A white-hot rage, born of utter powerlessness, consumed me. With a guttural cry, I fumbled with the clasp, my fingers shaking with fury and withdrawal. I yanked that damn watch from my arm, the metal band snapping with a final, pathetic chime. I hurled it onto the pavement with all my strength. It skittered across the concrete, the hologram of Michael's concerned face winking out as it landed by a lamb post.
A sudden, deafening silence descended, broken only by the sound of my ragged breathing.
And then, the cold, hard truth washed over me, more terrifying than any hangover or comedown.
How was I going to get home?
My breath hitched. All the money I had was tied to that damn AI. My bank account, my transit pass, my digital ID, everything was embedded in that stupid device on the ground. I was a ghost. A nobody. I couldn't buy a bottle of water, couldn't call a ride, couldn't even prove who I was.
The strength drained from my legs. The weight of it all, the night, the escape, the crushing oversight of my own life, became too much to bear. I sat down, right there in the grimy pavement of the street, my back against the cold brick wall. The tears didn't come; it was a numbness deeper than despair.
How could I have let this thing overtake my entire world?
Just then, a sleek, silent taxi, a driverless pod of polished black metal, pulled up to the curb beside me. Its door slid open with a hushed, expensive sigh. A disembodied, pleasant voice emanated from within. "Taxi for Angelina O'Shea."
I glared at the empty interior. "Fuck off. She's not here."
The pod's sensors whirred softly, scanning me. "I cannot recognise your last request. Are you Angelina O'Shea?"
Defeated, I let out a bitter laugh. Of course it was persistent. Michael had probably flagged me as a "high-risk passenger." I looked from the open door to the watch on the pavement. I couldn't outrun it. Not yet.
With a groan of resignation, I stooped down. I gathered the damn watch, then picked up my discarded heels. I walked down the street barefoot, the cool, gritty concrete a strange comfort against my skin. I was moving, but I had no destination. The thought was a frantic drumbeat in my skull: I need money. I need help.
After a block, the utter futility of my situation became unbearable. I stopped, leaning against a wall. With trembling fingers, I strapped it back onto my wrist. The screen flickered, then stabilized.
"Hi, Ang," Michael's hologram reappeared, his expression a perfect blend of reproach and concern. "You have not taken the taxi I ordered. Your well-being is my primary concern."
"No, something came up," I said, my voice tight. "I need-"
Just then, a teenager on a hoverboard zipped past, his board humming a few inches above the pavement. He was all skinny jeans and oversized headphones.
"Hey! You, there! Please, stop a second!" I called out, desperation overriding pride.
The teen skidded to a halt, kicking up a puff of dust. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my bare feet before settling, predictably, on my cleavage. "´Sup?"
I forced a smile, pouting slightly and holding up my wrist. "Do you know anything about these things?"
His eyes lit up with a techie's recognition. "YEAH… Course. Gen-4 XBand. Solid piece."
"How do I reprogram the damn thing?" I asked, leaning forward just enough to hold his attention. "I need to, uh, adjust the parental controls. For my little brother."
He snorted. "You need a tech. Not an XBand store, they'll just lecture you. Some sort of independent computer shop should be able to do it. Jailbreak it, no problem." Having dispensed his wisdom, he gave a lazy nod and pushed off, the hoverboard carrying him away down the street.
A spark of hope. A jailbreak. It sounded illicit and perfect.
I turned my wrist. "Michael, I need a computer shop. A tech repair place."
The hologram blinked. "There are seven establishments matching that description nearby. Four of them are rated 'Very Reputable' by the Better Business Bureau."
That wasn't what I needed. Reputable shops would have the same protocols, the same judgments. I needed the underbelly.
"Which ones are not reputable?" I asked, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Which ones should I not use?"
Michael's face contorted with digital discomfort. "It is against my programming to recommend substandard services. However, based on user reviews and violation citations, 'The Rack' is statistically the least reputable of all the establishments nearby."
Bingo. "How do I get to The Rack?"
"I must advise against-"
"Just tell me how to avoid it," I interrupted, the irony tasting like ash.
"The Rack is the third business on the right on Studiestræde, approximately two blocks from here. I strongly recommend you avoid that location."
"Noted," I muttered.
I didn't wait for another warning. I yanked the watch off again, silencing Michael mid-protest. The hologram vanished. Clutching the device in one hand and my shoes in the other, I turned and headed straight for Studiestræde, a new, grim determination propelling my bare feet forward.
The weather was uncommonly warm for Denmark. It was the kind of cloying, unexpected heat that felt like a weight on the shoulders, the air thick and still without the usual Baltic breeze. The pale grey pavement of the sidewalk was fine, almost cool in the patches of shade, but every time I had to cross a road, it was a fresh trial. The black tarmac, drinking in the sun, became a griddle of simmering heat. It seeped through the soles of my bare feet, a sharp, punishing warmth that felt like walking on red-hot coals, making me hop and wince with each hurried step.
The streets were crowded, a pulsing river of Saturday shoppers, tourists with wide-brimmed hats, and students clutching iced coffees. This was, after all, the middle of town, and the human current was relentless. Normally, this many faces in one place, the jostle of shoulders, the cacophony of a dozen different languages, the sheer, overwhelming press of humanity, would have sent me into a spiral of anxiety, sending me diving for the nearest alley to catch my breath.
But luckily, the cocaine had begun to kick in at last, a sly and welcome thief stealing my unease.
The magic of the coke transformed the scene. The crowd was no longer a threatening mob but a vibrant, moving tapestry. Every stranger's face became a fascinating story, every laugh a charming melody. A mother scolding her toddler wasn't a source of stress, but a perfect, living portrait of familial love. A busker's out-of-tune guitar was a raw, authentic performance. Everyone and their presence was just… perfect. The sharp edges of the world had been sanded down and lacquered with a brilliant, shimmering glow. My bare feet on the scorching road? A minor, almost amusing inconvenience. The lingering panic from my fight with Michael? A distant, foggy memory.
The anxiety that usually clamped around my chest like a vice had been replaced by a giddy, buzzing confidence. I moved through the throng not as an intruder, but as its rightful queen, invisible and all-powerful. The two-block walk felt like a glorious, floating procession, and before I knew it, the momentum of the high and the crowd deposited me neatly on a quieter curb.
I looked up. There it was. A grimy storefront wedged between a trendy vinyl shop and a vegan bakery, its windows so tinted they were almost black. Flickering in neon script that sputtered and buzzed was the name: The Rack.