The building had some ridiculous name, but everyone just called it the Spire. A monolithic slab of black glass and reinforced steel, it sliced through Nova’s poisoned skies like a guillotine, reflecting the neon chaos below in distorted fragments. It wasn’t just the tallest structure in the city—it was the city. Everything else around it—skyscrapers, tenements, megamalls—looked like malnourished children cowering in its shadow.

That was no accident. If Hyperion said something mattered, it mattered. If they said it didn’t, well… good luck convincing anyone otherwise.

Hyperion Integrated Systems (HIS)—or just Hyperion—wasn’t just a corporation. It was the corporation. Cybernetics? They owned the patents. AI development? Their labs set the standard. Energy harvesting, orbital mining, military-grade weapons, and gene therapy—if it turned a profit, Hyperion had their claws in it. Their motto, “Tomorrow Demands Sacrifice,” was plastered across every AR billboard, every terminal, and every indoctrination seminar they called a "team-building session."

Of course, I always added my own personal spin, but never loud enough for someone to hear.

Employees liked to joke that HIS really stood for “Hell Is Standard.” But you never said that too loud. Not unless you wanted one of their drones or, God forbid, a Collector, to take a sudden interest in your next performance review.

I stared up at the Spire, neck craned until its jagged edges blurred into the brown-gray haze of smog. Every day, I thought about turning around. Doing literally anything else. But every day, I ended up walking through those revolving doors.

Not showing up wasn’t an option. Not because I liked the job—I hated it with every fiber of my being—but because of what Hyperion would do if I didn’t. People disappeared sometimes. Not in a dramatic way, with screaming or raids. They just… stopped showing up. And no one ever asked why.

Then there was the debt. Hyperion didn’t just pay you—they owned you. The benefits looked great on paper: subsidized cybernetics, neural implants, affordable healthcare. But every shiny new upgrade came with a catch. The minute they bolted that enhanced wrist interface to your skeleton or jacked a retinal overlay into your brain, you were theirs.

Take me, for example. I had a mid-grade wrist interface, a basic ocular scanner, and a biometric ID chip embedded in my palm. Nothing fancy, but still enough to owe them about six lifetimes’ worth of paychecks. If I quit, they’d send the Collectors to remind me that my body wasn’t entirely my own anymore.

Collectors weren’t your standard corpo goons. These guys were nightmares wrapped in leather trench coats, looking like they’d stepped off the set of some low-budget holo-flick. But there was nothing cheap about them. Underneath the coats were augments designed for one purpose: retrieval. Their glowing red optics scanned you down to your skeleton and people whispered that if you owed Hyperion something, they wouldn’t stop until they got it back—piece by bloody piece. And if they decided you weren’t worth keeping intact? Well, there were worse things than vanishing.

I slurped the last dregs of my lukewarm NeoBrew synth-coffee as I shuffled through the revolving doors. If it tasted anything like it smelled, then yeah, synth-coffee was piss. Not that I had firsthand experience, but it was the kind of universal truth you didn’t need to test to believe. Hyperion could slap a name like “NeoBrew” on it and pretend it was cutting-edge, but we all knew better.

Inside, the air was ice-cold, filtered to Hyperion’s idea of perfection. Crisp. Sterile. Just shy of freezing, probably thinking the chill would keep us awake and moving. Comfort wasn’t in the budget—if your fingers went numb, it was your fault for not typing fast enough.

“Welcome, Employee #478249,” chirped a holographic receptionist as it flickered to life in front of me. Its smile was a crime against nature—glass-eyed, perfectly symmetrical, and stretched a little too wide.

I forced my mouth into something resembling a smile as the biometric scanner lit up, sweeping a cold blue light over my face. Smile for the Corpo, or else. It wasn’t a slogan, but it might as well have been.

“Identity confirmed. Clearance granted,” the hologram chirped, its glassy-eyed grin never faltering.

With a soft hiss, the reinforced security doors ahead of me slid open, revealing the Spire’s main lobby. A second later, a red beam swept over my body, emanating from a recessed scanner in the ceiling. It moved slow, deliberate, like it was savoring the moment. I held my breath, waiting for the green light to flash, signaling that I wasn’t about to be tackled by security drones.

When the beam finally blinked green, a disembodied voice chimed in: “Welcome, Employee #478249. Have a very productive day.”

“Sure,” I muttered under my breath as I stepped inside, feeling the unseen eyes of the Spire tracking me.

The lobby was the same suffocating circus as always. Polished black tiles so reflective they turned your every movement into a warped, distorted version of yourself. AR billboards floated mid-air, endlessly cycling through the same corpo-garbage:

“Productivity Is Purpose.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“You Exist to Excel.”

“Innovation Demands Sacrifice.”

The last one lingered too long, the words flickering ominously as if to drive the point home. Every time I saw it, that same weight settled in my chest, heavy and constant. It wasn’t a motivational slogan—it was a promise.

Security was everywhere.

To my right, a guard stood by the elevator banks, clad in sleek, matte-black armor that looked more expensive than my annual salary. His helmet had no visor, just a smooth, reflective surface that gave me the unsettling feeling he was staring into my soul. An energy rifle hung at his side, and I could tell by the faint hum it wasn’t just for show.

Above, a security drone buzzed like an angry wasp, its single red optic sweeping the room in slow, deliberate arcs. It paused for a moment, its lens pointed directly at me. My gut twisted. Then, just as suddenly, it moved on, its surveillance continuing elsewhere.

Even the air felt weaponized. Hyperion kept the temperature just shy of freezing, like they thought cold employees were productive employees. The chill gnawed at my fingers, but I knew better than to complain. Comfort wasn’t in the budget—efficiency was. If you froze, it was your fault for not moving fast enough.

Neon light filtered in through the Spire’s towering windows, casting jagged reflections of the city’s chaos outside. On any other day, the lobby was just another reminder of how insignificant we all were in the grand machine. But today? Today felt especially fucked up.

Something was wrong.

The polished, pristine facade felt a little too rigid, like a rubber band stretched just shy of snapping. There were more guards than usual. Drones hovered closer, their optics lingering a little too long on everyone entering.

I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Coworkers shuffled through the entryway with nervous glances, muttering to each other in hushed voices. Normally, the monotony of the Spire swallowed everyone whole by now, but today there was a ripple in the air—like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.

It started with the elevator.

Normally, it was the one moment of my morning where I could just exist without Hyperion shoving its slogans or quotas down my throat. Smooth, quiet, efficient—the elevators worked better than most of the people riding them. Hyperion didn’t spare much for employee comfort, but the elevator tech? Top-tier. Probably because a stuck exec was bad for business.

Not today.

I stepped inside just as Harris squeezed through the closing doors. He worked two floors above me in logistics, an older guy with graying hair and an attitude so dry you could sand wood with it.

“Morning, kid,” he said, leaning heavily on the chrome railing, his tired eyes scanning the AR panel. The glowing display projected the day’s forecast—acid rain, as usual—and a cheery reminder: “Every Second Matters—Make Yours Count!”

I stared at the words, my lips pulling into a tight line. You really can’t go thirty seconds without being reminded you’re wasting company time by existing.

“Yeah, sure, morning,” I muttered, watching him fish a crumpled cigarette pack from his pocket. Smoking was illegal this far up the Spire, but Harris didn’t care. He pulled out a cigarette and tucked it behind his ear, his own small act of rebellion.

“You catch the game last night?” he asked, shifting his weight.

I glanced at him. “You know I don’t watch that corpo-fed garbage.”

Harris snorted. “You’re missing out. Some kid from the Neo-Rio Circuit got popped for having augments under the table. Thing’s all over the feeds.” He tapped the side of his head, where his neural implant glowed faintly. “Makes you wonder how many of them are juiced up these days.”

I shrugged. “All of them, probably. You think Hyperion’s gonna sponsor someone without making sure they’re stacked?”

He grunted in agreement, but before he could say more, the smooth jazz that always played in the background stuttered and cut out mid-note.

The elevator jolted.

I grabbed the railing as the AR panel flickered, the glowing interface scrambling into static. Harris straightened, his hand instinctively moving toward the cigarette behind his ear like it might calm him down.

“Processing Failure – Priority Alert,” the display read, its text flashing red for a heartbeat before it disappeared, replaced by the usual corporate nonsense: “Stock Markets Up 0.3%” and “Hyperion’s Earnings at All-Time High!”

The lights dimmed. Not enough to throw us into darkness, but enough to make my pulse quicken.

Harris glanced at me. “That happen often?”

“Nope,” I said, gripping the railing tighter. “Never.”

The lights flickered back to full brightness, but the unease didn’t fade. I glanced up at the security camera nestled in the ceiling corner. Its red light blinked rhythmically, like it always did, but I couldn’t shake the feeling it was looking at me.

“Probably a glitch,” Harris said, his tone flat but his eyes sharper than usual. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure,” I muttered, the unease curling in my stomach like a fist. Doesn’t mean anything was corpo code for ignore it and pray it doesn’t involve you.

The elevator continued its climb, but the hum of its engines sounded heavier, strained. I stared at the AR display as it cycled through stock quotes and performance reviews, waiting for the floor indicator to change. The moment dragged, stretching far too long for something that was supposed to be instantaneous.

Harris sighed, scratching at his stubble. “You know, kid, maybe you’re onto something with skipping the game. Seems like everything’s rigged these days.”

I blinked, caught off guard. Harris having a coherent thought about how worthless corpo controlled entertainment was? That was new. For a second, it felt like he might actually peel back the layers, start connecting dots about the world we lived in.

But no. This was as far as it ever went.

People could handle that first step—realizing the game was rigged, that everything we were fed was just another distraction. But going deeper? That was too much. The further you peeled back the layers, the more it hurt. It wasn’t just the system—it was the realization that you’d been complicit, living the lie because it was easier than facing the truth.

Hyperion made sure of that.

They made sure there was always something to numb the pain. Synth booze to dull the edges. Neural feeds to drown you in endless entertainment. Designer drugs that let you forget yourself entirely for a few blissful hours. Bread and circuses, only now the bread was synthetic, and the circuses were pumped straight into your brain.

47… 48…

The doors slid open and Harris gave me a mock salute. “Catch you later.”

Harris gave me a sideways glance, probably sensing where my head had gone.

“You know the trick, right?” he said, smirking. “Don’t think about it too hard.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, stepping out as the doors slid open. “Take care.”

I stepped out, swallowing the lump in my throat as I glanced back. The AR panel flickered again just before the doors closed, the screen stuttering with static before stabilizing.

I should’ve taken the stairs.