Cosima shoved past the two hulking wardens, her voice a low, furious growl. “Romy! What in the name of frosted hell were you thinking?!” One of the guards, a man with a neck like a tree trunk, snaked a thick arm out, blocking her path. “Unauthorized access to executive levels. She’s being detained for questioning.” “Detained? For a snack run?” Cosima’s voice rose, sharp with indignation. “She’s an intern! You can’t just —” Lazar’s palm settled against her spine, firm and grounding. He leaned in, his voice a murmur by her ear, “Easy, firebrand. We’ll get her back. Where are they taking her?” His eyes, usually crinkling at the corners with amusement, were now flat, assessing the retreating figures. The guard grunted. “Security Sub-Level Gamma.” “Sub-Level Gamma?” Cosima echoed, aghast. “That’s where they keep the rogue drones and the sentient coffee machines, isn’t it? She’ll never survive the bureaucratic paperwork monster!” Lazar was already moving, pulling her along. He strode to the bank of polished plasteel elevators. The security crew had already loaded Romy into one, its doors now sliding shut with a hiss. “Which one was it?” he asked, his tone surprisingly calm. Cosima gestured toward the brass indicator. “That one! The one that just vanished!” He nodded, pressing the call button for the next available elevator. It arrived with a silent *ding*, its interior gleaming under recessed lights. As the doors slid open, Lazar stepped inside, pulling Cosima with him. Instead of merely pressing a floor number, he leaned close to the brushed metal panel, his knuckles flashing over a recessed keypad Cosima hadn’t even noticed. A series of rapid clicks and soft beeps sounded, too fast for her to follow. “What are you doing?” she whispered, staring at his hands. He’d just punched in at least a dozen characters, a complex sequence of numbers and symbols. The display above the doors, which usually showed the current floor, now flashed a lone, glowing emerald 'P' – for Penthouse. Lazar straightened, a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Just… a little shortcut.” He grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. “Misspent youth, Cosima. I spent a good chunk of my teenage years navigating digital labyrinths. Breaking into the school’s vending machine system, then the library’s database. Corporate security systems? Just a slightly more complex game of ‘Simon Says.’” Cosima stared, a tiny, unsettling thrill zipping through her. “You… you hacked the firm’s security system? Just now?” “Relax,” he said, his eyes crinkling. “It’s a temporary override. We’ll be at the Penthouse Observation Lounge in precisely eight seconds. It’s where they process the ‘misguided’ rather than the ‘malicious.’ And it gives us a better vantage point for finding our chaotic little friend.” The elevator glided upwards with impossible speed, the city lights below blurring into streaks. Eight seconds later, it chimed softly, opening onto a breathtaking, panoramic view of the Los Angeles skyline. Below, a dizzying array of neon and starlight. Before them, a vast, circular lounge, all polished onyx and panoramic glass. And in the center, looking like a lost, disheveled bird in a gilded cage, was Romy, perched on a minimalist chrome chair, guarded by a bored sentinel. “Romy!” Cosima called, rushing forward. The warden, a scrawny man with weary eyes, merely sighed and gestured for them to approach. After a tense ten minutes of Cosima’s furious arguments and Lazar’s quiet, surprisingly effective diplomacy – which consisted mainly of him nodding sagely and promising future ‘compensation for the firm’s trouble’ – Romy was finally released, albeit with a stern warning and a three-day suspension. As they walked out of the monolithic building, Romy clinging to Cosima’s arm and Lazar trailing just behind, the late-night air felt crisp and free. “I swear, they kept talking about ‘re-education protocols,’” Romy said, rubbing goosebumps from her forearms. “And the CEO’s office is entirely made of clear crystal, like a giant terrarium! And they only serve artisanal celery juice up there!” Cosima squeezed her shoulder. “You’re safe now, you wild thing. And you definitely earned your freedom. Come on, I think we all need some proper, non-artisanal sustenance.” She glanced at Lazar. “My place or yours? I’m thinking takeout and a serious debunking of studio mythology.” Lazar’s apartment, tucked away in a bustling, slightly grimy artistic district, was a masterclass in carefully curated chaos. Paint splatters adorned the worn hardwood floors, canvases leaned precariously against every wall, and stacks of art books threatened to topple over. He’d even scattered empty instant ramen containers strategically near a perpetually humming mini-fridge. They settled on the floor, surrounded by a fragrant halo of General Tso’s chicken and lukewarm spring rolls. Romy had been dropped off at her own shared intern housing, still babbling about the terrarium office. Now, it was just Cosima and Lazar, streetlamp glare filtering through the lone, grimy pane. Cosima picked at a piece of broccoli, her usual sharp banter momentarily muted. “You know,” she began, her voice softer than he’d ever heard it, “seeing Miles’s eviction notice, that medical bill… it messed with me.” She looked up, her gaze raw. “It doesn’t excuse what he did, not for a second. But it just… complicated things. Made me feel like a monster for wanting to bury him.” Lazar reached across the floor, his knuckles brushing her wrist. “Wanting justice doesn’t make you a monster, Cosima. It makes you human. And what he did to you, stealing your passion, your future… that’s unforgivable.” “But what if I fail?” The words tumbled out, unbidden, stripping away her usual armor of sarcasm. “What if he actually manages to blacklist me? What if all of this… the stolen designs, the internship, the exposé… what if it’s all for nothing? I’ve poured my entire life into this. My parents, their entire savings, everything. I can’t… I can’t fail.” Her voice cracked on the last word, a rare vulnerability she immediately regretted showing. Lazar’s thumb stroked the back of her hand, a quiet, reassuring rhythm. “You won’t fail, Cosima. You’re too brilliant, too stubborn, too full of a furious, beautiful light. And I’m here. Whatever you need.” His sincerity, devoid of any of his usual playful teasing, surprised her. It felt like a warm, steadying anchor in the swirling chaos of her fears. She managed a small, shaky smile, the first truly unforced one she’d given him. “Thanks, Lazar.” Just then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his expression unreadable. “Duty calls,” he murmured, rising fluidly. “Something about a… a plumbing emergency at the co-op. Be right back.” He slipped into the narrow hallway, his voice dropping to a low tone as he spoke into the phone. Cosima watched him go, then let out a slow breath. Her gaze drifted around the meticulously crafted ‘broke artist’ space. Her eyes snagged on a section of the wall near a stack of ‘found object’ sculptures. A slight irregularity in the paint, a faint seam. Curiosity, a dangerous and potent force, tugged at her. She pushed herself up, crossing the room silently. Cosima traced the seam with her thumb. It wasn’t paint. It was a panel. Gently, she pushed. The section of wall clicked inward, then swung open with a nearly inaudible whir, revealing a concealed alcove. Inside, bathed in a soft, internal glow, was not a stack of spare canvases, but a sleek, hyper-modern drafting board. Its surface was a shimmering, responsive display, and mounted above it was an array of holographic projectors. This was not the tool of a struggling artist. Lying on the surface of the board, partially unrolled, was a heavy sheet of draft vellum. Her ribs squeezed tight. Shaking slightly, Cosima flattened the curl of paper, revealing the intricate lines of a massive build. A familiar icon, the stylized helix logo of the design house, was printed in the corner. Her gaze dragged across the title block: “Chimera Pavilion – Classified.” And then she saw it. The distinctive, sweeping cantilevers. The innovative, light-diffusing facade. The daring, sky-piercing central spire. It was the company's legendary, top-secret proposal for the upcoming global exposition in Cygnus City. The very blueprint the CEO was rumored to be personally overseeing, the one Miles had plotted to steal. The one that was so tightly guarded, it was practically a myth. Cosima stared at the blueprints, blood buzzing in her ears. Her sweet, broke, charming husband, the man who had just comforted her deepest fears, was standing in the hallway, taking a mysterious call, while in his apartment lay the classified secrets of the firm she was desperately trying to join. Was Lazar an industrial mole? Was he stealing from Stratum Atelier? And if he was, what did that make her? And did she have any choice but to turn him in?

The Penthouse Pilgrimage