Closed Loop

He came in just before closing. Suede coat that hadn't seen rain, shoes that cost more than my rent. The kind of man who worked for someone important, but not important enough to smile.

"She's looking for something refined," he said. "Said you deal in authenticity."

Authenticity. As if pain had to come with a certificate.

"I deal in memories," I said, dragging my hand across the cluttered console. "Authentic's extra. You want real emotion? Real love? That'll cost."

He didn't flinch. Just placed a cred-stick on the counter. "She wants it delivered tomorrow night."

I nodded. "Then she'll get what she paid for."

The suite was thirty floors up, above the rot, the gutters, the boiling noise of the street. The kind of place where the windows showed filtered sky and soft rain sound was imported for ambiance.

She opened the door herself. No staff, no security. Just her, in silk the color of warm gold, whispering under the suite lights, leaning against the frame like we'd met before.

"Didn't think you'd deliver personally," she said.

"You live high up," I said. "Figures."

She smiled. "Up here, we like to forget how the city smells."

I handed her the chip. "Maybe, but you're no different than the rats who crawl into my shop. You just have more creds. Buys you the good dreams."

Her smile widened. Not offended...amused. She stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell her perfume, spiced citrus and money.

"Then maybe you'll understand why I like the ones that feel real." She turned the chip in her fingers. "Want to try it?"

"Not my thing."

"It could be," she whispered. "This one's... special. You should feel what she feels like. Just once."

She slid the chip toward me like a bribe. Or a dare.