O’Neil flinches – and recovers instantly, swinging his arm over to rest on the settee. “Too innocent, little Aylah?”

I shoot him a glare. Led chuckles in the background. “Trying to sound experienced, O’Neil? You don’t need to. Your age says enough.”

His grin melts into a dark scowl. I slip my tab back into the pocket of my coat. Not ideal but I suppose it'll do.

I made an appointment with Madame Rova. I want you and Whitson to pose as clients and gather as much intel as you can.”

Led spits out the water he is drinking. “Clients?”

O’Neil raises an eyebrow. “Problem, Whitson?”

“NO – I mean, of course not. Undercover work, right? We were trained for that at the Academy. Nothing out of the ordinary – just a regular day at work.” Led wipes his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

O’Neil’s eyebrow extends just a millimeter higher. “Right.”

I tap my finger against my thigh. “Right,” I say too.

The tram glides to landing without a hitch – a lot smoother than any police tram ever would. “I might get used to this,” O’Neil says as he jumps out. I tie on my rebreather, and grab a set of ear-receivers from one of the stands.

“Don’t,” Led grumbles. O’Neil tilts his head as though to hear through the static better and Led straightens. “Which way, sir?”

The streets of Lowtown are exactly like those in Brightside. They are narrow and grey, but not quite as blank. We disembark a street away from The Painted Rose. Led types away at his arm, presumably directing it to a safe landing zone. The white tram takes off without us and bolts away into the sky.

O’Neil studies us, hand beneath his chin. “You don’t really look like whore house clients.”

“That’s because we’re not,” I say, and maybe for the first time in our unfortunate acquaintance, Led grunts his agreement.

“Whitson looks an officer.”

“I am an officer.” Led tugs his jacket on tighter.

O’Neil shrugs to himself, likely surrendering. “Just stick to one story,” he advises.

The Painted Rose is an establishment I both didn’t know existed nor fancied myself ever entering. Life has a funny way of leading you where you never knew you could go. Or never wanted to. Or never thought about. Life’s sense of humour needs work.

It stands five stories tall, nestled between two aged residential blocks. We walk through an alley spray painted with ‘I was here’ and ‘She never deserved this’ and ‘I wish he made it last longer’.

I stare at the hate messages, all closely scrawled next to one another in bright neon colours and odd fonts. Some of the paint work is poor, like a child trying to write cursive with an uncoordinated hand; side effect of living in a society so reliant on technology, handwriting is an elective – and an unused one at that. It horrifies me that people would scribe this profanity against a figure of state – barring that, I often feel like writing the same about Ita Ru.

O’Neil stops when he notices me staring. After completing his own assessment of the wall, he replies: “Not all were happy with the old Foreman’s choices and views. Not all wanted to see her succeed. She ruined as many lives as she saved. It’s always a trade-off.”

"Do you think she deserved this?" I look away from the wall and at O'Neil, whose blue eyes seem to be flickering with a multitude of emotion.

“No. No one does. Sometimes in life we have to make choices – choices that hurt and choices that help, but never one is solely black or white. Someone always loses, somewhere on the chain. And the more important you are, the more losers you create.” O’Neil kicks a pebble with the toe of his boot.

Led comes to stand behind me. “My mother receives mail like this everyday. An excess on diplomatic decision days.”

I turn. “But why? The Foremen represent the wants of the Republic.” And Led's mother? She takes the cake, being one of the most popular among voters for decades.

Led meets my gaze with a chilling slowness. “Some people are too radicalistic to ever be represented.”

O’Neil is staring up at the sky, not saying anything – I can’t even see the rise and fall of his chest, he is so still. I place my hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Who decides what radicalistic and what’s not?” he does not face either of us when he says this. His voice rippling through the silence. He looks at me for a short second then: “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

We go.

I have to slide up the Temp Regulator of my jacket, it is so cold. Lowtown is as the name suggests – it is low. Greater distance from the clouds, greater distance from the last remnants of the sun, and almost at sea level, it feels as though I am wrapped in ice.

The Painted Rose is a fifty story building, though I would venture to say only the first five floors belong to the…’establishment’. The building is grey, thick and long, like all buildings. But this is Lowtown, where Precinct: Colden is more relaxed in their enforcement of the law, and where the more menial labourers stay in social housing. On the grey front of the building, beside the glass doors, is a spray painted red rose, with white paint dripping off of it.

“A new spin on an old tale,” O’Neil says beneath his breath, but the logo is not familiar to me. I look to Led and he shrugs. “I’ll go in first, you and Whitson follow suit in a few minutes.”

I wrap my coat tighter around myself. It’s unnecessary, but the act makes me feel safe. Led slips his hands into his pockets and slumps his shoulders. “We should probably go wait in the alley,” he says. “We don’t know if there are cameras here.”

My Specs don’t auto-detect cameras, and no prompt to link to any comes up. After watching O’Neil let himself in through the imposing glass doors, I relent. “Yeah, sure, okay.”

Ten minutes ticks by pretty fast. Maybe because Led is company. “I’ll go first,” he says, straightening the lapels of his jacket. I want to protest; O’Neil did not say to split up. Then I think of how much do I really want to follow Led anywhere? Led, who is spoilt and rude and bigoted. Led. I let him go without me.

Without Led, the alley feels even colder. I know it is in my mind because my Specs don’t inform me of a temperature change. I still feel cold. The chill slithers up my legs. I shiver. It wraps itself around my waist and advances with horrifying slowness. I shiver. Its talons encase my throat. I cough. I turn the temperature of my Regulator higher.

I am so absorbed in doing this, I do not hear the door swinging open. I do not even think I knew there was a door there. There was. It banged! against the graffitied wall and my heart jumps.

A man stands in the doorway. He rakes his hand through his hair, and kicks something. It scuttles away then he drops his face into the palms of his hands. I hesitate. Should I…leave? Enter earlier? Should I try to duck out of sight?

While I am frozen, considering my next move, he looks up and makes it for me. And by everything that is grey in this world, he is handsome. “Hi,” he says, and I am still frozen but this time it is not because of the things I can do, should do. Like walk away. Walk away. I don’t want to. There is something fathomless in his bright eyes that keep me rooted in place. He shoves his hands into his trouser pocket, withdrawing a small box. “You okay over there?”

He isn't wearing a rebreather. From the rapid rise and fall of his chest ingesting the poison mingled with oxygen, he's feeling the effects of that too. He doesn't seem particularly worried about letting the tainted air float into the building either.

What would O’Neil do? What would…a proper official do? I’m not trained for this. Shit, what do I do?

“Oh, uh, fine! Just fine.” Yeah. That works. Fine.

He thins his lips and nods complacently. “Yeah, I get that.” He pulls out a thin white stick from the box and holds it to his lips.

I restrain the horrified outcry from bursting forth. “You’re smoking?” I try to sound casual. I don’t think it works.

He doesn’t seem to care either way. He nods and lifts a lighter to his lips. An open flame flickers. A list of dangers flicker through my mind. Open flames were banned when the air toxicity became apparent. Cigarettes were banned long before that. I tighten my hands into fists and hold my silence. Some things are better left unsaid. Most things.

He takes a long drag and I stand there awkwardly, not knowing where to put my hands – whether to fold them, or put them into my pockets or let them dangle loosely at my sides. Should I go? Stay?

Grey smoke trickles from his lips – I avert my gaze. That’s weird, right? Standing here is weird? I should go. Probably. Yes. That. Go. And I am about to leave, I swear I am. The intention is so deeply rooted I can feel it tingle at the ends of my toes. I am about to go, but he speaks: “So what are you doing here?”

He faces me, looking expectant. His hair hangs, dishevelled, over his forehead – clothes rumpled and hastily tossed on; his grey shirt creased, and eyes tired.

“Oh, you know,” I say because I don’t know. I don’t know what to tell him – should I be straight forward and outright? Or should I make a play at something more covert? Do I even have what it takes for something covert? Maybe I should just keep quiet. Yes. That. I like that.

He gestures toward the building. "Do you want to come inside?"

I freeze.

Wait, really?

Quickly, before he can change his mind. “Yes.”

I mean I have to go in sooner or later; now is as good a time as any. He nods and pulls on the handle of the metal door that blends so seamlessly into the grey concrete. I’m surprised it is not covered in profanity and lewd images. Instead, the only break from the monotonous grey is the spray painting of a white rose, dripping in red paint.

“Thorne,” he says, gesturing for me to enter first. I blink at his thin face; his cheekbones are skyscraper high and he has a jawline for days. What’s wrong with me? Why am I reacting like this? I quickly move past him and enter The Painted Rose.

“Aylah.”

“Beautiful name.”

Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush.

The first thing that hits me when I remove my rebreather, is the incense. Rose - not even a hint of chemicals that bind the synthetic smell, just rose in its purest form – and the lightest tinge of honey.

The next thing is the red. Red, red, red, red. Red drapes over every surface imaginable, broken off with incredibly dark woods. A red sofa with wooden borders, fashioned in an old architectural style that must be centuries gone faces the door. It does not look cheap. The upholstery is rich and velvet.

The third thing is cigarette smoke, tasting acidic and poisonous at the back of my throat. He leaves the door open, allowing the wafting smoke to drift out. The outside air feels heavier and somehow intoxicating. More grey slips from his lips, like mist from a crack in the window when its not shut properly. If mist was meant to kill. “Are you a new patron?” His eyes narrow as he studies me. I cross my arms protectively. “I’ve never seen you around before.”

No rolls off my tongue so easily, it takes all of my willpower to drag the word back. No, I’m not a patron.

“You’re going to act as clients,” O’Neil had said…so yes, I am a patron? I’m not cut out for this. I want to go back to my lab and tight fitting nanosuits and I’d rather die than endure this awkward conversation.

“Just…passing through.”

What does that even mean? I don’t know. He doesn’t know either; he tilts his head to the side and nods slowly. Thorne crushes the cigarette beneath his boot before coming in and closing the door behind him. “Welcome to The Painted Rose.” A wry grin crosses his face.

“Thanks.” I don’t think I mean it. I'm grateful when he slides the door shut; I am too unused to unfiltered air to breathe it – however diluted – for too long. I'm pretty sure extended exposure will knock you unconscious before eventually corroding your lungs. If Thorne knows this, he does not seem perturbed by it.

He raises his hand, as though to touch my cheek but lets it drop midair. "Too shy to go out front?"

Is he saying– Stop. Client. I am a client. I try for what I hope is a shy smile; it doesn't take much effort which reinforces it's authenticity. I did feel shy. Warmth flushes to my cheeks. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I try to ignore the uncomfortable weight of the tension that lies thick between us. He parts his lips to say something and a piercing scream takes the stage away.

I reel back instinctively – at first believing it to be him. Then I register the female undertone to the cry of horror…or maybe outrage because the crash! of glass follows. “I have to go.” Thorne pushes past me and marches down the hall. Another pulsing cry erupts – I hold the palms of my hands to my ears. What is that?