"This afternoon’s entertainment is Su Yiyi," Cristian said, and the words landed like an order. "Bring her in," a bodyguard replied. The VIP box smelled of expensive liquor and old contacts. Glass walls, low lights, a crescent of faces dressed to be noticed. Cameras stood like statues at the railing, lenses already warm. Su Yiyi stepped through the door in the borrowed body that housed her second life. Her heels clicked on marble the way a clock ticks toward an execution. "Smile," Cristian said. His voice was smooth. He lifted his glass, watched her, and smiled as if he owned every second of this room. "Cristian." She kept her voice even. "You said this was a private arrangement." "It is private," he said. "Private between me and the rest of Harbor City." He gestured, and the screens lining the box switched to the club floor where the stage lights bored into the crowd. "You chose performance over silence, Yiyi. You chose to return. So perform." A club manager hovered, face white with the fear of small men close to bigger men. "Mr. Luna, the arrangement—" "Cut the legalese," Cristian snapped. He cut her off before the manager could promise anything that might sound like mercy. "She owes me. She performs the song. Public. Live. Or she pays every debt I write down." "You can't—" Su started. "You can," he said. "You will, and we'll celebrate your humility." There was laughter. The nearest camera clicked. A bodyguard stepped