It is 9 AM and Razor has twelve hours to kill. She sits up and shakes her head, faces of the fallen fading in the morning light. Rubs her eyes and blinks until her choon boots up and the HUD appears over her vision. With a thought the buzzing alarm is silenced, replaced by the upbeat jingling of vaporwave hits. She picks up a T-shirt off the floor and dances down the stairs to her kitchen, all black marble and stainless steel.

Scrambled eggs, toast and a strawberry banana smoothie keep her company while she scrolls though the headlines in her feeds—yet more syndicate leaders were caught embezzling, the police busted a couple of dogmen that were slinging smoove in schoolyards, and more violence in Catsville as conflict between the Red Panthers and the War Wolves heats up. Razor only lingers on a list of bands and DJs that will be performing in the bars and clubs of Jungle City tonight. A few old favorites, like DJ Kong and the Force Brothers, but mostly new names waiting to be discovered. Razor feels a twinge of excitement. It has been too long since she has gone dancing. After breakfast she cleans until the kitchen looks like it has never been used—not a single crumb betrays the presence of a living occupant.

Razor ties up her shoulder-length black hair with a red ribbon, then pulls on her comfy white hoodie and grey sweatpants, along with a battered old pair of trainers. A few minutes spent stretching, then she switches the music to her private channel and heads out the door, down the hall and around the corner to a stairwell guarded by a glowing red soda machine that always has Cherry Jet when she wants one. Each morning she runs all thirty flights of stairs twice, then goes back to her apartment to hydrate before heading into the workout room. There she spends two hours on machines and free weights before cooling down with some light gymnastics. Meditation helps her relax and recenter herself, and a long hot shower does the rest. After that comes the point of every day that she dreads the most: the moment she sits down on her couch to figure out what to do next.

It surprised Razor to learn that boredom could be so painful. To her, it had always seemed a luxury for the wealthy and the foolish, but it was just a different kind of hurt. A throbbing ache that only gets sharper with each passing day, like a bone healing crooked.

Shopping and spa days were only fleeting distractions. Art was too tedious, vids were shallow spectacles and games provided no real challenge. Walks in McCready Park or the tented tech markets on the edge of Toy Town were pleasant ways to pass a few hours, but eventually she returned home with nothing to do. Tried drinking and drugs, but their relief was only temporary. Sex with men, women, bots and holodolls only remind her of the things she has too much time to dwell on already. Sometimes she catches herself wishing for a new contract, anything to end the boredom. But it can only be alleviated, not eliminated.

Tonight is supposed to help with that. A night out on the town is just what she needs. At least, that’s what Sharice tells her, because Sharice lives in a world where there is no problem that cannot be solved with a big enough party. But that is still hours away, hours she struggles to fill so she won’t feel the slow stab of ennui through her skull.

Find out how Razor’s night on the town turns into the longest week of her life in the novel.