Upstairs was the VIP floor of Clouds.
Everyone up there — Dolls, attendants, even the security — carried themselves like they belonged to a different caste than the people downstairs.
At the stairwell, a guard was hurriedly explaining, "It's like this — this gentleman insists on going up, but his name isn't on the system's VIP list."
The man on duty turned to the would-be troublemaker, voice calm but edged with warning, "Sir, I'm sure you're sober. If you want entertainment at Clouds, you follow our rules. Keep pushing and you'll make things difficult for all of us. If you refuse to leave, then you can take it up with the Tyger Claws who oversee this place."
The moment "Tyger Claws" was mentioned, the troublemaker's bravado deflated. He spat a few curses and backed off.
Vash watched the whole exchange from the side.
VIP access required VIP credentials. He could have carved a path upward with his Mantis Blades, but subtlety was worth more than speed right now.
He tailed the man who had come down from the second floor into the restroom. The instant the man finished and started pulling up his pants, Vash slipped in behind him, clamped a hand on the back of his neck, and applied just enough pressure.
Crack!
The cervical vertebrae snapped cleanly.
Vash dragged the body into a stall, patted down the pockets, and produced a pink VIP access card.
Back in the corridor, he approached the stairs, flashed the card to the guard, and went up without another word.
The second floor opened into a line of private VIP booths. The difference in atmosphere was immediate — richer lighting, better sound insulation, cleaner air, the kind of polish that screamed eddies.
Vash headed straight for Booth 2.
A man lounged on a round bed inside. He looked up, brow creasing, "Sorry, I don't think you're the guest I'm waiting for. Wrong booth?"
"I'm here for you." Vash snapped his fingers. The music died mid-beat and the ambient neon dimmed into darkness, "I'm looking for Evelyn Parker. I heard you were close. Where is she?"
He let Skippy's profile and interface glow just enough to make the point.
The man — Tom — didn't panic, but grief flickered in his eyes, "Evelyn… She had an accident a few days ago, while servicing a client. We were like family here. It — " His voice tightened, "It's been rough."
Skippy's mode indicator flipped — Stone Cold Killer.
Vash's tone didn't change, "Save the sob story. Where is Evelyn Parker?"
Tom straightened, the last of the performance peeling away, "I really don't know. You need to ask our floor manager — Woodman. He's the one who handles the Dolls."
Vash holstered the gun, "Then forget you saw me. And I was never here."
He left the booth and moved down the corridor, eyes scanning exits, cameras, blind angles.
In the game, Evelyn's "accident" had come out of nowhere mid-session. Vash understood the play: high-end Dolls pulled in enough to maintain top-tier cyberware. A random hardware short was laughable.
Someone had flatlined her systems remotely.
That meant the culprit was either a netrunner — or someone with access close enough to make the call.
Ambition was a dangerous addiction. Evelyn had always been too bold for her own good.
Booth 11 — the room she'd used — was empty now. Recording equipment sat neatly arranged around the bed: premium braindance gear for VIPs who wanted souvenirs of their "experience".
Vash ran his fingers over the interface, cracked the local security in seconds, and pulled up the footage from that day.
To be fair, Evelyn's skill set had earned its reputation.
The braindance rolled toward the midpoint of the session — then the moment hit. Evelyn's body seized. She collapsed, writhing, eyes going glassy. A few seconds later staff rushed in, not with concern but with routine efficiency, and dragged her out like damaged merchandise.
The recording ended.
Vash stepped into the hallway again and followed the back corridor until he found the manager's office.
The door was slightly ajar. Through the gap he saw a burly man in a chair, chewing a hamburger with one hand while watching Clouds' surveillance feeds with the other.
Vash pushed the door open, entered, and shut it behind him.
"Sir, you're lost." The man said without turning, "This isn't the place for you."
"I don't think I'm the one who's lost." Vash's voice was flat, "I'm looking for Evelyn Parker."
"Never heard of her." Oswald "Woodman" Forrest replied, "Clouds has the finest Dolls and top-shelf braindances. If you're here to spend, I can set you up with something premium — real peachy ass, too."
Vash raised Skippy and fired.
Bang!
The bullet shattered the massive surveillance screen. The display went black in an instant, sparking with tiny arcs of electricity.
Vash lowered the barrel a fraction, "Now we can talk."
"It's been a long time since anyone had the balls to start trouble at Clouds." Woodman stopped chewing. He set the hamburger down with slow deliberation.
Then he stood.
The man was built like a slab of reinforced plating — an iron tower in a suit that barely contained the muscle underneath.
Woodman finally turned his head, "Hmm? You are…?"
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T/N: Comment, give me Power Stones, like and favorite, it all supports me and makes me go foward with this. Appreciate my other stories as well, I guarantee the good work!
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