CHAPTER 1
LIORA
The Novaria Convention Spire smells like recycled air, burnt plastifilm, and desperation.
I hate it.
It’s the kind of place where every surface is so polished you can see the bags under your eyes reflecting back at you in shame. I’ve barely cleared the security scan when some overexcited event intern in a glow-pink jacket starts bouncing toward me like a puppy with booster boots. “Liora Bevins!” she squeals, holding a glitter-dusted compad. “Can I just say,Monstrous Mazesliterally changed my life. Like, literally. I used to be scared of tight spaces, and now?—"
“You’re still scared, but now it’s justified,” I deadpan.
She blinks, then laughs like I told a joke instead of a truth. “You’re so funny! This way please—we’ve got your whole press track scheduled! The ‘Girls in Gaming’ panel is in fifteen, then fan meet-and-greet at the Infinity Café?—"
“Uh-huh,” I murmur, already plotting my exit route. There’s an emergency elevator shaft near Hall H. If I time it right between signings, I can vanish.
But for now, I slap on a smile, tilt my head just-so, and wade into the mob of fans who all want a piece of the ‘teen game dev genius who built an empire from her bedroom.’
A guy with a VR rig clipped to his jaw shoves a mic in my face. “Liora, quick question! If you could be stuck in any level ofMonstrous Mazes,which would it be?”
“None of them,” I answer, sidestepping him with practiced ease. “I made the game so I wouldn’t have to play it.”
Sim-streamers crowd around like scav-bots to a blood spill. One tries to hand me a marriage proposal on a glowing data chip. Another wants me to sign his face. I dodge. I flirt just enough to avoid being labeled “cold” but not enough to encourage further delusions.
It’s exhausting.
I’m counting down the minutes till my contractual obligation ends when something odd catches my attention.
The hallway outside Hall G wasn’t there before.
Seriously, there was a barrier there this morning. Now there’s a softly lit corridor stretching out like an invitation. No signage. No crowd.
No way I’d miss a chance to ghost early.
I slip away while the interns wrangle the next round of photo ops, my boots clicking against the synthetic marble as I approach the new passage. A guide stands at the entrance—a man too clean, too symmetrical. PR clone, probably. He smiles like he’s never once questioned his job.
“Miss Bevins,” he says smoothly. “Your private demo pod is ready.”
“What demo?” I ask, but I follow. Of course I do.
Inside, the walls hum with hidden tech. Soft blue lights pulse rhythmically. The floor feels like it’s cushioning my steps. The door slides shut behind me with a hiss that sounds way too final.
I reach for my compad. It dies in my hand.
“Okay, that’s not creepy at all,” I mutter. I poke the door. It doesn’t open.
A light flashes overhead. Then—pain.A sharp sting in my neck, cold and sudden. My vision tilts. My knees betray me.
The last thing I hear is the too-chipper guide’s voice, warped and fading. “Thank you for your participation.”
I wake up to white.
Sterile light floods my vision. Cold metal presses against my back. My mouth tastes like old copper and disinfectant.
“Get up,” a voice growls.
I blink. A blurry silhouette looms over me—giant, armored, and definitely not human. My head pounds as I sit up. My clothes are gone, replaced by a skintight white bodysuit that smells faintly of ozone.
There are others.
