He turned to the woman. “What would you prefer?”

Her voice was so quiet, it barely registered to his ears, but the drones caught it. With only a second delay, it echoed harsh and loud over the monitors. “Bullet.”

The Veyra captain standing to Greyson’s left, made note of her answer on a data-slate.

Greyson looked back to the man, waiting for his answer.

“Go fuck yourself,” he growled.

Greyson’s hand was already pulling his gun from the holster strapped over his shoulders, as the last syllable fell from the man’s lips. He didn’t look at the rebel man, instead he looked at the crowd. He found the mask of his mother, three rows back, perfectly composed. He saw the blur of his sister moving away from the platform, almost indiscernible behind the anonymity of her own mask.

He looked into the infinite eyes of the Veyra, the drone hovering in front of him at eye level as he aimed his gun at the base of the man’s skull, and watched as he tensed, jaw set.

He did not beg as he took his last breath.

“Noted,” Greyson said, and pulled the trigger.

The shot was dull in the open air, more a mechanical pop than a thunderclap, but the effect was immediate. The man’s head jerked forward, spattering the white marble platform and the woman with a fine red spray. For a moment the body knelt upright, still propped by the tension in the muscles. Then it collapsed sideways, corded hands pinioned behind the back like a trussed animal.

The crowd erupted in applause, like some primordial satisfaction had been delivered as the woman’s scream cut through the air with unbridled agony. She doubled over, head pressed to the marble, sobbing into her knees. She was begging now, begging to be spared, to be kept alive through a torrent of wails.

Begging for mercy that didn’t exist.

Greyson watched her for one beat, then two.

He felt a shallow sickness grow in his throat, and the tremor in his left hand as he aimed the gun at the back of her head.

His mask hid almost everything but not his breathing.

The captain inclined his helmet, a silent prompt for Greyson to finish her off. He nodded, swallowing as his finger tightened on the trigger, but hesitated, again.

A shot rang out beside Greyson in the next breath, and he blinked as the sound reverberated in his ears. The woman’s body slumped over beside her lover, blood pouring from the gaping hole in the back of her head. Slowly, Greyson turned toward the captain who was already holstering his own gun.

He’d hesitated, on live stream.

Greyson looked back into the crowd in search of his mother’s mask, but she was already gone, had slipped out through the revelry, the celebration of murder.

He’d be punished for this, he knew that.

The President’s son was not supposed to hesitate.

He pulled his eyes back to the woman’s lifeless body as he shoved his gun back into its holster, and squared his shoulders, waiting for the crowd to exhaust itself. As the applause finally died, Greyson stepped to the edge of the platform.

“Order has been preserved by the swift hand of justice,” he said, his voice cutting through the post-elation hush. “The Heart endures.”

He turned, not taking another look at the dead rebels, and descended the marble steps now dripping with crimson. The Veyra soldiers closed ranks behind him, a red ripple of authority as laborers began to remove the bodies and sterilize the plaza. Above, the drones continued to hover, recording every angle.

Greyson could feel it—the eyes on him, analyzing every step he took away from the platform. He should’ve felt something, should’ve felt guilt or shame. But in that deep pit of his stomach, Greyson only felt cold.

He rode the elevator to the seventy-eighth floor of the Serel Tower, alone.

The car was lined with smart glass, which mirrored his mask back at him from every angle, each reflection rendered in harsher contrast by the surgical white light. It wasn’t the face of a man, but the emblem of a system—a system that had worked for five generations to keep the city from eating itself alive.

The glass registered his biometrics, and glided to a halt with a sigh. The elevator door swept open only for a second door to appear. He inserted his key into the lock, twisting then pushing the door open. For once the rooms beyond the door gave him what he needed—silence.

His apartment was the largest unit in the Serel Tower outside of the penthouse his parents resided in, that consumed the top three levels, but he felt like it was shrinking in on itself. Anyone would be lucky to have it, and he knew that. Those from the Boundary and even the Cardinal would kill to spend just an hour in the luxury it provided, would commit unspeakable crimes just for the opportunity to shower there and bask in the amenities as if it were heaven. But for Greyson, it felt like a prison.

The execution haunted him, echoing in his ears like a phantom taunt. The feeble pop of the first shot, the desperate way she screamed for mercy, the way he’d hesitated, the way she’d begged.

The punishment would come soon; his father’s wrath would be waiting to greet him. ‘Mercy is weakness, Grey. Weakness is the end of all things.’ The lesson returned, more than a whisper now, more than a scrape at the edges of his memory. He could almost taste the consequences, could feel them sharpening the air like broken glass.

He locked the door behind him, allowing himself a small gesture of exhaustion, a quiet rebellion against the rest of the world as he let out a heavy sigh, and rested the back of his head against the cool door. His hands slowly peeled the gloves from his fingers, setting them on the entry table beside him, before removing the mask from his face. He set it on its stand and stared at it.

The burden of privilege.

Five generations ago, they were no more than symbols, ritualistic garnishments only worn during Vow ceremonies. As time progressed, and New Found Haven became more stratified, they began to be used as tools for oppression and social control. Elaborate customs and laws were created around masking, making it illegal for lower rings to look upon any of the elite’s unveiled faces.

Now, even the elite were not allowed to see behind others’ masks. Outside of those you were vowed to through ceremony, looking upon the face of another elite was considered an extreme violation of New Found Haven law.

If one of the elite were found guilty of a crime, only then would they be unmasked on live stream before their execution.

Greyson pulled his eyes away from the mask and rolled his jaw, biting back the rage it ignited in him. As if you could oppress the citizens of this city any more than they already were. His father only cared about power, and being the seat of it. He didn’t care that the people under his watch, outside of the Heart, were dying every day from starvation.

President Serel told his son that this was an act of God—letting those not strong enough to survive, die. Though Greyson knew that his father wouldn’t last a single day in the Boundary.

He swept the gloves off the entryway table and made his way to the bedroom, unbuttoning his jacket as he moved. The uniform went on a hanger; the gloves tucked into a drawer with compulsive neatness. He went to the far end of the large walk-in closet where the polished wooden floor met the baseboard, and knelt. The floor panel lifted at his touch, revealing a deep compartment lined with insulation and anti-scan mesh.

He reached his hand in and pulled out a large duffel bag, setting it beside him as he placed the wooden panel back in its place and leaned against the wall. His fingers wrapped around the handle of the bag, pulling it toward himself as he unzipped it. The contents spilled onto the floor in front of him, and he began his inventory for the next scheduled drop.