He’s mad about you. I try to repeat Hammie’s reassurances to myself. But it’s harder to believe without her beside me.
The drive feels both like it took forever and no time at all. The Tokyo Museum of Contemporary Art’s main entrance is entirely blocked off today, thick with security, but my car takes a turn into a smaller side entrance that brings us through the surrounding park grounds. We go up the winding path a brief distance before stopping on the side of the building. Here, it’s quieter, a few other black cars ahead of us. I hold my breath as we reach the front of the line. Here, the car comes to a full stop at the entrance, and its door slides open.
“Have a wonderful evening,” the car says. “Congratulations again on your team’s win.”
“Thank you,” I mutter at it before I exit, fanning out my dress.
Everyone else inside the building is decked out in elaborate attire. Some of them are wearing half masks adorned with jewel-encrusted feathers, while others hold delicate, porcelain-colored fans across their faces. I stand there for a moment, feeling at once vulnerable and invisible. Thank goodness Hammie forced me to choose such an elegant dress. Anything less would have made me stand out in this crowd.
The main entrance hall of the museum is a soaring corridor of glass and metal, enormous triangles cut through with a steel mesh of circles. The giant glass panels are actually screens, and as I walk, the NeuroLink simulates scenes on each panel from this year’s championship worlds. I recognize the rematch’s world of cloud plains and cliffs, then the ice world of my first official game. I pause for a moment in front of a panel showcasing the eerie underwater ruins that we’d played in the Riders’ third round. This was the world where Zero had broken into my account and made me his offer.
All around me, groups of social elites cluster and laugh politely over conversations I can’t understand. I see women drenched in jewels, men in sharply tailored suits and tuxedos. Asher had said these people would be the upper crust of society, billionaires and philanthropists, the kind of people Hideo must constantly cross paths with.
Then, finally, I reach the end of the hall, where I spot who I’ve been searching for.
Every muscle in my body tenses at the same time. Hideo’s standing there with a small circle of his bodyguards, each of them dressed in matching black suits, and he’s deep in conversation with several other well-dressed people. Kenn. Mari is here, too, in a long-sleeved, silver dress with a sheer tulle train. There’s a young woman about my age who’s leaning into Hideo, laughing at something he’s just said. I try not to pay attention to how beautiful she is. A few others, women and businessmen alike, wait on the sidelines for their chance to talk to him.
At least Asher was right about this setting—if Hideo sees me here, he’s not going to want to cause a scene. There have been enough disruptions during this year’s championships, and too many elite folks are here. But if he doesn’t want me to cause a scene, he’ll have to agree to talk to me.
As I watch him politely field the girl’s questions, I gradually start to dissolve the anonymous virtual face I’ve overlaid over my own, erasing it so that only Hideo will be able to see behind it. Then I step forward until there’s no one before me except him and the girl.
He glances in my direction. Then he freezes. His distant expression vanishes, and for an instant, all I can see beneath it is a look of shock.
Beside him, the girl touching his arm looks in my direction and gives me a confused scowl. To her, I still look like some stranger, someone she doesn’t know, and she lets out a nervous laugh. “Who’s this, Hideo?” she says.
One of the bodyguards must sense Hideo’s sudden change in demeanor, too, because I see his hand fly to his gun. I instinctively brace myself. I’ve made a mistake, I’ve misjudged this event—Hideo’s going to let his guard take me down, he doesn’t care about making a scene here, no matter how many powerful people are at this party.
But then Hideo holds up a warning hand at the guard. He meets the man’s eyes and shakes his head once. “Excuse me,” he says to the girl at his side, then takes a few steps toward me. He gives me a polite bow of his head, and I return the gesture.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you,” he says. He takes my hand and presses it once to his lips. Behind him, the girl he’d been with sucks in her breath and exchanges a quick look with a friend. The conversation around us turns quiet.
His mind must be spinning right now. He must be wondering how I got in here, whether the Phoenix Riders are in on whatever my plans are.
On the surface, though, I just smile back and play along, as if everything were fine. “Well, is that my fault, or yours?”
He turns briefly to his other guests, all of whom are staring at us with obvious interest. “My apologies,” he says. His eyes go to his bodyguards. “Stay here. I won’t be long.” Without waiting to hear their responses, he turns to me and places one hand at the small of my back. I try to ignore the sensation, that the only thing separating us is the silky fabric of this dress.
His expression is tired, and I wonder if he’s learned anything new about the bug in the algorithm since I eavesdropped on his conversation. He doesn’t seem like he trusts me, but for some reason, he still nods and steers us through the hall until it branches into the museum’s interior, where one corridor leads out into a vast courtyard.
There’s a slight chill in the night air, and the grounds are sparsely populated with only a few people here and there. Trees line the sides of a towering structure that curves up to the evening sky. Other art installations look like they’re dedicated specifically to Warcross. One series of 3-D sculptures forms the Warcross logo from certain angles, and from other angles looks like an Artifact, or a popular virtual item, or the outfit of an official player. Another piece of art is a stylized interpretation of the various worlds used in this year’s championships, a series of white polygons in a row, representing the ice columns from the White World I’d played in or modern art ruins of a city encased behind a giant glass cube tinted an underwater green color. Yet another looks like a real-life ode to Warcross’s virtual-reality realms: dozens of giant, round lights installed in the ground, so that each shoots a colored beam up toward the sky. Orchestral music plays softly, changing whenever we step onto one of the light columns, matching each color to a different musical cue. As we walk through them, we cast shadows haloed in the color of that column of light.
The mood would feel almost peaceful, if it weren’t for the reason we’re out here.
Now Hideo leads us close to the light installation. Blue and yellow beams cast their colors against his skin.
“Where are we going?” I say.
Hideo’s gaze turns dark. “I’m escorting you out,” he says in a low voice.
I’m not surprised by his words, but they still hit me hard. He doesn’t speculate about the fact that I’d clearly gotten help from the Riders or that I might be here to hurt him. He just looks at me like I’m nothing more than some distant associate that he’d already forgotten. I can feel my cheeks warming, my heartbeat beginning to race. It’s stupid of me to still be bothered by him, but I can’t force the sting down. It makes me think that maybe I’d always read him wrong.
Unless he’s afraid of me being here. Maybe he’s afraid that I’ve been sent here after him. And he’d be right.
“Please,” I respond before I can think through my words. “Just hear me out. I’m not here to argue with you. Neither of us has the time for that.”