The moment Ekaterina breached the threshold of Nova City's arrival zone, a subtle shift occurred in her demeanor. The barely perceptible tension that had clung to her during the interstellar journey seemed to dissolve, replaced by an almost languid indifference. It was a deliberate act, a conscious shedding of responsibility and expectation.
The white silk ribbon, previously a functional tool for sensory filtering, now served as a more overt symbol of her detachment. But this wasn't just any ribbon; it was one of countless identical ribbons she possessed - each meticulously crafted from the finest lunar silk and imbued with subtle protective enchantments.
Each ribbon cost upwards of 3,000 star credits.
She now wore *two* such ribbons, layered one over the other, creating a dense, opaque blindfold that completely obscured her eyes. It was a striking visual statement, an intentional rejection of sight in a world obsessed with visual stimulation.
The effect was amplified by the elegant veil she now donned, a gossamer-thin fabric of shimmering silver that completely concealed her mouth and nose. It wasn't a disguise, precisely; rather, it was another layer of insulation, a further distancing from the world around her.
She stood perfectly still amidst the bustling throng of arrivals, an island of serene stillness in a sea of frenetic movement. Her posture was impeccable – ramrod straight, radiating an air of quiet authority despite her apparent blindness. Her suitcase, crafted from polished obsidian and subtly reinforced with arcane runes, sat beside her like a loyal sentinel.
In her previous life, such an oversight would have ignited a storm of anxiety and hurt within her. She would have frantically contacted him, berating herself for any perceived slight, desperately seeking reassurance. But that was the Ekaterina of a bygone era—a naive, eager-to-please daughter striving to earn her father's approval.
That Ekaterina was gone, a casualty of a brutal past.
Being betrayed and ultimately killed while working tirelessly to elevate her father and brothers to interstellar stardom had been a harsh but effective lesson. It had stripped away her idealism, shattered her illusions, and revealed the cold, calculating reality of the cosmos.
The experience had taught her a profound and unsettling truth: hard work didn't guarantee reward; it often invited exploitation.
The memory of that past life, of the relentless effort and the devastating consequences, now evoked only a faint flicker of amusement—a detached, almost cynical smile playing on the hidden curve of her lips beneath the silver veil.
She let out a slow, deliberate sigh – not one of distress, but rather a languid exhalation of boredom and mild annoyance. The fact that her father, Taylor, hadn't bothered to meet her at the arrival zone didn't shock her in the slightest. It was par for the course, really.
In her previous life, such an omission would have been a source of profound hurt and disappointment. But this time? It barely registered. She didn't even expend the energy to feel anything beyond a fleeting sense of well, that's just how he is.
Her plans for the immediate future were simple: minimal effort, maximum enjoyment. She would endure the obligatory two-day stay with the Wilson Family—a polite formality, nothing more—before relocating to her mother's lavish estate and integrating herself into her new stepfamily's opulent life.
In her last life, she had poured every ounce of her energy into supporting the Wilsons, sacrificing her own desires and ambitions for their advancement. The memory of those years—the endless negotiations, the relentless strategizing, the constant pressure to perform—now felt like a distant nightmare.
Return that investment? It was laughable. Being killed for her efforts had been a brutal awakening. Why toil endlessly for others when she could indulge in the simple pleasures of existence?
This time around, she would be the laziest interstellar girl the galaxy had ever seen. A connoisseur of fine foods, a devotee of luxurious sleep, and an aficionado of rare and potent liquors—that would be her legacy. No more schemes, no more sacrifices, no more striving for the approval of others. Just pure, unadulterated indulgence.
At that precise moment, a sleek, autonomous taxi glided silently to a halt beside her. It was a model known as the Nimbus renowned for its whisper-quiet operation and its personalized comfort settings. The vehicle's exterior was a polished chrome alloy that reflected the vibrant cityscape like a liquid mirror.
The taxi's tinted window slid silently open, revealing the face of the driver – a middle-aged man named Mr. Smith. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored uniform, his expression a carefully cultivated blend of professional courtesy and quiet observation. He'd been assigned to this route for years and had seen countless individuals disembark from the arrival zone, each with their own unique story and destination.
He initially felt a pang of pity for the beautiful girl standing motionless beside her suitcase, completely blindfolded. It was rare to see someone navigating Nova City without relying on visual input; the city was designed around sight, its holographic displays and interactive interfaces utterly dependent on it.
But that fleeting moment of sympathy evaporated instantly as his eyes registered the intricate silk ribbons concealing her eyes—ribbons that clearly cost more than his rent.
Then, his gaze drifted to the holographic display embedded in the taxi's dashboard, where he could see a snippet of the girl's social media feed. It was a whirlwind of extravagant displays—images of rare artifacts, invitations to exclusive galas, and cryptic philosophical musings that hinted at a life of immense wealth and privilege.
He quickly dismissed any lingering notions of pity. This wasn't a vulnerable blind woman; this was someone who clearly commanded respect and possessed resources beyond his comprehension. It was best not to pry, not to ask questions. In Nova City, discretion was paramount, especially when dealing with individuals who radiated an aura of enigmatic power.
Mr. Smith straightened his uniform and adopted a neutral expression—the mask of professional detachment he wore for every passenger.
"Where to?" Mr. Smith asked, his voice a smooth, modulated baritone designed to be both reassuring and unobtrusive.
Ekaterina's response was calm, almost detached, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the arrival zone. Her voice, filtered slightly by the silver veil, was low and melodious—a subtle blend of authority and languid indifference.
"Sky Gardens District," she replied, the words precise and devoid of any inflection. It wasn't a question or a request; it was a statement of fact, an instruction delivered with an air of quiet command.
Mr. Smith registered the information with practiced efficiency. He didn't attempt any small talk or polite inquiries about her journey. He understood that some passengers preferred silence, and he respected their wishes.
"Acknowledged."