyi,” he said. “She needs to know too.”

“If you’re pulling out, everyone needs to know.” I prompted my Vox to call the group, then cursed. I’d forgotten it was out of juice.

Victor took out his Palm. “I’ll call a group meeting—”

“Now,” I said and glared at him.

•  •  •

Lingyi swept in forty minutes later, shadowed by a silent Iris, and the suite filled with Lingyi’s vanilla scent.