by Titoxz
The Aurora Bar crowned the top floor of a sleek high-rise, all tinted glass and elegant marble. When I arrived, an elevator whisked me up with a trio of junior executives who chatted about stock options and strategic expansions. I felt as if I were eavesdropping on an alien species. The elevator’s doors slid open onto a glittering foyer illuminated by discreet track lighting, well-dressed figures milling about with drinks in hand. Smooth lounge music swirled in the background.
I stepped inside, scanning for Igor. A swirl of polished suits and expensive smiles parted. At last, he spotted me and approached, radiating confidence. His hair was slightly longer, and his suit was tailored to perfection. “Victor,” he said in a tone that balanced warmth and condescension. “I was afraid you’d vanish forever.”
“Still here,” I murmured. “Though it feels like venturing into an alternate reality.” I gestured at the sleek décor, the panoramic windows revealing a thousand sparkling city lights below.
He gave a half-laugh, swirling his drink. “What do you think? It’s quite a step up from where we started.”
“It’s…impressive,” I answered, unwilling to delve deeper.
He nodded, scanning the crowd behind him. “Let me mingle with some investors. We’ll talk more later, all right?” Without waiting for confirmation, he moved off, sliding into a circle of associates. I watched him, remembering the scrawny teenager who devoured library books. Here, he was a seasoned performer, comfortable in a world I found vacuous.
Wandering, I overheard scraps of conversation—market projections, IPOs, data analytics for consumer profiling. Costumed waitstaff wove through the guests, offering cocktails and delicate finger foods. I felt queasy as I remembered my research on commodification, seeing every principle alive and well in this space. Yet I forced myself to remain. I traced the perimeter to a terrace balcony, where cool air slapped me in the face. The city sprawled below in luminous patterns. Elena would have seen this spectacle as the culmination of late-capitalist illusions: so brilliant, yet empty inside. I closed my eyes, haunted by her memory.
An hour later, Igor rejoined me in the now-thinned crowd. He looked flushed with success, a half-smile etched on his face. “Thanks for coming,” he began, sipping the last of his drink. “I’m grateful to see you, truly.”
I examined him. “Seems you’ve ascended quickly. Data and analytics appear to have rewarded you.”
He shrugged. “It’s about understanding the game—where the public’s attention flows, how to guide it. That’s all it is, really.”
“Guide, or manipulate?” I retorted softly.
He leaned in, eyebrows lifting. “Ah, that’s your old condemnation. You know the truth, though: Society wants illusions. We deliver them in a manner that can be channeled for progress.”
A wave of anger flared. “Progress? This entire environment is people bragging about controlling the masses. You brush it off as mere cynicism, but that’s exactly what’s happening.”
Igor sighed, eyes flicking over me. “You haven’t changed. The difference is, I realized that real power lies in shaping narratives, not just diagnosing them. Let’s face it: You’re stuck in moral outrage while I’m shaping the structures you claim to hate.”
We glared at each other, the old fellowship replaced by a chasm. The mention of Elena hovered unspoken, an ache I knew he would never truly understand. Eventually, we parted ways, me stepping out into the corridor with a sense of finality. The friend I once clung to had vanished into the bright illusions of profit. I felt a near-physical pain as I remembered how close we had been, forging notes in that battered library so long ago.
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