Vicky stood leaning against the wall, legs crossed.

  Her shirt, a cheerful bright blue, clashed with the grim seriousness on her face. Her tan face looked darker than usual today.

  Her blue eyes were fixed on some vacant point. One finger played with strands of her black hair, looping them again and again through her large gold hoop earrings.

  Meanwhile, Adam bombarded her with a stream of questions ranging from, ‘Do you know these guys? Don’t you have any contacts among them?’ to ‘What are we waiting for to get the hell out of here?’ Questions she had already answered in the past few days.

  “I doubt you really don’t know why we’re here,” he was saying. “You’ll cut a deal with these gray-suited clowns and turn me in so they leave you alone. I know it—I’m sure of it.”

  Of course, even he didn’t believe that. He just wanted Vicky to say something—anything. Better that than dealing with the unbearable silence, which by now had taken on a life of its own, becoming a third person trapped in the room with them.

  Juzo, he called to his brother in thought, why don’t you tell me what the Satellites are going to do with me? Damn it, Juzo! Say something!

  But his twin wasn’t responding either. Ever since helping him fight Kitty, Juzo had gone quiet, hiding somewhere in the back of his mind.

  It had been nearly twenty minutes since an agent had told them to leave their belongings—wallets, phones, everything—in a locker and left them alone in that bare waiting room—after warning them about a law forbidding the disclosure of anything seen or heard inside the building.

  There were no windows to peek through, no artwork to look at, no holo-magazines to activate and flip through, not even one of those dumb decorative ficus plants to fidget with the leaves and ease their nerves. Just a couch to park their butts on and wait.

  Adam felt a sudden wave of heat. He tugged at his brown shirt and unbuttoned a few buttons. He left the couch and began pacing in circles, like a caged animal in a concrete box.

  “Don’t get anxious,” Vicky finally said, breaking the silence.

  “Who’s anxious?” he replied, scratching a cut on his hand—leftover from the fight with Kitty. “If I had a cigarette, I’d be smoking it. And I don’t even smoke. What about you, huh? Not scared? They could deport you, y’know?”

  Vicky grabbed his arm and shot him a death glare.

  “Can you behave? You were doing so well these past few days!”

  Adam slumped back into the seat.

  “Sorry. It’s just that these last few days I’ve been more...” he trailed off. What was he going to say? ‘More Juzo than Adam?’ ‘I get nervous and turn into full Adam?’ Better to stay quiet.

  Vicky tried to refocus her thoughts. She knew the reputation of the Satellite Agency, and she knew they could be stuck there for hours without anyone showing up—it was best to keep cool.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  What if the General’s behind this? she wondered.

  The thought that her father—stern General Benetnasch—might’ve requested her arrest through the Satellite Agency had crossed her mind when they’d entered the building. It wasn’t far-fetched: her home country’s authorities considered her a fugitive. The Empire could easily have pulled some strings to get the Satellites involved in tracking her down.

  The General… No, no, she rejected the idea.

  The General wouldn’t have acted that way. If her father had been looking for her, he would’ve found her sooner—and he would’ve shown up in person. He never would’ve allowed Adam, let alone the men in gray, to be present at a moment like that. For the General, having his only daughter associated with the Troublemakers was a disgrace as weighty as the medals he wore on his uniform. He would never have asked anyone else to arrest her. Doing so would’ve exposed him, and he would rather die than suffer that kind of humiliation.

  Besides, as far as she knew, the General didn’t even know she was in Proxima.

  “Did I tell you I asked Rita to look into what offices operate in this building?” Adam asked.

  With a huff, Vicky gave up on the illusion that Adam would keep his mouth shut. If you can’t beat them…

  “Yeah, you were in the middle of it,” she said. “Until you cut yourself off to start telling me nonsense.”

  “Hey! I just didn’t want that guy in gray to hear me talking about this,” he said, lowering his voice in case someone was listening.

  “Okay then—so are you going to tell me what else your secretary found out, or what?”

  Adam shot her a what’s-with-the-attitude? kind of look.

  “Yeah… Well, Rita said there are all kinds of firms in this building—from a car company to a law firm. But the most notable one is a private detective agency.”

  “Uh-huh,” Vicky nodded. “And you told me the agency has the same name as the building: Orbit.”

  In the Red District, the Orbit II Tower was one of many old concrete skyscrapers in the Vallejos neighborhood—a neighborhood full of government offices and big companies, not far from the route Adam used to take when he lived in his loft. It was a flashy tower sitting at the corner of Sixth and Ninth, with a walled-off parking lot that took up the whole block.

  “You already know what I think,” Vicky said.

  “Yeah—that all the firms in this building are probably fake,” Adam nodded. “But you were about to explain why… until you cut yourself off… to go completely quiet. Mind picking up where you left off?”

  “Okay, I was saying that when it comes to the agency, I’m not saying Orbit couldn’t have… I dunno, busted a few cheating spouses? Y’know, left some newly divorced lady with a bunch of compromising pics of her ex... or some poor guy stuck in court over alimony. But my point is, I doubt tailing fat cheaters and snapping pics of them hugging young girls is their only line of work. You follow?”

  Adam raised an eyebrow.

  “Wait... why are the cheaters in your examples always men?”

  “Oh, dear! I am not getting into that with you. Not now.”

  “Anyway,” he went on, “the law firm one checks out. I know Franklin & Gómez represent the Carinae.”

  Vicky smiled to herself. “The same ones you used to model underwear for?” she teased.

  “The Carinae own a third of Proxima, Vicky,” he said, sharp-eyed. “I would’ve modeled lingerie if they’d asked. Like I was saying—same goes for the private detective agency. Homam Enterprises sold them surveillance tech. And I have it on good authority that one of my ex-benefits-turned-ex got the ‘ex’ part thanks to their services.”

  Vicky clicked her tongue.

  “What a short-sighted idiot. Needed a PI to figure out what kind of guy you are?”

  “Oh, dear!” he mimicked her. “I am not getting into that with you. Not now.”

  The door to the tiny room opened, revealing a man in gray. Was he the same one who’d locked them in? Who knew. They all looked the same: gray pants, gray blazers, gray shirts, gray ties, and of course, the ever-present dark sunglasses.

  “Mr. White O22, Miss Viveka… The division chief is ready to see you,” he announced.