The hospital waiting room smelled like disinfectant and fear.
Darren had been there for two hours, nursing a cup of terrible vending machine coffee and pretending to read news on his phone. In reality, he was watching the tags float above the scattered families, monitoring yield potentials like some kind of emotional day trader.
[WORRY: MODERATE] [$4.25] - Woman in scrubs, waiting for test results
[ANXIETY: LOW] [$2.10]- Elderly man with a walker
[FEAR: RISING] [$8.50]- Young couple holding hands too tightly
The yields were low grade but consistent. Hospitals were steady producers of negative emotions, a reliable harvest site for someone willing to sit in uncomfortable chairs and absorb the ambient misery.
Efficient but God, it was tedious.
Darren had already harvested six people today. Made $31.75 total. Below his daily target of $39.86 but close enough that one more good harvest would put him over, the problem was the emotional recovery time—each harvest left him numb for longer, like his conscience was building up a tolerance to its own suppression.
He was starting to wonder if this was sustainable when his vision flickered.
Not the usual Goldscript Protocol UI. Something new.
Golden script appeared in the center of his field of view, elegant and flowing, like someone had hired a calligrapher to design a notification system:
[THE GILDED PAGE: NEW MESSAGE]
Darren blinked. The text remained, glowing gently.
[FROM: BARTER_BROKER_01]
[SUBJECT: Your Unrefined Potential]
His finger wasn't anywhere near his phone, but somehow he knew he could "open" the message. Just by thinking about it, the Goldscript Protocol had been invasive before but this felt different, More sophisticated, like someone else was using the system to reach him.
He mentally selected the message.
[BODY:]
*Your transcriptions are artisanal. Wasteful. You're a craftsman working with stone tools while power machinery exists.*
*I've been watching your harvests. Respectable for an amateur. Embarrassing for someone with your analytical capabilities.*
*I can teach you efficiency. Scale. The difference between survival and success.*
The Gilded Cage. Tonight. 8 PM.
Come dressed as well as poverty allows.
—L.B.
The message faded, leaving Darren staring at a woman across the waiting room whose mother had just been wheeled past in a gurney. Her [PANIC] tag spiked to [$47.50], rich and ripe for harvesting.
He ignored it.
His hands were shaking.
Someone else knew, someone else could use the Goldscript Protocol or at least interface with it and they have been watching him.
"The Gilded Cage," Darren muttered, pulling out his phone. Actual phone this time, not the golden UI overlay. He opened Google with fingers that had gone numb for reasons that had nothing to do with emotional harvesting.
The first result was a Seattle Met article from three months ago: "Inside The Gilded Cage: The City's Most Exclusive Club You'll Never Get Into."
Darren skimmed the article, unmarked door in Capitol Hill. No sign. No website. Membership by invitation only and even Seattle's tech millionaires reportedly couldn't buy their way in, the interior photos showed art deco luxury that made his $300/week studio look like a cardboard box. Which, to be fair, wasn't far from the truth.
The article quoted the owner as saying the club was "for people who understand that the most valuable currency isn't money, it's influence."
Darren's stomach twisted.
He opened his contacts and dialed the number listed in the article, half expecting it to be disconnected or fake.
It rang once.
"The Gilded Cage." The voice was male, professionally neutral. "How may I direct your call?"
"I... I received an invitation?" Darren said. "For tonight at 8?"
A pause. Keyboard clicks.
"Name?"
"Darren Nova."
More clicks. Then: "Yes, Mr. Nova. You're on the list. The address is 1247 East Pike Street. There is no sign. Look for the gold door handle."
"Wait, I didn't—"
"Dress code is cocktail attire minimum. We'll see you at eight."
Click.
Darren stared at his phone.
Cocktail attire. He owned exactly one button down shirt that didn't have pit stains, and his only pair of dress pants were from a funeral three years ago. His "nice" shoes had a crack in the left sole that he'd covered with duct tape.
But someone—this L.B., whoever they were—knew about the Goldscript Protocol, knew how to use it. Might know how to make it actually profitable instead of just barely survivable.
The woman across the waiting room was crying now. Her [GRIEF] tag had climbed to [$89.25].
Darren stood, dumped his coffee in the trash, and left without harvesting. He had bigger problems than hitting his daily quota.
He needed to figure out what the hell to wear to a secret club for emotional vampires.
By 7:45 PM, Darren stood outside his apartment building in his "best" outfit: the button down shirt (wrinkled, but he'd tried to steam it with shower humidity), the funeral pants (slightly too short, but that was fashion now, right?), and dress shoes with fresh duct tape that he'd colored black with a Sharpie.
He looked like someone cosplaying as a functioning adult.
The bus ride to Capitol Hill took twenty minutes. Darren spent it watching tags float above his fellow passengers and trying not to think about what he was walking into.
[EXHAUSTION] [$3.25]
[LONELINESS] [$6.50]
[RESIGNATION] [$2.10]
So much ambient misery. So much untapped yield. The city was an emotional gold mine and he'd been panning for dust while someone else apparently operated an industrial excavator.
1247 East Pike Street was wedged between a vintage clothing store and a closed ramen shop. Darren walked past it twice before spotting what the voice on the phone had mentioned: a door handle, just a handle, gleaming gold against black painted wood, so subtle you'd miss it if you weren't looking.
No sign. No bouncer. Nothing to indicate this was anything other than a service entrance.
Darren checked his phone: 7:58 PM.
His reflection in a nearby window showed exactly what he'd feared: a broke twenty eight year old in cheap clothes, pretending to be someone worth inviting to exclusive clubs. The Goldscript Protocol's UI flickered at the edge of his vision but even it seemed muted here, like the building itself was dampening the signal.
He could leave, go back to his apartment. Keep harvesting hospital waiting rooms and coffee shop lines until he scraped together enough for rent. Safe, predictable, soul crushing poverty.
Or he could open the gold door and find out what "efficiency" looked like to someone who'd mastered the system he was barely surviving in.
"A mysterious invitation to a secret club," Darren muttered. "This is either the start of an adventure or a very elaborate human trafficking scheme. Fifty fifty."
[OBSERVATION: HUMOR AS DEFENSE MECHANISM]
[RECOMMENDATION: PROCEED]
"Oh, now you're giving me life advice?" Darren said to his UI. "Where were you when I was trying to steam this shirt?"
A couple walking past gave him a wide berth. Right, talking to invisible interfaces in public. Very stable behavior.
8:00 PM.
Darren Nova, fired software developer and professional emotional parasite, reached for the gold handle.
It was warm to the touch, almost body temperature and the door swung open silently to reveal a staircase descending into amber light.
No turning back now.
He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with a sound like a bank vault sealing.