Ashes to Empress

The entire week blurred into a loop of frustration. Every morning, I woke up with a sliver of hope, telling myself maybe today one of them will reply. And every night, I went to bed with a slightly deeper frown.

I'd emailed twenty-four real estate agencies by Tuesday. By Thursday, the count had crept past thirty. I tried high-end boutique firms with tailored experiences. Mid-tier ones that specialized in tech professionals. Even a couple chain agencies that advertised on subway billboards. I filled out every form, attached every document. Income verification. Current residence. Intentions. Budget.

Most didn't respond at all.

A few sent cold, mechanical auto-replies thanking me for my interest and wishing me "success in my search."

Two actually answered. One told me—verbatim—they weren't taking on "freelance profiles." The other said they were focused on "more traditional clientele." Whatever the hell that meant.

I double-checked my messages. My name. My tone. My documents. I thought maybe I'd messed up. But no. Everything was clean. Professional. Cordial. Still, I got ghosted like I was sending spam from a basement.

It made me feel invisible. Or worse—dismissed. Like my money didn't count because it didn't come from a title or a corporate payroll.

It stung harder than it should have.

To distract myself, I did something I hadn't done in years—I played games. Real games. Not just hacking simulations or academic logic puzzles, but actual, full-screen, story-driven, immersion-heavy video games. The kind I used to watch streamers play while eating instant noodles for dinner.

I had the time now. And the machine to run them. And for once, the emotional bandwidth. I downloaded a few classics, bought a couple newer ones, and just let myself be. Hours disappeared into sci-fi adventures and mystery puzzlers. I even found a cozy farming sim that let me build a little pixel life completely untouched by firewalls and server logs. It was… stupidly healing.

By Friday morning, I was pacing my tiny kitchen, coffee in hand, grumbling at the toaster, when my calendar reminder popped up.

Bank meeting. Client advisor. Personal account manager. New tax consultant.

I pulled on my usual outfit—washed hoodie, dark jeans, sneakers—and headed out.

The meeting room at the bank was all glass, chrome, and overpriced mineral water. I shuffled in like someone who didn't belong and took my seat.

Across from me sat Ms. Schulze, my original bank contact. Beside her was Mr. Fischer, the sharply dressed account manager who looked like he belonged on a stock photo website. And at the far end was Dr. Kraus, their tax wizard, complete with rimless glasses and the energy of a man who balanced budgets for breakfast.

They welcomed me with warm smiles, polite greetings, and a printed agenda. I half-listened as they ran through the basics: revenue forecasts, tax buffers, expected inflows from SecureFix's next wave of enterprise scans.

"So," Fischer said, "are there any areas where you'd like more direct support?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Housing. I've been trying to find a decent place all week. But it's like… I'm not real to them."

Schulze raised an eyebrow. "Them?"

"Real estate agents," I said. "I send emails, fill out forms, attach bank statements. Half of them ignore me, the other half tell me I'm not their type of client. One literally said they don't handle freelance profiles."

There was a pause.

Then Schulze let out a short, involuntary laugh.

Dr. Kraus frowned. Fischer shot her a sharp look.

"What?" I asked, deadpan.

Schulze covered her mouth, trying to regain composure. "Sorry, it's not you. It's just… I can see how that happened."

"…Go on."

She hesitated. "You're young. Female. Casual. And forgive me, but… the way you dress doesn't exactly scream 'seven figures in liquidity.'"

"So they're judging me on clothes?"

Fischer jumped in. "Not consciously. But in that world, presentation is everything. Your appearance signals status, lifestyle, risk. If you walk into their office like that…"

"…They think I'm a student begging for a studio flat," I finished.

Kraus nodded slowly. "It's absurd, but unfortunately common. You don't fit the mold they expect. So they assume you can't afford what you're asking."

"I could buy the damn agency," I muttered.

"Which brings us to our next point," Schulze said smoothly. "Would you like us to take over the property search? We can liaise through our high-trust relocation channels. Discreet, high-efficiency, and entirely under your terms."

I sighed in relief. "Yes. Please. I'm done begging for heating and four walls."

Kraus smiled. "What are your must-haves?"

I thought about it for a second. "A working heater. Running hot water. No mold. A kitchen I can actually cook in. And something close to the city. I don't want to be stuck in a suburb with one bus per hour."

Another pause.

The three of them exchanged glances like I'd just described a forest hut.

"You know," Schulze said gently, "with your financial profile, that's… very modest."

Fischer leaned in. "Have you considered residential compounds? Gated buildings. Concierge access. 24/7 security. Some of our high-net clients opt for properties with biometric entry and on-site guards."

"You want me to live in a fortress?" I said, blinking.

"Safety is part of your asset profile now," Kraus said. "And you're becoming a digital infrastructure provider. That makes you a possible target."

They showed me examples.

A duplex loft with a private garden and panic room.

A smart flat that restocked your fridge via drone delivery.

A villa on the outskirts with its own checkpoint and private tennis court.

Some came with daily housekeeping. Others with in-house chefs.

I sat in silence, overwhelmed.

"…Look," I finally said. "That's all cool, but I don't want my place to look like a Bond villain's lair. I just want somewhere decent. Quiet. Mine."

Fischer nodded. "We'll focus on owner-occupied apartments in secure buildings within city limits. You'll own the unit outright. No landlord. No rent."

"Wait," I said. "You mean buy an apartment?"

"Yes," Schulze said. "At your income level, that's not just viable—it's advisable."

"I thought people only did that in movies."

"You could afford three," Kraus said flatly.

POV SHIFT

In a dim, secure government facility, a man in a gray hoodie leaned toward a desk-mounted microphone.

"Hey Hans," he muttered. "We've got a situation."

He tapped a few keys, pulling up an encrypted document.

"I got forwarded a scan report yesterday. Came from Frankfurt. Through UnuCom. At first, I thought it was some client handout. But then I actually read it."

Hans on the other end of the secure call didn't interrupt.

"It lists CVEs we haven't even catalogued. Zero-days that aren't for sale anywhere. Some of them match codebases from state infrastructure. Others? I've never seen anything like them."

Hans exhaled. "Internal sources?"

"Nope. External service. Apparently commercial. I ran their scanner through one of our honey-nets. Nothing too sensitive, just a high-risk test grid."

"And?"

"112 unique 0-days. Eight were known in the darknet scene. The other 104? Clean. Untouched. Not even referenced in threat exchange forums."

Hans swore.

"This scanner knows too much. If it goes public, we're screwed. It's patching vulnerabilities we rely on. Infrastructure. Surveillance nodes. Possibly even diplomatic shadow channels."

"Who made it?"

"Unclear. But it's being marketed under a commercial label called SecureFix. Rolled out quietly through UnuCom and two other ISPs."

"…We need to flag this."

"I'm drafting a P1 incident report. Want it red-stamped?"

"Immediately. Don't escalate beyond Tier 2 command for now. If word gets out, every intelligence asset on the grid will start scrubbing logs. We'll lose visibility."

"Copy that."

"And trace the origin. I want to know who built this. And why no one saw it coming."

The man in gray nodded to no one, shut the console, and locked the terminal behind biometric glass.

The scanner had done its job.

Now the real scanning would begin.