The yous danced with fervor, arms thrust into the air, some thrashing their heads, brightly colored hair whipping. The majority gyrated their hips as if in an aggressive mating ritual. The young women danced in groups or with each other, but some were partnered with young men, who were more than willing to keep up, hands gripping the women’s waists—or lower. They bared as much skin as the women, many with glowing semipermanent tattoo sleeves, and others with designs across lean, chiseled pecs.

The regulated air was cool, but not cool enough to dissipate the human sweat and heat that rose from the crush of bodies on the massive dance floor. Silver barbots whizzed along its periphery overhead. A wave of the hand brought them hovering over a guest, who could order or take their drinks and never miss a beat of dancing.

I was overdressed for my first official party as Jason Zhou. With Victor’s guidance over Vox, I put on slim-fitting dark gray wool trousers, a periwinkle dress shirt (I had made the mistake of calling it “blue” and got corrected by Victor very quickly), and a light gray vest that gave a silver sheen. I was overdressed not for the style we chose, but because I simply wasn’t showing enough skin. Victor had insisted I wear a thick, square palladium cuff on my wrist with a matching square ring on my opposite hand.

“You have to wear some kind of accessories as a you boy,” Victor had said, instructing me to fold my sleeve edges back so I looked more casual. “Besides, it’ll show off your manicure.”

I had laughed.

I searched the crowds again for Daiyu. For a moment, I thought I glimpsed a girl on the far side of the room, across the large dance floor, with Daiyu’s height and graceful movements. She was speaking to a redhead, leaning toward her friend, so I could only see a quarter profile. Pushing past the dancers and guests holding sparkling drinks in glowing glasses, I made my way toward the figure but was not halfway through the grand room before she disappeared, too. It was too crowded for me to follow her movements.

Damn.

After another fifteen minutes nursing a glass of pink champagne, I got tired of standing on the sidelines. I had received curious looks all evening, but no one had yet introduced themselves. Since moving into the 101, I had joined in on a few conversations over the com sys, but found the response polite and guarded. Most of the you kids had grown up together and had known each other all their lives, and I was an obvious outsider. I suddenly thought of Tom Ripley from one of my favorite novels, and how he wholeheartedly took possession of a lifestyle and wealth that were never meant to be his. He believed it as he lived it.