Amid the destruction of the riot, Sinclair’s tower is a beacon of tranquillity, set aside from the base concerns of the working class. Towering above Central Square, I imagine its residents sipping a glass of sherry at the window and surveying their domain.
We march through the lobby doors as one, a reckless sea of protestors flooding the empty entryway.
A spotless marble floor the size of a small park gleams underfoot, decorated with tiny black diamond tiles inset into the stone at regular intervals. Along one wall, a long mahogany desk stretches in front of a seamless mirror, now abandoned, but I assume usually staffed by a concierge and assistants. Opposite the concierge’s desk, a bank of elevators stands silently on the other wall. The entire building has an air of silence about it.
“This isn’t right,” I mutter. “Where are the guards? Harding wouldn’t hole up without someone protecting him.”
“We’ve got half of them with us,” Frank says with a smirk. “But you’re right. There’ll be more further up, I reckon.”
“Clear the floors!” Ike yells above the murmuring crowd. “Don’t risk the elevators. Sound off!”
The wardens grunt their acceptance, rushing up the stairs with pulse rifles ready to fire. Our volunteer army stands waiting for an order of their own.
Moments later, the wardens send the all clear, and we follow them one floor at a time up the stairwell, so plain that it must be used by workers servicing the tower, rather than the rich VIPs who live here.
With each floor we climb, I focus on Dani—whether they’re alive, safe, or has Harding killed them, like he did Caleb?
Frank lays a hand on my shoulder. “Almost there, Kyla. We’ll get them safe.”
I nod, wrapping my arms tightly around myself as we follow the crowd up to another floor. Soon, the volunteers join the wardens, emboldened by the progress we’re already made. With such a large group swarming into the tower, the few loyal guards who remain are quickly overpowered.
We press on, finding offices, service rooms, staff apartments (some with workers cowering in dark corners, who are quickly comforted and evacuated), and a host of additional areas. But the only apartments are those belonging to Sinclair’s staff. He lives alone, here in this high-rise. According to the concierge, an aging worker in a black uniform with slicked dark hair and grey eyes, he houses his family and staff here, and no one else.
“A whole high rise building for one man and his family…” I grumble, revolted by Sinclair’s self-indulgence—the sheer arrogance of a man hoarding all this luxury, while people live in squalor less than a mile away.
“Sure looks like the emotion trade is booming,” Frank says through gritted teeth.
It takes an hour or more before we clear a path to the penthouse, leaving a trail of stunned wardens and cowering workers in our wake. Volunteers pare off to evacuate and restrain them, ensuring that we can push on with no unfortunate surprises.
The stairwell ends below the penthouse, leaving us in an open atrium with slate covered floors and walls. It’s completely empty, except for the large canvasses hanging on the walls, lit by their own mini spotlights. I don’t recognise any of the paintings or artists, although I’m sure it’s an impressive sight to someone. I couldn’t care less about them right now.
“How do we get up there?” I scan the atrium for another stairwell.
Frank points behind me. “Only one way up.”
A single elevator, wider than those in the lobby, stands in a slate wall, grey upon grey, practically invisible.
“Is it safe?”
Frank snorts. “Nothing we’ve done today has been safe. Why change that now?”
My heart hammers in my chest as we move to the elevator, eyes darting around the atrium, expecting more of Sinclair’s guards to pop out from a shadow at any moment.
Instead, the light above the elevator doors turns on, and a loud ding echoes around the stone-clad chamber.
The elevator doors slide open, and Harding stands calmly inside, with his arms folded and a smug smile on his face. Seeing him makes my stomach turn. The last time I saw him in the flesh, he was drowning under a sea of reform inmates clawing at his face. I almost grin at the thought.
Caleb materialises next to me, his body solidifying from the black smoke of my nightmares. “That sneaky fucker,” he spits. Nobody else pays him any mind.
Because nobody else can see him, I remind myself. He’s not here. He’s dead. He’s said these things before. Days ago, weeks…
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them again and find Caleb gone, I’m relieved… and then, guilty.
“Been waitin’ for you,” Harding says. “Sinclair wants to see you.”
He can’t be serious. I glance at Frank, who nods. “Sounds delightful,” he says darkly, fists tensed at his sides.
Harding grins. “Doesn’t it? Come on up.”
In a dreamlike daze, we walk into the elevator and stand calmly next to the man who killed my brother. Frank stands in the middle, as if shielding me from Harding’s presence. But I can still feel his steely gaze on me, making my skin crawl.
When I look, I see Ike stopping the other wardens while the doors are closing, his eyes full of fear. He gives us one last nod before the doors slide shut.
The elevator lurches into motion.
Harding gives a low whistle and inspects his nails casually. “You guys been causing some big trouble out there today.”
“Less than you deserve,” Frank grunts, staring resolutely at the elevator doors.
I keep my gaze on the floor, breathing slow and deep. I want to scream at Harding, claw at his face, demand to know where Dani is, what he’s done to them, show him he’s not as powerful as he thinks. But Frank gets there first.
“Where are they?”
Harding huffs a low breath, a half-laugh. “You’ll see them soon enough.”
The elevator pings and the doors slide open, revealing a massive apartment. Every surface is monochrome—white walls and black metal, clinical and soulless, almost barren. Compared to my mother’s home, full of the clutter of family life and memories, this place feels like a museum.
Just outside the elevator, the room opens out into a vast living space, surrounded by floor to ceiling windows and empty, except for a low circular sofa set into the floor, with a firepit in the middle.
Sat at one end of the sofa is a portly man, maybe in his late sixties, who must be Sinclair. He wears a grey suit with a waistcoat made of silvery silk, which glows in the firelight from the black metal pit. He grins and stands when we enter, holding his arms out wide. “Welcome, welcome, please have a seat.”
He motions to the sofa, where Lena sits slumped with her head resting back against the cushion. Dani lays across her lap, eyes closed and lips slightly parted.
I rush over, heart in my throat, and crouch over Dani, immediately fearing the worst. “What have you done to them?”
“Oh, do calm down, my girl,” Sinclair scoffs. “They’ve merely had a minor dose of Oblivion.”
“Minor?” I spin around, mildly satisfied at the look of shock on Sinclair’s reddened face. I jab a finger in the air towards Harding. “That asshole killed my brother with Oblivion, and you’re acting like they’ve just been given a little nap?”
Sinclair looks genuinely shocked at this. “Killed? I... I don’t understand—”
Harding steps forward. “Sir, if I could intervene. This charming young lady is Kyla Chase. She has been a thorn in Emotiv’s side ever since Frank hired her.”
“What is she talking about, Dennis?” Sinclair frowns at Harding. “Oblivion can’t kill people.”
“It can when you force multiple doses down someone’s throat,” I cut in quickly before Harding can say a word. “When you pin them down and smash one vial after another into their mouth, even though they’re already gone—”
A searing pain slices across my chest and I gasp for breath, almost ready to collapse from the weight of my own words. Gone.
Sinclair continues to frown, his mouth hanging open slightly in disbelief. It would be a stretch to say he cares, but he seems surprised. So Harding has kept this a secret from him, too. Or some of it, at least. I’m not sure whether that thought comforts me or sickens me even more. He didn’t know. None of us knew. None of us wanted to know. Why should he be any different?
Behind me, a small gasp draws my attention. I turn again and see Gemma staring wide-eyed at me with her back to the window. She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, and it’s like I can read her mind. Not now. Not yet.
