Three months bled by, each week a grueling cycle of Wong's greasy rage and the cold, silent transaction at the estate. She learned to anticipate the weight of his hand on her shoulder, the exact frequency of the security drones that patrolled the Zone's perimeter. The rain turned to sleet, then back to a relentless, grey drizzle that soaked through her boots.
She became a fixture at the Bradford Estate. Tuesdays and Fridays. Like clockwork.
The routine was always the same. The gate opened. She drove up. She entered the foyer. She left the food. She took the envelope. She left.
The envelope always contained cash. Sometimes five hundred. Sometimes a thousand. It was piling up under the loose floorboard in her apartment. She used it to upgrade her gear.
The five-hundred-dollar tips weren't spent on rent. They were bartered in back alleys for scavenged parts-a lens from a smashed traffic cam, a circuit board from a discarded child's toy. It took her three nights of painstaking work with a soldering iron she'd stolen from Wong's toolbox to assemble a micro-camera, smaller than a pinhead. It was a long shot. A house like that would have military-grade jammers. But it was the only shot she had. She spent another three nights sewing it into the top button of her delivery uniform.
On the twelfth delivery, something changed.
She walked into the foyer, shaking the rain from her jacket. The air was different. The sterile, antiseptic smell was gone, replaced by a heavy, cloying scent.
Lilies.
A massive vase of white lilies sat on the black table, exactly where she usually stood.
She froze. In her culture, in this city, lilies were for funerals. They were the flowers of death. Was this a message? Did he know?
She stepped forward, her heart thumping against her ribs. She placed the food down, lingering for three extra seconds. She turned her chest toward the staircase, aiming the button camera at the shadows of the mezzanine.
Movement.
Not a machine this time. A man.
She caught a glimpse of a dark silk robe, the flash of a bare foot retreating into the darkness. He was getting closer. He was escalating.
She turned and walked out, forcing herself not to run.
Back at her apartment-a moldy shoebox that smelled of damp drywall-she hooked the camera up to her laptop. Her hands shook as she initiated the download.
File Corrupted.
The screen was nothing but grey static.
"Dammit!" She slammed her fist on the desk. Signal jammers. The house was a black hole for data. Tech wasn't going to work.
She needed human intel. She needed to breach the perimeter.
The next night at the restaurant, the atmosphere was tense. Uncle Wong was counting the till, his face sour.
"You make good tips, Maya," he grunted, eyeing her. "Maybe I pay you too much. Maybe I cut wage."
She gritted her teeth. "Whatever you say, Uncle."
She couldn't lose this job. It was her only access key.
Her burner phone pinged in her pocket. She pulled it out, shielding the screen.
It was a notification from the delivery app. A special instruction from the Estate.
Delivery inside. Kitchen.
Her breath hitched. This was it. The breach she wanted. But staring at the words, a cold dread settled in her stomach. It felt less like an opportunity and more like a summons to the gallows.
Penny grabbed her arm as she zipped up the thermal bag. Her grip was painful.
"Don't go inside, Em," she whispered, slipping and using Maya's real name before correcting herself. "Maya. Don't. Never go inside. That's the rule."
Maya gently removed Penny's hand. Penny's fingers were warm; Maya's were ice cold.
"It's a thousand dollars, Penny," she lied. "I have to."
She walked out to the scooter. The engine noise was familiar now, a comforting rattle.
The drive felt longer tonight. The fog was thicker, swirling around the streetlights like ghosts.
She arrived at the gates. They opened. She drove up the heated driveway.
The front door was already wide open. It gaped like a mouth in the concrete face of the house, waiting to swallow her whole.
