The man who could get you into any party in the Sprawl was currently stuck at a coffee cart, waiting for his order like everyone else.
"Rima Sky," the barista said, reading the name on the cup. She did a double-take. "Wait—the Rima Sky?"
He pushed blonde hair back from his face—a gesture so habitual it had become signature—and smiled. The smile was genuine. That was the thing about Rima: everything about him was genuine, which was precisely why no one believed it.
"One protein infusion, extra ice." He raised the cup in a small toast before taking a sip. "Best cart in Sector 4."
"I heard you got Senator Vance into the Obsidian Room last month," the barista said, leaning forward. "Nobody gets into the Obsidian Room."
Rima shrugged, already moving, already dancing slightly to music only he could hear. "The Senator needed to meet someone. I made introductions. That's what I do."
What he didn't mention: within three days, every detail of that meeting had found its way across half the Sprawl's intelligence networks. Not because Rima sold the information—he never sold anything. Information just moved around him, flowing in every direction, part of the same warmth that made everyone feel welcome.
That was just how it worked with Rima.
The call came at 6:47 PM, which gave him exactly three hours and thirteen minutes to work a miracle.
"El Money gave me your number," the voice said. Female, corporate accent, attempting to mask desperation. "I need to meet Kyra Okonkwo. Tonight. At the Helix benefit."
Rima was already pulling up venues in his head, calculating sight lines and optimal introduction moments. "Kyra's going to be at the secondary bar around 10:30, after her speech but before the auction. You want professional or personal?"
"Personal. I need her to like me."
"Then we're not doing the benefit. We're doing the afterparty at Prism. I'll text you the address in two hours. Wear something with color—Kyra hates corporate gray. And bring a story about your grandmother. She collects grandmother stories."
"How do you know that?"
"Everyone tells me things." He said it simply, without pride. It was just true. "I'll see you at 9:45. Don't be early—Kyra notices desperation."
He ended the call and finished his protein shake in three long swallows. The barista was still watching.
"Was that about the Okonkwo thing?" she asked.
Rima blinked. "I can't really discuss—"
"My cousin works security at Helix. He said there's some kind of internal power struggle. Something about research funding?"
"Oh, that." Rima waved a hand, already scrolling through his contacts. "Yeah, Director Chen is trying to consolidate the neural interface division. Kyra's blocking him because she thinks the consciousness transfer protocols aren't ready for human trials. Chen's bringing in external investors to pressure the board. The woman who just called me is probably one of those investors, wants to convince Kyra the funding won't compromise research integrity."
The barista's eyes had gone wide. "That's... incredibly specific."
"Is it?" Rima frowned, genuinely confused. "I thought everyone knew."
He dropped a generous tip in her jar and disappeared into the crowd, blonde hair catching the afternoon light, already dancing toward his next destination.
Behind him, the barista was already composing a message.
Prism wasn't the hottest club in the Sprawl—that changed weekly—but it was the one Rima had chosen tonight, which meant it became the hottest club the moment he walked through the door.
The bouncer didn't check a list. He just opened the rope.
Inside, the bass hit like a heartbeat. Laser grids carved the air into geometry. Go-go dancers in light-reactive suits moved in elevated cages. And at the center of it all, a raised VIP section where the truly powerful pretended they weren't watching the door.
They were all watching the door.
"Rima!" A corporate VP whose name Rima actually remembered waved from a booth. "Get over here! I've been trying to reach you for weeks!"
"Matsuda-san!" Rima slid into the booth like he owned it—which, in every way that mattered, he did. "Still trying to poach talent from Nexus? I heard your Shanghai offer was insulting."
Matsuda's smile flickered. "Who told you the numbers?"
"Someone at the Shanghai office. Or maybe someone at Nexus. I talk to a lot of people." Rima flagged down a server. "Seventeen bottles of laser juice for the table, and—" he leaned toward Matsuda's companion, a nervous-looking junior executive, "—what are you drinking, friend?"
"I... just water?"
"Perfect. One water, top shelf, the expensive kind that comes from actual glaciers." Rima winked. "You'll love it."
Within twenty minutes, the nervous junior exec was telling Rima about his grandmother's refugee story, how she'd survived the Three-Week War by hiding in a water treatment facility. It was a beautiful story, raw and human.
"You should tell that to Kyra Okonkwo," Rima said casually. "She collects those stories. Her grandmother was in the Cascade. I think she'd appreciate yours."
"I... don't know anyone named Kyra."
"You will." Rima checked his phone. "Actually, she just arrived. Let me make an introduction."
The introduction went perfectly. Of course it did. Rima positioned the nervous executive—whose name was James, who had come tonight hoping to network and had instead found something like acceptance—directly in Kyra Okonkwo's eyeline at the exact moment she finished her third drink and was feeling expansive.
James told his grandmother's story. Kyra's eyes softened. They talked for forty-seven minutes.
The corporate investor watched from across the room, waiting for her turn.
"You're incredible," the investor said when Rima finally brought her over. "How did you know she'd respond to him?"
"I didn't know. I hoped." Rima shrugged. "People are complicated. You can't predict them. You can only create the conditions and trust them to be human."
"That's very philosophical."
"Is it?" He looked genuinely puzzled. "I just like parties."
The investor laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of her. Something in Rima's confusion had cracked her corporate shell. By the end of the night, she and Kyra would be sharing a cab, discussing research ethics over street food.
Rima wouldn't take credit. He never did. He just kept moving, kept dancing, kept introducing people to other people, kept sipping from his protein shake like it was champagne.
By 2 AM, the entire VIP section knew about Helix's internal power struggle. Rima had mentioned it to a bartender while ordering drinks. The bartender mentioned it to a security guard during a break. The guard mentioned it to a dancer between sets. That was just how conversations worked around Rima—information flowed freely, carried on the same warmth that made everyone feel like they were in his inner circle.
By 3 AM, three different corporate intelligence operatives had reported variations of the same details, each believing they had exclusive access.
By 4 AM, Rima was gone.
The penthouse was quiet.
Rima stood at the window, watching the city lighten from black to gray to gold. His protein shake sat half-finished on the counter. The DJ booth was dark. The mini-club, designed for fifty of his closest "friends," held exactly one person.
His phone buzzed: seventeen new messages, four meeting requests, two party invitations, one corporate VP asking if he was free for lunch.
Everyone had his number. Everyone wanted something.
He scrolled through his contacts. Names, hundreds of them. Politicians. Executives. Criminals. Celebrities. Every powerful person in the Sprawl, all within reach.
He put the phone down without calling anyone.
The spa on the balcony was warm. The skyline was beautiful. The silence was... something. He couldn't decide if it was peaceful or empty. Maybe there wasn't a difference.
The best party host in the Sprawl settled into the heated water, alone, and watched the sun rise over a city that knew his name but not his face. That called him for favors but not friendship. That loved what he could provide but had never asked what he needed.
He pushed wet hair back from his face and took a breath.
Tomorrow there would be another party. Another introduction. Another night of making other people feel welcome in spaces that weren't his.
Tonight—this morning—there was just the view. And the quiet. And the question he never let himself ask.
He closed his eyes and listened to a rhythm no one else could hear.
The loneliness of the connector.