The first thing that assailed us was the smell. It hit like a wall, thick and cloying—fermented sewage, rotten meat, and something acrid, almost metallic, like wires left to melt in a fire. My stomach lurched, and I immediately brought my sleeve up to my mouth and nose, trying to filter it out. Even then, it clung to the back of my throat, heavy as tar.

Around us, the city stretched on in every direction—towering monoliths of steel and glass stacked so high they vanished into a haze that wasn't fog but smog. Screens bigger than houses blinked and flashed from every angle, playing endless loops of products, celebrities, headlines, warnings. Their colors bled into each other in the haze until it felt like the air itself was pulsing with false light.

But the people… the people didn't notice.

On the street level, we were pressed in by a river of bodies. Men and women, children and elders, all moving in rigid patterns, their gazes locked downward on handheld screens. Not a single one of them looked up, not even when we bumped shoulders or brushed past. Their faces were pale, sunken, lifeless—like husks that hadn't realized they were hollow.

"Okay—so." I forced words out between breaths, muffled by my sleeve. "This is the Bibliokinetic of Dreams Domain. Anyone… anyone know what exactly we're standing in?"

"A cyberpunk nightmare," Fallias spat. She'd pulled her scarf up over her nose, her eyes narrowed in visible disgust. "We're supposed to be dealing with a viral outbreak, right? But look at them. Look at this." She gestured sharply to the masses, her hand trembling not from fear, but anger. "If this is life, then it's already infected. What happened here?"

Cordelia's voice was low, cautious. "There's no psychic resonance. At least not in the way I'd expect. They aren't enthralled. They aren't bound by an external power. They're doing this willingly." Her fingers toyed nervously with a strand of her hair as she scanned the crowd, her brows furrowed. "Or… maybe not willingly. Compulsively. Addiction."

"Addiction to what?" Sven muttered, his jaw tight, his usual dry humor nowhere to be found. His hand hovered near his sidearm, though the people walking by paid him no more attention than they did the neon signs.

"To the screens," Wallace said grimly. His voice carried the same heaviness as the air around us, solid and unflinching. He stood slightly ahead of us, shield already strapped to his back, as though instinct had him preparing for an ambush that wasn't coming—yet. "Their attention is shackled. Whoever or whatever runs this place doesn't need chains when it has this."

Fractal pressed against my arm, her small frame shaking. Her eyes darted across the buildings, the screens, the endless rivers of people, her voice coming out small. "They… they don't even see us. Not even a little. We could scream and no one would hear."

"Good," V said dryly, pulling his hood lower as he slipped between two of the husks without breaking stride. His hands were in his pockets, but his eyes were scanning every shadow, every rooftop. "Means we can move without interference. For now."

Ten, chains clinking with each step, made a low sound in her throat, something between disgust and rage. "I'd rather they did notice us. This—this quiet. It's wrong. Too easy. People ain't supposed to just shuffle like livestock."

Basaroiel shifted restlessly in the bag strapped against my chest, feathers rustling, his intent sharp and uneasy. I laid my hand against the side of the pack, trying to steady him—and myself. His instincts weren't wrong. This place felt wrong down to the marrow.

I forced myself to lower my sleeve just enough to talk properly, even though the stench burned my throat raw. "So we're in the Domain of a Bibliokinetic of Dreams. We know the infection's here, somewhere. But…" I gestured to the lifeless crowd with my free hand. "…tell me this doesn't look like an outbreak already."

Fallias let out a sharp laugh, bitter as ash. "Doesn't look like one? This is worse. At least with zombies, you know when the infection's taken root."

No one argued. Not even Gin, who wasn't here with us but would have been the first to make a joke if he were. The silence from my companions said enough: this wasn't what any of us expected. And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.

The deeper we pushed into the streets, the worse the air felt. The smell hadn't faded—it had simply dulled into a constant burn in my throat, the way a wound eventually numbs from being rubbed raw too long. But here on the ground level, nothing moved except the tide of the half-living, their eyes locked downward, their footsteps automatic.

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It was Ten who noticed it first. Her head jerked upward, the chains at her ankles clinking as she slowed. "Hey. Look."

I followed her gaze. Above the sallow crowd and the endless neon screens were walkways—metal and glass veins running between the buildings, stacked in layers. And on those walkways, I saw color. People. Real people. Their movements weren't slack or aimless. They walked with direction, their clothes tailored, their bodies clean. They spoke to each other. Some laughed. They looked… alive.

Fallias let out a hiss through her teeth. "So that's how it is. Ground level for the husks, higher up for the rich. Literal vertical class system."

Sven's brow furrowed, his usual detached calm showing cracks. "Efficient. Cruel, but efficient. Keep the lifeless masses down here where they can shuffle without getting in the way. The functioning elite live above, out of the stink."

Cordelia's voice was soft, but it carried an edge. "It's more than that. Look at how many screens the husks carry. Their addiction keeps them chained here. Meanwhile, the people above walk freely because they don't need to be chained. Either they broke the compulsion, or…" Her lips pressed thin. "Or they can afford to be immune."

Wallace growled low, the sound vibrating through his armor. "Immune by what means? Wealth shouldn't buy safety from this."

"Shouldn't," V murmured, slipping past a stumbling husk without a glance, "but it does. Always has." His eyes tracked the walkways, calculating. "Question is, how do we reach them without drawing attention?"

I glanced at the ladder bolted into the nearest wall, half-hidden behind a dumpster overflowing with unidentifiable sludge. My gut twisted just looking at it—it was coated in rust, the metal slick with grime—but it was a path upward.

Basaroiel stirred in his bag, feathers prickling against my chest, his intent sharp and wary. He wanted height. Safety. I didn't disagree.

"Up," I said firmly, my voice muffled against my sleeve. "We won't learn anything more down here. If the infection's spread, it'll show itself higher up too."

"Or," Fallias muttered, already yanking her scarf tighter over her mouth, "we'll find that the infection is this. Everyone drowning in their own screens while the people above don't even look down."

Her words stuck with me as I grabbed the ladder and started to climb. The metal burned with cold, grime smearing into my gloves, but I kept moving. The others followed, the clink of Ten's chains and the scrape of Wallace's armor echoing up the narrow shaft.

By the time we reached the first elevated walkway, the change was immediate. The air still stank, but it was thinner here, less clotted. The husks were gone. Instead, people in simple, worn but intact clothing moved with awareness. They looked tired, overworked, but alive. Some talked in hushed tones, others bartered with vendors selling steaming food from carts. It was like we'd climbed into another world entirely.

Fractal pressed close, her eyes wide as she took in the sight. "They're… normal," she whispered.

"Normal's stretching it," V replied, his tone sharp. "Look closer. They're not looking down, but they're not looking up either. They're trapped in the middle—better off than the husks, but still kept below the ones higher."

He was right. Above us, another layer of walkways gleamed with brighter lights, where men and women in fine suits walked briskly, carrying sleek devices that glowed faintly but didn't seem to shackle them. A young woman in a crisp jacket sipped from a glass that shimmered like liquid starlight, chatting with a companion as if she hadn't a care in the world.

Fallias's voice was sharp, angry. "Each level richer than the last. Bottom rung's corpses with a heartbeat, middle's the working poor, higher are the elite. Let me guess—at the very top, the towers where the rulers sit fat and comfortable while this infection rots everyone beneath them?"

Cordelia's hand trembled as she reached for the railing, her eyes glowing faintly as her psionics flickered in response to the environment. "This city isn't infected in the way we expected. This… stratification is the infection. The Viraloid outbreak is feeding on the cracks in this society."

Ten spat to the side, chains rattling. "Or the society made the outbreak worse. Rotten foundation, rotten house. Not hard to guess which comes first."

We walked further along the walkway, weaving through the crowd. People glanced at us now—some curious, some suspicious. Our mismatched gear, our weapons, our presence—they marked us as outsiders instantly.

Sven kept his voice low, leaning closer. "We need to blend. We stick out too much. Weapons down, hoods up. No sudden moves."

I nodded, adjusting the bag with Basaroiel against me. He quieted, though I could still feel his restless shifting. His instincts screamed danger. Mine weren't far behind.

As we moved, I caught glimpses of the higher levels. The higher we looked, the cleaner the walkways became, the brighter the lights, the smoother the flow of traffic. The people looked healthier, sharper. Their devices weren't crutches but tools, extensions of their status. And above even that—barely visible through the smog—the spires of glass and steel reached higher still, their tips piercing the haze like daggers.

Fallias swore under her breath. "We're climbing straight into the belly of a beast."

Wallace's eyes narrowed, scanning the levels above. "Then let's find its heart and see if it still beats."

I didn't say anything. My throat was still burning from the stench below, my thoughts a haze. But one thing was clear: every rung of this city wasn't just a step toward wealth or power—it was a step away from the people below. And somewhere in that climb, the infection waited for us.

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