For the first time in months, Max allowed himself to breathe.
He stripped off his damp synth-weave jacket and tossed it aside, padding barefoot across the soft, temperature-adjusting flooring. The air was perfectly calibrated — cool enough to cut through the humid city haze, warm enough to make the storm outside feel like a distant memory.
He passed through the kitchen — if it could be called that — where the counters were lined with chromed smart-surfaces that shimmered at his touch. With a flick of his wrist, a console rose from the marble, lighting up in sleek blue arcs. Nutrient data. Drink selection. Ambient sound controls. Everything perfectly optimized for the modern corpo who didn't actually live — just existed comfortably.
"Mary," he said, smirking faintly as he poured himself a glass of synth-whiskey from the minibar, "remind me to install something stronger than 'corporate leisure mode' in this thing."
"Already rewriting the audio profiles," she replied. "Would you like the setting labeled Brooding Antihero in the Rain?"
He chuckled under his breath. "Tempting. Maybe after dinner."
He wandered into the living area, sinking into the couch that practically molded itself around him. The material adjusted to his frame, the lights dimmed automatically, and the massive panoramic window adjusted tint to a softer hue — the world outside becoming a watercolor of chrome and neon.
For a man who had spent the last few months living out of safehouses, dead zones, and abandoned factories, it was almost absurd.
He took a sip of the whiskey — smooth, slightly synthetic, but warm all the same — and leaned back. "You know, Mary," he murmured, "if this is what the enemy's been fighting to protect, I kind of get it."
"I'd say you've earned a few creature comforts," she replied. "You've spent enough nights hiding under gunfire."
"Mm," he hummed, his eyes half-lidded as the city reflected across the glass. "Still feels weird. All this… peace."
"Enjoy the illusion," she said softly. "It won't last."
He smiled faintly. "It never does."
Time passed strangely in the quiet.
He explored the suite with a kind of idle curiosity — opening drawers, scanning the wardrobe filled with tailored corpo suits (Mary had already replaced the biometric locks with his profile), testing the AI shower system that adjusted temperature based on heart rate and body stress. He stepped inside, the water cascading over him in a silken, perfect rhythm — heat loosening muscles he hadn't realized were tight.
The room filled with steam, faintly scented with synthetic cedar and ozone.
For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of water and his breathing — slow, even, unguarded.
When he stepped out, the mirror automatically cleared a circle for his reflection. The man staring back at him wasn't the street ghost or the hunted weapon. He looked… ordinary.
Clean.
Almost like he belonged here.
"Don't get comfortable," he muttered to himself, toweling his hair dry.
"Too late," Mary teased in his ear. "I've already synced the suite's climate and utilities to your vitals. You're literally part of the luxury package now."
He laughed quietly, slipping into one of the silk robes hanging in the closet. "Guess I'm living the dream."
"Temporarily," she corrected.
He walked back toward the main window, barefoot, robe swaying faintly as he stood before the skyline once more. The storm had faded to a drizzle, the city lights sharp and endless. Somewhere far below, a gunfight probably echoed through the alleys — but up here, it was just rain and silence.
Max sipped from his glass again, voice low. "You know what's funny, Mary?"
"What's that?"
"People spend their whole lives killing themselves for a view like this."
"And?"
He smirked faintly. "It's not even real. Just another simulation with better lighting."
He stood there a while longer, the rain painting ghostly trails down the glass — a specter wrapped in comfort he didn't trust.
Eventually, he turned away, let the city fade behind him, and collapsed into the bed — memory foam that swallowed his exhaustion like it had been waiting for him.
"Goodnight, Mary," he murmured.
"Goodnight, Max."
Outside, thunder rolled softly through the towers.
Inside, the ghost of a killer slept like a king.
Morning came slow — filtered through tinted glass and pale, artificial sunlight. The suite's environmental system adjusted automatically, flooding the room with a warm gold hue that mimicked dawn, though the real sun was still buried somewhere beneath layers of smog and cloud.
Max stirred. The bed felt impossibly soft beneath him — almost too soft, like it was trying to erase the memory of every cold floor he'd ever slept on. For a few seconds, he didn't move. Just listened. The distant hum of the city below. The faint whir of the ventilation system. The quiet pulse of something alive in the walls — data, electricity, the heart of a building that cost more than most people would earn in a lifetime.
"Morning, Max," Mary's voice chimed softly through the suite's audio grid. "You slept for seven hours, twenty-three minutes. Record-breaking performance."
He grunted, rubbing his face. "Feels like a hangover."
"You're not used to sleeping somewhere that doesn't have an exit strategy," she said dryly. "Your cortisol levels dropped thirty percent overnight. Not bad for a man with a bounty the size of a small country's GDP."
He smirked faintly, sitting up and stretching, muscles popping. "Guess comfort's a hell of a drug."
"Addictive, too," she replied.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding toward the kitchen again. The lighting followed him automatically — cool blue tones fading into crisp white. On the counter, the minibar had refreshed itself overnight, restocking synth-coffee pods and protein sachets like a dutiful servant.
"Mary, pull up city feeds," he said as he poured the coffee. "Any new movement from Militech?"
"Minimal," she replied. "Search teams have been recalled from the docks. One drone unit still scanning the Northside ruins, but no active trace searches matching your signature. Looks like they're shifting priorities."
"Good," he muttered, sipping the steaming drink. It tasted metallic, synthetic — but it was hot, and it was enough. "Let them think I'm gone."
***
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