I plug a small dongle into the side of the holo-tab – a device a tech-savvy regular traded me for a month of lap dances. He called it a skeleton key, a custom script suite for slipping into poorly secured systems. I honestly barely know how to use it, but he assured me it could do "light magic on dumb terminals." I pray this system is dumb enough.
The screen floods with lines of code and menus I only half understand. I find the section for rent control – dozens of units listed with their rates. There's my unit: 805 – CURRENT RATE: 1200 creds – NEW RATE: 1464 creds. The numbers make me cringe. I navigate to the admin options, heart hammering at what I'm about to do. This is definitely illegal. Then again, so is pricing people into the gutter.
"Alright, Lyra," I mutter to myself, hands shaking but determined. "Let's see if you've learned anything."
I run the skeleton key program and it presents a simple prompt: ENTER COMMAND. I type in a command to override the rent increase on my unit, trying to mimic the style of the existing entries. A progress bar appears, inching forward as the program attempts to inject my fake data into the system. I swear I can hear the blood rushing in my ears from the adrenaline.
50%... 60%... 70%...
"Come on, come on," I whisper. The bar hesitates at 98% for what feels like an eternity. Just when I think I might actually pull this off, the screen flashes red.
ERROR: Unauthorized Access Detected.
"Shit!" I hiss, as the system boots me out abruptly. The resident portal locks itself down, and a new message pops up: Security Alert – your activity has been logged.
Panicked, I yank the dongle out and shut off the holo-tab, as if that can erase what I just did. My heart sinks. Not only did I fail to change anything, I may have just flagged myself to the building's watchdog AI. I half-expect security drones to bash down my door any second, but after a few minutes of me standing there in the dark silence, nothing happens. Maybe the system's bark is worse than its bite. Or maybe the hammer will come down tomorrow. I don't know.
My holo-tab's screen is black now, reflecting my distressed face faintly. I feel the anger deflating, leaving only exhaustion and that old companion, despair, creeping back in. I slide the tab aside and bury my face in my hands. "Stupid, stupid," I whisper. What was I thinking? I'm not some elite hacker. A child could probably outsmart me in cyberspace. Who am I to fight this machine?
A sob wracks my chest, and I clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle it. I won't let the building's mics hear me break. I won't.
After a minute, I drag myself up and sit on the edge of the bed again, staring at the blank wall. The red glow of the rent notice still lingers on the panel, like it's taunting me. Hot tears brim in my eyes despite my resolve. One manages to escape and trails down my cheek. I wipe it away angrily.
My gaze falls to the crumpled heap of my work clothes on the floor, the faint sparkle of discarded sequins catching the light. Is this it? I wonder. Is this all life is ever going to be – dancing for crumbs, coming home to bolts of bad news, and banging my head against digital walls that won't budge? The quiet dread I carry every day swells in the silence of my apartment, threatening to choke me.
But then I remember those words on the door. You don't own me. Whoever painted that, they meant it. They wanted someone like me to see it. Maybe they were a fool to believe it – or maybe a hero for trying. Either way, they left a mark, however small.
I stand up and grab a faded towel, angrily wiping at the running makeup I hadn't fully cleaned off earlier, scrubbing away the streak of black from under my eyes. Get it together. If I give up, they win. The landlords, the Gold Ties, the whole damn city – they win. And I'm not ready to hand them that victory, not yet.
Sure, I failed tonight. I stare at my holo-tab, now dark and silent on the desk. Tonight. But maybe next time I won't. I'm learning, bit by bit. Every small act of rebellion, even the failed ones, is practice for the real fight. I gently pick up the device and place it on the charging pad. The battery indicator blinks to life – at least something's gaining energy, even if I feel like I've got nothing left.
With a heavy sigh, I collapse onto my bed, not even bothering to get under the threadbare covers. I'm too drained. The ceiling has a brown water stain that I often stare at on sleepless nights; it greets me now like an old friend.
My mind drifts to Mace's concern, to Rhea's fury, to poor Jim, to the nameless graffiti rebel, to that faceless system that's tightening its grip on my throat. Pressure building from all sides, like I'm caught in a vise. A quiet dread indeed – the kind that doesn't explode all at once, just squeezes you a little harder every day.
I close my eyes. In the darkness behind my lids, neon ghosts dance: memories of the club, fragments of dreams, and somewhere, a faint spark of defiance refusing to die out. You don't own me, I think again, directing it at every force that has me shackled. Maybe if I think it enough, I'll start to believe it. Maybe if I say it enough, I'll find a way to make it true.
For now, I'll settle for surviving another night. Tomorrow is uncertain, but I'll face it when it comes.