Bleached Teeth Love

My brain feels like it’s vibrating at the exact frequency of a lithium-ion battery. It’s a good feeling. It means the connection is solid. I’m currently sitting on a bench that is ergonomically designed to prevent anyone from loitering for more than twenty minutes, but my neural-link is telling the city’s central grid that I’m actually performing a high-intensity meditative breathing exercise.

The grid loves that. It gives me social credit points while I commit a felony. I’m watching Idol-7 sleep. Not through a window. That’s low-res. I’m inside her pulse-sensor. Every time her heart thumps, I feel a tiny poke in my left temple. It’s intimate. It’s real. Right now, her REM cycle is peaking. Her eyes are darting behind her lids, probably dreaming about sponsored content or those synthetic peaches that cost fifty credits a pop. I’m logging the data because I care. It’s for safety vibes. If her heart rate spikes, I’ll know she’s having a nightmare about losing followers, and I can send a localized lavender-scented haptic pulse to her pillow. I’m basically a guardian angel with a high-end hacking rig.

The cherry blossoms in the park are blooming. They’re programmed to drop exactly three petals per minute. It’s a perfect spring day in the Dome. The sky is a flat, aggressive blue that makes your retinas ache if you look up for too long. Everything is clean. Everything is happy. If you cry in public, a drone shows up within ninety seconds to offer you a mood-stabilizing gummy and a mandatory therapy session. I hate those gummies. They taste like sour apple and crushed dreams. I keep my head down, focusing on the scrolling green lines of Idol-7’s biometric feed. Her blood oxygen is 98 percent. Her cortisol is low. She’s perfect.

Then, the world breaks. The blue sky doesn't just fade; it snaps. The pink blossoms turn a muddy, charcoal gray. The grass goes from neon lime to the color of a wet sidewalk. I blink, hard. My neural-link isn't disconnecting. It's being overwritten. A notification flashes in my optic nerve, bright white against the sudden gloom: 'COLOR PRIVILEGES REVOKED BY USER_PINA.'

"You’re kidding me," I mutter. My voice sounds flat in the grayscale world. Grayscale is a social death sentence. If a drone scans me now, it’ll think I’m experiencing a severe depressive episode and haul me off to the Joy Centers for a week of aggressive re-education. I look up and see her. Pina is leaning against a tree twenty feet away. She’s wearing a haptic suit that’s currently shimmering with a pattern of middle-finger emojis, though in my current state, they just look like dark gray blobs. She’s holding a handheld deck, her thumbs moving with a speed that suggests she’s already halfway into my back-end files.

"Safety vibes, Bax?" Pina asks. Her voice is sharp, cutting through the synthetic hum of the park. "Really? That’s the best cover story you’ve got for tracking a girl’s dream state? It’s a bit 2024 of you. A little too 'creepy neighbor,' not enough 'data architect.'"

"Fix my eyes, Pina," I say, standing up. My knees feel heavy. The lack of color is messier than I thought it would be. It makes the world look old, like a historical documentary about people who lived before the Dome. "I was mid-calibration. If I lose the sync now, her REM data will be corrupted."

Pina walks closer. She’s shorter than me, but she carries herself like she owns the server the city is hosted on. "Her REM data is already mine. I injected a sleeper cell into her smart-fridge three weeks ago. Every time she drinks her morning electrolyte sludge, I get a full dump of her neural activity. You’re playing catch-up with a pulse-sensor. It’s embarrassing."

"The fridge data is noisy," I argue. "There’s too much interference from the kitchen’s magnetic field. My link is direct. It’s pure. I can feel her dreaming."

"You can feel her biological functions," Pina corrects, stopping two feet from me. "Don't make it romantic. It’s just math. And currently, your math is being divided by zero." She taps a command on her deck, and for a second, the world flashes a sickening shade of yellow before settling back into the dismal gray. "I’ll give you back your colors when you admit my exploit is superior."

"Never," I say. I try to launch a counter-hack, but my fingers feel like sausages. The grayscale virus is affecting my motor coordination. It’s a classic Pina move. She doesn't just want to win; she wants to make you look stupid while you lose. "Why are you even here? You usually do your stalking from the comfort of your sensory-deprivation tank."

"I needed fresh air," she says, gesturing to the gray trees. "And I wanted to see your face when I hit the switch. It was worth the walk. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, or a budget spreadsheet."

We sit on the bench together. It’s a strange sight, I’m sure—two people staring at nothing, our brains busy screaming at each other through encrypted channels. A group of teenagers walks by, laughing too loudly. They’re all wearing the latest iris-glitter that makes their eyes glow in the dark. They don’t notice us. We’re just two more happy citizens enjoying the spring air. They can’t see the digital war happening in the air between us.

"I’m bored of the competition," Pina says after a minute. She finally hits a key, and the color rushes back into the world. The pink of the blossoms is so bright it actually hurts. "The market for raw biometric data is softening. Everyone wants the 'why' now, not just the 'what.' They want to know why Idol-7’s heart rate jumps when she sees a specific brand of sneakers. They want the emotional triggers."

"The advertising firms," I say, the gray fog lifting from my brain. "They’re getting desperate. The click-through rates on the standard neural-ads are plummeting. People are building up a tolerance to the direct-brain injections."

"Exactly," Pina says. She turns her deck toward me. On the screen, a complex map of Idol-7’s social circle is glowing. "I’ve been contacted by a firm. They’re based in the Undercity. No regulations. No ethics committees. They want a full biometric profile for their next campaign. The payout is enough to buy us a permanent bypass for the Dome’s surveillance grid. We could be sad whenever we want, Bax. We could be miserable in a penthouse."

I look at the data. It’s beautiful. It’s a complete map of a human soul, reduced to high-frequency oscillations and chemical spikes. "You want to sell her out?"

"I want to monetize our hobby," Pina says. "She’s a professional. She knows the game. She’s been selling her face for years. We’re just selling the stuff she doesn’t know she’s giving away. It’s efficient."

"It’s a lot of data," I say, my mind already calculating the transfer protocols. "We’d need a high-bandwidth physical connection to dump it without triggering the city’s firewalls. We’d have to get close to her. Physically close."

Pina smirks. "I already have a plan for that. There’s a meet-and-greet at the Spring Gala tomorrow. Five thousand credits for a thirty-second interaction. We use a proximity sniffer. We walk past, we dump the cache, we leave. Easy."

"Five thousand credits is a lot of money for a handshake," I say.

"It’s an investment," Pina says. "Are you in? Or are you going to keep playing guardian angel for free?"

I think about Idol-7. I think about the way her heart beats in my temple. It’s a rhythm I’ve grown fond of. But Pina is right. In this city, everything is a transaction. If you’re not the one selling, you’re the one being sold. "I’m in. But I want sixty percent. My pulse-sensor data is more granular than your fridge logs."

"Fifty-fifty," Pina says, her eyes narrowing. "And I won't turn your world gray for a month."

"Deal," I say.

We spend the next hour in the park, our heads leaned together, looking like a couple of lovers sharing a secret. In reality, we’re optimizing the virus that will strip the privacy from the only person we both claim to adore. The spring air is sweet, smelling of ozone and fake flowers. It’s a perfect day to ruin someone’s life.

The Spring Gala is a nightmare of forced joy. The walls are covered in living moss that breathes in carbon dioxide and exhales a light sedative. Everyone is dressed in clothes made of recycled light and bio-silk. I’m wearing a suit that’s programmed to look like a sunset, shifting from orange to deep purple as I move. Pina is next to me, looking sharp in a dress that looks like it’s made of cracked glass. She has her deck hidden in a clutch bag that’s actually a localized signal jammer.

"Target is at ten o'clock," Pina whispers. "She’s doing the rounds. Look at that smile. It’s a masterpiece of engineering. Not a single muscle out of place."

Idol-7 is standing near a fountain that pours liquid light instead of water. She’s surrounded by a swarm of fans, all of them holding up their wrists to sync their social profiles with hers. She looks radiant. Her skin is glowing, literally, thanks to a high-end sub-dermal shimmer treatment. She’s the personification of the Dome’s ideals. She is the ultimate happy citizen.

"My sensor is redlining," I whisper, checking the feed on my contact lenses. "Her heart rate is 110. She’s nervous. Or excited. Or both."

"It’s the crowd," Pina says. "She feeds on the attention. It’s like a drug. Let’s get in there before the security drones get suspicious of our lingering."

We push through the crowd. People are polite, stepping aside with programmed smiles and soft apologies. It’s the most polite mosh pit in history. As we get closer, I can feel the heat coming off the fountain. It smells like ionized air. Idol-7 is only a few feet away now. She’s laughing at something a fan said, a bright, melodic sound that’s been tuned for maximum engagement.

"Now," Pina says.

I trigger the proximity sniffer. My vision fills with progress bars. The data transfer begins. It’s a massive file. The REM cycles, the glucose levels, the neural pathways associated with her favorite brand of caffeinated water. It’s all flowing into our encrypted drive. Ten percent. Twenty percent.

Idol-7 turns her head. She looks directly at me. Her eyes are a startling, unnatural green. For a second, the connection in my temple thumps hard, a double-beat that isn't in the data logs. She’s looking at me, and I realize she’s not looking at my suit or my social credit score. She’s looking at my eyes. She knows.

"Forty percent," Pina mutters, her hand tightening on her clutch. "Keep it steady, Bax. Don't look away."

Idol-7 walks toward us. The crowd parts like a curtain. Her security drones hover a few inches higher, their red sensors scanning for threats. She stops right in front of me. The air around her smells like expensive vanilla and something sharp, like copper.

"You’re the one who’s been monitoring my sleep," she says. Her voice isn't the melodic chirping from the videos. It’s lower. Grounded. It’s the voice of someone who hasn't slept in three days.

I freeze. My heart rate spikes, and I wonder if she has a sensor on me, too. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't be boring," she says, stepping closer. She’s so close I can see the tiny, microscopic lines at the corners of her eyes that the shimmer treatment couldn't quite hide. "I’ve been watching the pings on my pulse-sensor for months. Most people just try to send me fan mail or dick pics. You... you were sending me lavender pulses. It was actually kind of sweet. In a terrifyingly invasive way."

Behind me, I hear Pina stop the transfer. "We’re at sixty percent," she whispers, but her voice lacks its usual bite.

Idol-7 looks at Pina. "And you. You’re the fridge hacker. You’ve been messing with my electrolyte ratios. I wondered why my morning shakes started tasting like battery acid and ambition."

Pina clears her throat. "It was an optimization strategy."

"It was a mess," Idol-7 says. She looks around the gala, her gaze sweeping over the happy, sedated faces of her fans. "But I’ve been looking at your work. The way you’ve been bypassing the city’s encryption is... impressive. My own team can't even get past the third-tier firewalls without triggering an audit."

"We’re specialists," I say, finally finding my voice. "We work in the margins."

"I know where you work," Idol-7 says. "And I know you’re currently dumping my biometric data into a black-market drive. You’re probably planning to sell it to some firm in the Undercity. Let me guess, 'Ocularis' or 'The Feedback Loop'?"

Pina and I exchange a look. "The Feedback Loop," Pina admits.

Idol-7 sighs, a long, weary sound that would probably get her arrested if she weren't a celebrity. "They’re low-ballers. They’ll give you fifty thousand and then resell the data for five million. You’re being exploited. It’s embarrassing."

"We were going to negotiate," I say, though we both know we weren't.

"Here’s the thing," Idol-7 says, leaning in so our shoulders touch. "I’m bored. I’m tired of being the face of a city that thinks a frown is a felony. I’m tired of my own data being used to sell people things they don’t need. But more than that, I’m tired of the engagement metrics being so... predictable."

She looks at the two of us, her eyes flickering with a kind of manic energy that I’ve only ever seen in the mirror. "The two of you have more access to my internal state than my own therapist. You know my dreams. You know my blood sugar. You know when I’m about to have a breakdown. That kind of intimacy is rare. It’s valuable."

"What are you saying?" Pina asks. She’s finally put her deck away. The game has changed.

"I’m saying the engagement metrics for a scandal like this would be insane," Idol-7 says. "'Influencer Joins Forces with Her Own Stalkers to Hack the City.' Can you imagine the numbers? We wouldn't just be selling my data. We’d be selling the story of the data. We’d be a brand. A collective. A... what’s the word you kids use? A polycule of high-end surveillance and aesthetic rebellion."

I blink. The world feels like it’s going gray again, but this time it’s not Pina’s virus. It’s just the sheer absurdity of the moment. "You want to join us?"

"I want to lead us," she corrects. "I have the platform. You have the technical skills. We monetize the obsession from the inside out. We turn the surveillance state into a reality show. We make the Dome look at its own reflection until it cracks."

She reaches out and takes my hand. Her skin is warm. Her pulse is steady. It’s the exact rhythm I’ve been hearing in my head for weeks. Then she takes Pina’s hand. We’re standing in a circle, three people in the middle of a gala, surrounded by light and sedatives and a thousand people who have no idea that the world is about to get very, very complicated.

"So," Idol-7 says, her smile turning into something real, something sharp and dangerous. "Are we in business, or do I have to call the mood-police and tell them you’re making me feel unsafe?"

Pina looks at me. I look at Pina. For the first time, we’re not competing. We’re looking at the same thing: a future where the metrics are off the charts.

"Business," Pina says.

"Safety vibes," I add, and for the first time, I’m not lying.

We walk out of the gala together, three people moving in perfect sync. The moss on the walls seems to breathe a little deeper as we pass. The spring air is still there, but it feels different now. It feels like a beginning. Or an end. It’s hard to tell the difference when you’re looking through a cracked lens.

As we reach the exit, a security drone hovers down, its blue light washing over us. It scans our faces, looking for any sign of the illegal sadness that would require a gummy. But we’re not sad. We’re something else entirely. We’re focused. We’re connected. We’re the highest-trending topic the city has ever seen, even if the city doesn’t know it yet.

"Wait," Pina says, looking at Idol-7. "If we’re doing this, I’m still keeping the fridge data. It’s more reliable than the pulse-sensor."

Idol-7 laughs, and this time, the sound is completely unrefined. "Fine. But if you try to change my electrolyte ratios again, I’m hacking your suit to display nothing but crying emojis for a week."

"Deal," Pina says.

I look at the sky. It’s still that aggressive, perfect blue. But somewhere out there, past the Dome, the real world is waiting. And I think, for the first time in my life, I want to see what color it actually is.

We disappear into the bright, spring night, three obsessives with a plan and a very high-bandwidth connection. The city hums around us, unaware that its most perfect citizen has just become its most dangerous variable. It's the ultimate engagement strategy. It's the most authentic thing I've ever felt.

In the distance, a drone's light flickers, then goes steady, unable to find a single flaw in our collective joy.