The lounge lingers in your mind long after you leave, a chrome-drenched sanctuary of whispered promises and impossible ambition. The scent of high-grade synth-ink and ozone clings to your jacket. Somewhere behind that silver smile of his was a hunger deeper than cybernetic faith: a plan.
And now you're part of it.
As the doors hiss shut behind you, you descend from the his skyline refuge into the bowels of the city, the Midway Transit hub, where the executive monorails snake like steel veins toward the upper echelons of wealth. You've got a ticket - preloaded on your cred-chip, courtesy of Lucius; and of course a name: Maxim Cutter, the corporate monarch responsible for the system that left your family buried in debt.
The ride is quiet. The car is nearly empty, of no surprise to you. Only the obscenely privileged ride this far up, and you're not yet one of them. Outside the windows, the vertical sprawl turns into gleaming arcologies, and the smog thins into crystalline air. For the first time in weeks, you can see the stars - filtered through atmospheric shields, but stars nonetheless.
Lucius had made the call himself, you're sure of it. Cutter only entertains people when there's something to be gained, and Lucius practically oozed calculation when he offered to set up a meeting. A favor wrapped in silver wire, no doubt.
The train docks in Sector V, deep within the CutterSpire, Maxim's section of the arcology. It's less a building and more of a vertical city - shimmering steel, black-glass walls, and enough surveillance to suffocate a planet.
As you step out, the air hums with electric security fields. Synthetics with Cutter's emblem - the golden gear and eye - line the marble lobby. Everything here is curated for intimidation; luxury weaponized. A voice crackles through your commlink. Not synthetic: but familiar.
"Your appointment has been confirmed. Mr. Cutter is expecting you. Top floor. Suite Aurelius."
No pleasantries. No delays.
The elevator is swift and silent, its interior lined with gold-lit ad screens. Cutter's face is on nearly all of them - giving speeches, touring factories, shaking hands with political corpses. Every flickering smile, a lie you've grown up with. And somewhere inside that penthouse fortress, is the man who monetized your mother's death. You exhale slowly as the floor number climbs. You're not here for revenge. Not yet. You're here for clarity. For options. Maybe even for leverage. The elevator comes to a stop.
And the world, once again, shifts.
The elevator doors open with a hushed sigh. Seamless, silent. Its if the building itself had been designed to never raise its voice. Ahead, a hallway of polished obsidian stretches before you like a throat lined with gold. Every surface gleams, every corner, immaculate, and yet the entire space radiates something clinical... and inhuman. You take a single step forward and immediately hear it: the subtle hiss of compressed air.
Two Omega-class security drones glide out from hidden alcoves along the wall. Matte black, humanoid in frame but eyeless - smooth-faced masks with faint golden lines pulsing across their "cheeks" like bloodless veins. No weapons visible, but you know better. These aren't enforcement units. They're deterrents. And yet you feel their gaze on you, calculating, recording.
"Welcome, honored guest," one of them says in a crisp, slender voice. "Follow us."
You fall in step as they pivot in perfect unison and begin their silent escort down the corridor. As you walk, it becomes clear: this isn't a hallway, but a procession. Massive glass panels reveal carefully curated vistas: Cutter Industries' vertical gardens, a panoramic view of the city skyline below, a memorial wall inscribed with names you suspect were bought, not earned. Everything is a symbol, a message: We built this. You only live in it.
Your footfalls echo faintly against the marble flooring. No music, no idle chatter - just the low ambient hum of cooling systems and wealth. You reach a pair of monolithic doors, five meters tall, gold-trimmed and engraved with the Cutter Industries insignia: the all-seeing eye within a gear.
One drone lifts a hand. The doors part soundlessly. The office beyond is nothing like the hallway. It is vast, cathedral-like in its scale...yet warm in tone. Dark wood finishes, moody lighting, and an enormous curved window that showcases the endless sprawl of the city below like a trophy. A desk made of black crystal sits at the far end, and behind it, in silhouette, stands the man himself.
Maxim Cutter.
Impeccably dressed. Broad shoulders. Cybernetic eyes that glow faintly as they fix on you. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. Just enough to seem welcoming, but never enough to be sincere.
"Punctuality. A rare virtue these days." He turns, studying you with cold precision. "Good. I value those who respect time. Time, after all... is money." "Come. Sit." He turns slightly to acknowledge the sentries, offering a subtle nod. With that, they are dismissed.
You find the nearest seat, cautiously sitting without breaking your gaze. "So you're Maxim Cutter. CEO of Cutter Industries."
A crooked half-smile tugged at his lips, the kind that knew more than it let on. "A title among many. Builder. Investor. Savior, if you listen to the right people." He sits near you, fingers laced neatly. "But titles don't matter. Results do."
Your expression tightens, you can feel the storm forming behind your eyes. "Is that what you have in mind for Sovereign City? Results? Is that all we are to you, just performance indicators and debt management? What does that mean for people like me in the end?"
"My resolution is the same from start to finish - to impose order upon a dying world. And to ensure that those with vision, those... willing to build - yes, even people like yourself; inherit the rewards they deserve." Still resolute in his energy, He taps the table, bringing up a holographic projection of corporate skyscrapers growing over crumbling slums. "Chaos has no profit margin. Desperation bleeds value. I possess the means to end both."
Your brow continues to pinch. "You're planning to run...everything? The world? Like a corporation?"
Laughter bubbled up from Cutter - too sharp, too sudden - as if it had clawed its way out instead of rising naturally. "Better than leaving it to dreamers and criminals, don't you think! Every system needs a CEO. Every machine needs an operator. And this planet, my friend... is badly mismanaged."
With every answer, you find yourself becoming less nervous. You lean forward, curiosity coiled in your posture like a spring waiting to unwind. "That's a pretty big job, and you sound pretty confident. Where does that come from?"
Cutter leans back, folding his arms. "Experience." A shadow crosses his face. "I started with a salvage yard on the ruins of the old free zones. Scrap turned to weapons. Weapons turned to cities. Cities turned to fiefdoms of productivity." His mouth continues to hold his now-signature smirk, like the punchline of a joke he wasn't finished telling. "I found the only law that matters in the end - control the flow of wealth, and you control the future."
"And what is it you need from me? Besides, you know, desperation and vulnerability."
Cutter's voice begins to tighten. "Solutions. Quick ones." He begins counting off on his fingers. "Disloyal executives replaced. Sensitive acquisitions secured. Competitors... persuaded to see reason." He pours two glasses of fine liquor, offering one to you. "You help me strengthen the right channels of influence... and you'll have a place at the top when the dividends come due."
Sor far, you've dissected each word with surgical intent, trying to find his game. "I can't imagine that the knees simply bend. You're not the only corporate mogul vying for power in this city. Do you expect a lot of resistance?"
He takes a slow sip of his drink. "There are always parasites clinging to the old world. They will squeal when their privileges dry up. But wealth... real wealth... waits for those who seize the moment before others know the game has changed. Which is exactly why I brought you here..."
"Let's talk numbers," he says, gesturing with a flick of his augmented hand.
A projection lights up between you, golden light resolving into the digits of your debt. Your mother's debt, now legally yours. An obscene figure. More than you'd earn in five lifetimes on your current wage tier.
You couldn't hide your grimace, but you refuse to let him feel as though you are at his mercy, like a candle's flame that does not flinch from the dark.
He watches you carefully, eyes gleaming beneath chromed eyelids. "I won't insult you with lectures about financial responsibility. We both know how the system works. Your mother made a choice. A necessary one. But CutterCare doesn't run on sentiment."
You lean forward, the discomfort of the conversation pressing into your chest like a weight. "She was a teacher. Sovereign! She gave everything to-"
"To a world that didn't pay her back," Maxim interrupted smoothly. "I respect that. Truly. But nobility doesn't settle accounts."
He leans back, casual, letting the silence draw out before continuing.
"What I'm offering is leverage. Gold-tier credit Dyns. Yours, if you work with me."
Your breath catches. A Gold Dyn. These aren't just currency, but power, tiered and coded into every layer of society. Dynamic Equity Notes - Dyn for short - and these cards come in four forms; each one a rung on a ladder most people never climb. Grey Dyns are the baseline. Issued to workers, debt-survivors, the disposable class. The money on these cards degrade if left unused, automatically siphoned for rent, food, corporate "wellness" fees. Survival, on a timer.
Blue Dyns are a step above. Better buying power, slightly more freedom. But still volatile - tied to performance reviews, social ratings, and biometric stability. The obedient flourish. Briefly.
Gold Dyns are executive-level. Stable. Tax-shielded. Money that has its own equity. Owning one means you're not just surviving - you're invested in the system itself.
And then... there are Black Dyns.
So rare most people think they're a myth. Owned by megacorp CEOs and high-ranking board members. They don't just buy - they reshape economies. With a single transaction, they can crash markets, freeze assets, or rewrite supply chains. A Black Dyn doesn't enter a room. It clears one.
Two steps beyond the dull gray stubs that defined your entire life. You'd seen gold Dyn once - used by someone to buy an entire synthetic drone on the spot like it was an afterthought.
"I'm not... augmented," you say quietly. "You could pick anyone else. Anyone with better qualifications."
He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that felt like a contract being drafted behind his eyes.
"That's why I want you." he said. "You're unaugmented. Untapped. Undocumented in all the right ways. You don't draw attention, and you're desperate enough to move when others freeze."
His words landed like a gauntlet on the table between you.
"I'm not asking for loyalty. Not yet. Just... correspondence. You can still pay your debt, and work with me at the same time." He stood, offering the Dyn between two fingers. It gleamed like it pulsed with your future. You stare at it, but shake your head.
"Id need to make arrangements first. And sleep on it."
"Of course," He replied, slipping the card back into the fold of his jacket. His eyes gleamed with amusement, mischief pooling like ink in the corners. "But understand this - I don't need you buried in debt to see your value. The system already ensures people like you will crawl. I'm giving you a chance to walk." You nod slowly, not willing to give him the satisfaction of a visible reaction.
"You'll hear from me."
As you step away from the desk, two security drones fall in line behind you, escorting you back toward the elevator. Maxim's voice follows, crisp and calm.
"Take the night. But don't take too long. The world doesn't wait for maybes."
The elevator doors close, sealing him away. You descend in silence, the city's artificial glow bleeding through the glass like the sun had forgotten how to rise on its own. Somewhere in that sprawl, your apartment waited - barely yours, barely livable, but still a home.
Tonight, the city was quiet.
But you could already feel the noise returning.