Ava walked through the heavy doors of the Level One lounge like she belonged there.
The space was dimly lit but sleek—polished floors, low murmuring conversations, and traders dressed in luxury that didn't exist in the lower levels. No sweat-stained uniforms or patchwork scavenger gear. This was wealth. Controlled. Intentional.
Ava kept her pace steady, shoulders back, chin up. Lucas drilled it into her before she left. Act like you own the place. Like you're the one people should be approaching. Confidence sells power.
And if she was selling fuel cells? She was selling power—literally.
She spotted Anton first.
The older trader sat at a private booth, sipping something dark and expensive, dressed in a sharp slate-gray suit that probably cost more than a Level Three trader made in a year. His gaze flicked up the second she entered, assessing her with amusement.
"Ava Zhang," Anton drawled, setting his glass down. "Lucas really sent you in alone?"
