Warcross (Warcross #1)(33)

I finally manage to give her a faint smile, then settle in to try to watch the rest of the draft. My thoughts whirl as the announcer pulls a second set of cards and reads them out. The Demon Brigade chooses Ziggy, while the Phoenix Riders nab DJ Ren. The Titans get Alexa Romanovsky. The show continues, but I feel as if the spotlight is still on me. The flashes of light going off in the audience make me dizzy, and I wonder how many people have their glasses trained on my profile, hunting and digging for anything they can find out about me.

“Hey.” Yuebin nudges me. “Look, up there.” He nods toward the private box. I follow his gaze, ready to see Hideo.

But Hideo is gone now. Only the rest of his company heads are there, chattering among themselves. Hideo’s bodyguards have left, too.

“It’s like he came here just to see where you would land,” Yuebin murmurs, clapping absently as another draft pick happens.

Just to see me drafted, the way he wanted me to be. My thudding heart sinks a little, and I feel a strange sense of disappointment without his presence in the arena. I’m about to look back down—but something shifts in the corner of my vision. My eyes dart up to the ceiling.

I freeze.

There, crouched high in the ceiling’s maze of beams, is a dark, virtual figure.

I can’t see anything else about him except static. The silhouette of his head is turned down, watching the draft take place. No name floats over his head. Everything about his posture looks tense, alert.

Like he’s not supposed to be here.

A chill runs down my spine, turning my hands ice-cold. At the same time, my bounty hunter instincts kick in—screenshot, record a screenshot. I blink, right as the figure vanishes from sight.

“Hey,” I blurt out, looking over at Ziggy, who is cheering on a wild card drafted by the Stormchasers.

“Hmm?” Ziggy replies without looking at me.

“Did you see that?”

“See what?”

But it’s too late now. The figure is gone. I scan the ceiling again and again—perhaps the lights have blinded me so much that I can no longer see him—but he’s nowhere to be seen now. The lattices of metal and lights are empty.

He wasn’t actually here. He was a part of the virtual reality, a simulation. And only I could see him because of my hack. Either that, or I just experienced an insane hallucination.

Ziggy frowns, squinting skyward. “See what?” she repeats with a shrug.

“I—” I stop myself, unsure what to say next without sounding crazy. I force a laugh. “Ah, never mind.”

Ziggy’s attention has already strayed back to the draft. But I keep my eyes on the ceiling, as if he might reappear if I look long enough. Did I catch him? As the others applaud another wild card, I bring up a small, secret panel of my screenshot.

Sure enough, there he is. I didn’t hallucinate it.

? ? ? ? ?

THE REMAINDER OF the draft passes in a whirlwind. When it ends and the rest of the stadium starts filing out, guards come to usher the wild cards and the professional teams out through special exits. I walk in numbed silence, even as everyone I pass watches me and as some of the other wild cards occasionally come up to congratulate me. I smile back at them, unsure what to say. In the back of my mind, I still keep thinking about the figure.

Maybe it was one of the other bounty hunters. Or . . . maybe it was Zero. My target.

“Miss Chen,” one of the ushers calls to me, holding his hand out in my direction and waving. “This way, please.”

I follow him automatically. Behind me, Ziggy and Yuebin wave farewell as they hurry off toward another usher who is rounding up the new Demon Brigade and Stormchaser drafts. “Bye! See you in a game!” Yuebin calls to me. I wave back.

I’m taken to a waiting car, one of a dozen sleek black vehicles in a line outside a private side exit. A cluster of fans have figured out where to wait, though, and as several of us step outside, they raise their posters and scream at us, holding out pens and booklets. Behind me, Asher Wing emerges from the exit with two handlers at his side. In virtual reality, Asher looks like a standing avatar; in real life, he is paralyzed from the waist down and sits in what must be the world’s most expensive wheelchair. Now that I’m close enough to him, I can take in the details of the chair’s solid gold rims and customized engraved leather.

I look back at his face, wondering whether I should go up to him and say a proper hello, but stop myself from interrupting as he winks at a blushing fan and scoots his chair back into the crowd for a bunch of photos. The crowd nearly swallows him up before his handlers push everyone off. Then I’m ushered into a car, and my moment passes. I’ll have to catch him later, when our team convenes.

The cars take off one at a time, each heading in the same direction down the same road. I know where we’re going—I’ve watched it play out on TV a dozen times. In the heart of Tokyo is the secure neighborhood of Mejiro, where a gated estate of luxury quarters house Warcross teams for the duration of the tournament. It doesn’t take us long to get there. As we pull up to the gate, reporters and fans cluster on the sidewalks, flying little drones in the sky to take as much video as they can. Several of the drones hover too close to the gates—when they try to cross over, they hit an invisible shield that disables them, sending them clattering to the ground.

“No cameras, no drones,” the guard at the gate repeats over and over in a bored tone.