24991122 | 2041

  The Arc by the Bay | The Bay | People’s Republic of Singapore

  1°17′06.00″ N

  103°51′06.12″ E

  The night descended, a velvet curtain drawn across the skies.

  The flotilla lit up like a forest of Christmas trees.

  Their lamination glimmer off the mirror sheen of the Bay.

  A Hyperfoil Jetstream cut across cutting a narrow wake across the Bay.

  Sleek, graphite-black, and silent, its aerodynamic hull sliced through the water cleanly, gliding effortlessly across the placid sea.

  Its dual hydrofoil jet propelled its occupants silently across the surface, sending silent ripples trailing in its wake.

  The nightscape of the city glittered around them.

  Portside, the man-made promenade curved in a perfect crescent:

  The Arc by the Bay.

  The gleaming waterfront, the Amphitheatre bathed in pearl-blue light.

  Its edges trimmed with floating lanterns.

  Hovering holo-banners dancing gently in the cool night air.

  Beyond it rose the crystalline facades of the CBD.

  Skyscrapers stretching skyward like glass monoliths, each window catching fragments of gold, azure, and neon.

  To starboard, the Sands.

  The crown jewel of the city.

  The three colossal towers of the Sands, sweeping upward like pillars of a titan’s gate, connected at their summit by the sky deck.

  A luminous blade suspended above the world.

  Floodlights rippled down its length in a cascading, shimmering waves.

  Its mere reflection, mirrored upon the water, an image of pristine perfection.

  The Bay held a constellation of light and stars beneath its surface.

  The Art & Science Cultural Heritage Centre unfurled like a blooming lotus, its white petals reflecting the gentle ripple of the waves.

  The Helix Bridge spiralled glittering across the water, a strand of polished steel and violet light.

  The skyline shimmered gold, sapphire, violet.

  Every tower a blade of light piercing the darkness.

  But tonight, a sight more breathtaking than anything the vaulted skyline of Singapore can offer.

  Arrayed within the heart of the Bay, at the threshold of the open sea.

  The Poseidon Gala at the Bay 2499.

  A thousand lights drifted across Marina Bay like scattered pearls.

  Superyachts, sail-ships, floating pavilions and glass-boardwalk barges,

  Each one dressed in luminous oceanic blues and golds.

  Each one limned in soft, luminous neon.

  For one night, the waterfront transformed into a living tapestry of sea myth and futurism:

  Levitating jellyfish lanterns bobbed above the waves,

  Digital schools of koi shimmered beneath the surface,

  Buoys with stylised pennants of trident upon a backdrop of white, fluttering gently in the wind as the Jetstream sped past.

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  Pillars of soft light rose from anchored platforms, crowned with soft white flame.

  Music drifted across the water.

  Strings threaded with synth harmonics,

  A melody meant to mimic the pull of the tides.

  Every vessel glowed in its own color and design philosophy.

  The Arctic-white hull of a Nordic exploration yacht

  The champagne-gold decks of a flamboyant tech titan

  The sleek, scaled chrome of a Middle Eastern prince.

  A floating garden shaped like a lotus, glowing softly from within.

  All of them converged here, for one night.

  The night when the world’s titans of industry moored side by side.

  Their throne-worlds in the shape of a vessel, their splendor reflected on the water.

  Above them, drones traced slow, sweeping arcs.

  They dispersed a luminous trail.

  Painting ephemeral constellations and Poseidon trident motifs across the night sky,

  Casting ripples of turquoise light down onto the bay.

  The Singapore Regatta.

  The coronation of the ocean herself.

  A festival of luxury, legacy, and power.

  The Jetstream rounded the final buoy and the horizon parted.

  A floating palace.

  The Kagetsu-no-Kami came into view.

  Saito Arashi’s superyacht.

  First came the glow.

  A soft cascade of warm whites and pale golds, drifting across the bay like reflections of a festival.

  Then the silhouette emerged — sleek, elongated, impossibly graceful — as if someone had sculpted a superyacht and a cruise liner into a single seamless curve.

  A multi-tiered masterpiece of Japanese minimalism and precision engineering.

  Black-lacquer hull lined with gold-trimmed railings.

  Sweeping teak decks illuminated by soft shōji lanterns.

  A lone, living cherry blossom glowing upon the mid-deck under a climate-regulated dome.

  As the hyperfoil Jetstream drew nearer, each ripple of water sending gentle waves of radiance up its surface.

  Shirley can make out the stylilised holographic Kanji, stencilled upon its hull.

  Deck after deck rose upwards in elegant tiers.

  Each level lined with soft lantern-lighting.

  A floating boulevard suspended over the sea.

  Shirley sat beside Damian on the Jetstream’s sleek leather bench.

  A black leather jacket pulled over her evening gown.

  The wind teased at her hair.

  The scent of salt, perfume, and lingering spice.

  She regarding the Kagetsu-no-Kami, surrounded by the Regatta flotilla.

  Damian leaned forward in quiet awe.

  “You told me it’s a yacht,” she said.

  “I may have,” he managed, “downplayed the scale of his boat.”

  “You have a yacht, darling,” she said evenly,

  From their approach vector, they were accorded a most striking view.

  A terraced courtyard near the vessel’s center, glowing beneath a canopy of subtle white light.

  Silhouettes of branches, delicate, organic, swayed gently in the bay breeze.

  A tree.

  “A cherry blossom.” She whispered softly, “I’ve never seen one before.”

  “The last of the cherry blossoms,” Damian replied, equally soft, “an heirloom of the Imperial House itself.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, squeezing his hand.

  Damian looked at her.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured.

  Shirley watched on, her face unreadable.

  The boarding terrace of the Kagetsu-no-Kami in the ship’s bow came into view as the Jetstream banked.

  Its stern terraces cascaded like the steps of a Shinto shrine.

  Immaculately-attired attendants stood along the terraces.

  Dignitaries and VIPs clustering, socialising.

  Their silhouettes lit by the shifting glow of the Bay.

  They approached the terrace.

  Damian squeezed her hand, “I think we are in over our heads on this one. I will ask the boat to turn around.”

  “No.” she said softly, evenly.

  Her touch was warm.

  Her smile was soft.

  Her presence breathtaking.

  “Shirls,” he began.

  “You got your two nights, darling.” She squeezed his hand, “now you must deliver.”

  Her hand slipped out of his.

  “Shirley… please.”

  A plea.

  She laughed softly, brushing her forehead against his temple.

  “You agreed to this, silly.” She kissed him softly.

  The Jetstream angled gracefully toward the yacht’s illuminated boarding platform.

  24891120 | 1417

  Maison Astraria Curated | ION Orchard Arcology | People’s Republic of Singapore

  1°18′12.20″ N

  103°50′15.77″ E

  “No, too revealing…”

  Damian sat on the velvet bench and sighed.

  He tried to distract himself.

  Like every man in history ever forced to accompany a woman dress shopping.

  Outwardly, he lounged upon the plush armchair.

  Legs splayed. Arms folded.

  “Do you have something? Ocean-sapphire?”

  He thought for a moment that the shop had prepared this for every beleaguered men that had ever walk through their doors.

  He politely declined the boutique staffer’s offer to serve him a fourth latte.

  Inwardly, his patience was fraying.

  “You already shown me? Then on second thought…”

  His tilted his head back.

  The glaring light of the boutique shot into his eyes.

  He closed his eyes.

  Floating mannequins.

  Holo-screens showing lunar runway models.

  Interactive mirrors that overlay a virtual attire over any one standing before them.

  The air was misted with citrus.

  Crisp and fresh.

  The unbearable beat of lo-fi lounge music.

  She stepped out of the changing suite again.

  Another dress.

  Another vision.

  Another rejection.

  The staffer waited on her.

  Anxiously.

  She twirled, the fabric cascading like moonlit water.

  “No,” She decided, “too loud.”

  Damian breathed.

  “Darling,” she called then.

  He detached himself from the armchair.

  She was standing in front of the full-length holographic mirror.

  He walked over and stood behind her.

  “Do you think I look fat in this?” she asked.

  He blinked.

  She held up the sapphire-blue gown, the mirror overlaid it on her reflection.

  It clung to her, accentuating her curves.

  She turned her head, her eyes twinkling.

  His arms enfolded her.

  “You are the most beautiful woman I ever met,” he said, “they all look good on you.”

  Her hands came up, she caressed his check softly.

  Affectionately.

  She pulled him in for a brief kiss.

  “Which one then?” she asked.

  “Any one, pick one.” He said.

  “I want to wear it for you.” She whispered softly.

  He fell silent.

  He took one look at the three Maison Astraria Moonlight Noctrune Collection before him.

  One white, one blue, one red.

  “The white one.”