Addiction is such an ugly word. I mean, everyone is addicted to something. Take life, for example. Most of us are addicted to staying animate, yet that selfish epidemic goes totally undiagnosed. My point is, we all want something; some just want it more than others.

Like almost everyone in the city, I want Power. That doesn’t mean I’m addicted, although I do seem to want it with increasing frequency and intensity. At the moment, I want it badly enough I believe I can will it into existence.

So, marshaling all my psychic energy . . .

Brrr! My cell vibrates as if possessed.

“Now!” the message from Javier reads, followed by “12.”

Did I do that?

Full disclosure, I was half expecting to hear from Javier. I have texted him several times tonight. And he is one of my best friends, and not just because he has Power. Now! is the club. 12 is the time. So, two hours from Now!

Brrr!

“Pick you up,” his follow-up message reads.

Even better.

My lead time is spent showering and shaving. An easy smile and an honest face have served me well, at least until recently. Cracks are beginning to show, if you know where to look. Had my ex-girlfriend spotted an expiration date behind my slightly receding hairline?

Chin up, chum!

Having mixed a drink, I find myself checking Natalie’s soc page. All girls on the town and high-powered business functions. Busy, busy, busy. Fun, fun, fun.

Meanwhile, my thread is bare.

As I dress, a desire to toss a message into the shallows overwhelms me. Even if Nat doesn’t come across it, the metaverse will know I’m still conscious and animate.

Grabbing a live video feed from Now!’s constantly transmitting external camera, I send it out, along with my ETA. Instantly, I recognize my message for what it is: a subtle cry for help. Before I can delete it, I’m buzzed with a message: “Here.”

From my wall-to-wall window, the city looks moist with excitement, or maybe it’s just rain. Quaffing the last of the drink, I snatch my smoking jacket and head out the door. Down the hall, the elevator is waiting on my floor. What are the odds of that?

As the lift whisks me down eight floors to the all-white marble lobby, I can’t help but think that tonight feels lucky, like something good is going to happen. Or it could just be the promise of Power. No, it’s more than that. But what could be more than that?

Outside, a reinforced steel door swings open from the back side of a rented luxury BearCat urban transport vehicle (UTV). The converted military truck comes complete with extra plating and windows capable of stopping a .50 caliber round: unnecessary extras where we are going.

Avoiding a puddle, I step up and count three figures in the mobile man cave. Hugo Olsen, the handsome brute and seller of upmarket condos. Grey Chandler, Esq., in a tailored suit, defender of downtrodden and exploited corporations; the pink dress shirt unbuttoned to his hairless sternum says he’s ready to party.

And Javier Barbosa.

The door shuts behind me like a vault as I slide in next to Hugo, who tosses a thick blond forelock in my direction. “Where’s your drink?”

Grey is barely here, lost in his screen. The light illuminates his fine, almost childlike features as his eyes scroll over a case or a brief or girl-on-girl porn.

Our host, Javier, is ensconced in the back of the padded leather-and-steel chariot. With his Caesar haircut and cruel-to-be-kind smirk, he looks every bit the young emperor.

In college, I knew Javier mostly by reputation. A couple years ahead of me, he was an upperclassman who set the pace for a fast crowd. When we both ended up in Terminus, he invited me to run with him. Apparently, I passed, becoming a regular member of his retinue.

Before he was halfway through b-school, Javier was managing money. Bored with algos making all his decisions, he foresaw a new wave of genetic cures and petitioned for his own biotech fund. Never mind that he knew next to nothing about bio or tech.

By luck or skill or a deal with the devil, he hit on a blockbuster: a safe pain medication that made opiates as obsolete as lobotomies. “Relief.” Javier had come in on the first round, and the rest is lore. Midthirties and a serious player in genome pharma.

Hugo hands me a sloshy drink and I settle back, letting the alcohol keep my lusty thoughts of Power at bay.

“We’re celebrating tonight!” Javier announces. “Blue Sky Pharma released Phase Two results, and . . .” Dramatic pause. “They crushed the K-M curve.”

“That’s good, right?” Hugo says, eager to please.

“Exceptional,” Grey confirms, acting all au fait. “What are they treating again?”

“Rare type of cancer,” Javier says, suddenly somber as a priest delivering last rites. “It might be granted orphan status.” The sly grin is back. “And there are rumors of a buyout.”

Glasses are raised. It’s a real feel-good moment.

“You don’t know who started those rumors, do you?” I ask over the rims.

“Here’s to drugs!” Javier toasts, slate eyes leveled on me as he downs his cocktail.

With our night’s exploits justified as a business expense, our host slides a silver cigarette case from his shirt pocket. Clear capsules filled with sparkly white powder are passed out. I will soon be the man I once was. Actually, I was never that man, but one can pretend. Only it doesn’t seem fake. It’s more real than reality. Like the way life is supposed to feel.

Fast acting, Power pushes my cravings aside as all of my submerged potential comes rushing to the surface. Going under the magnifying glass, my persona expands before my eyes. Dreams seem so close I can reach out and brush them with my fingertips.

Refilling his glass, Javier is feeling it too. Above the techno soundtrack, I hear him declare, “I’m saving the human race one drug at a time!”

This will not stand. “You’re inventing these drugs, are you?” Eyes turn on my prefrontal cortex like ice picks. “I thought you were just riding their coattails.”

“It takes capital to get drugs to market,” Grey snaps, quick to defend his best friend.

“You have to know which coattails to ride,” Hugo answers innocently, looking back and forth between Javier and myself. “Right?”

“I prefer to think of it as riding cocktails,” Javier quips, sipping. “Biologic cocktails.”

Talk of exaggerated exploits continues: something about who is saving more lives, a real estate agent, a corporate lawyer, or a fund manager. It sounds like a bad joke.

Disengaging from the scintillating debate, I tune in to the syncopated beat conspiring with the Power to raise my heart rate. I breathe in deep, the cabin’s cushy interior taking on a gauzy film. My gaze drifts beyond the tempered glass on a timeless flight.

As we move slowly through Terminus in our spaceship, giant towers beckon like elliptical galaxies, all-night office lights turning into private solar systems.

We break at a corner, thrust back to earth.

And then the UTV’s big body moves again, easing us through the stop and slow, ever-present traffic that compresses into the city’s spine. To be accurate, Terminus is not one city, not anymore. Like a lot of megacities, it has become a patchwork of cordoned-off districts.

Two years ago, our fair metropolis exploded like the oft-described “powder keg.” So-called “experts” have talked a lot about the root cause of our demise . . . too great a gap between the sir have-a-lots and the miss have-nots. Too many weapons of mass destruction in too many hands. Certainly, too much Power to go around. And yet, everyone always wants more.

When the drug hit the streets, it swept through the city like a tsunami, taking the young and old, black and white, rich and poor. Violence spiked as gangs fought for the distribution rights. (Every middleman takes a letter, so what you typically get on the streets is “Pow.” Another cut down is “Po,” and finally, stepped-to-death “P.”)

The city as a whole turned a blind eye to the skirmishes on the south side. Multiple shootings were a recurring theme on the news, and everyone was concerned, before yawning and turning in. And then, one morning, blood had splashed up on middle-class steps—upper middle steps. So the police did what they do. They cracked down. Only this time, the gangs cracked backed. Hard. Cops got shot.

Things went from bad to ugly in a flash. In the badlands to the south, local insurgents dug in and held their own territories down. Then they shocked the rest of the city by mounting a coordinated offensive into downtown. Government buildings were raided. The execution of a notoriously tough-on-crime judge was livestreamed.

For weeks, fear gripped Terminus and rage ruled supreme. Drones from the north armed with smart missiles and machine guns strafed the southern districts. The response came in the form of homemade bottle and pipe bombs being lobbed into upscale northside bars and cars. And there was the constant threat of hit-and-runs and drive-bys.

When the police, with all their superior firepower, failed to protect them, residents in the north took it upon themselves to defend their communities. HOAs formed pop-up militias. Neighborhood crime watches easily transitioned into armed sentry patrols. Apartment building residents put up volunteer spotters and snipers.

Needless to say, many friendlies were shot in misfires. Both sides lost lives and property to explosions and fires. Lots of collateral damage: young and old, black and white, rich and poor. Everyone knew someone who had been hit, or narrowly missed.

When the smoke cleared, the city was a shocked shell of its former self. The poorer sections suffered the most; the wealthier were the most traumatized. Not used to being near the front lines, the latter erected walls. When those didn’t provide adequate perceptions of safety, more police barricades were stitched into the city to span the gaps of insecurity.

The way shrapnel divides tissue, our metropolis was cut into our present day “zones.” Monitored entrances and exits now serve as choke points, keeping the red zones cauterized, lest they bleed into the corpus. They are also there to protect locals and tourists from accidentally crossing dotted lines on a map.

The color-coded system is as simple as a stoplight. Greens mean safe. Yellow tells travelers to beware . . . exercise caution when visiting that funky bodega, eclectic dive bar, or crazy, hopped-up juke joint. Mostly, they serve as buffers to the large urban swaths where the police have pulled up stakes and relinquished any semblance of control. Comprising well over half of Terminus, red zones are run by gangs, if anyone at all.

No need to fret, fellow travelers. Tonight, we are rolling only in neon-green clover.

The BearCat swings around a corner. Cockily bouncing over the curb, it sticks a meaty front tire in the middle of the sidewalk. A moment later, “We have arrived, gentlemen” is announced from the unseen, human-sounding driver.

Outside the tinted windows, movie premiere spotlights dance on a white plaster palace. Reflecting back on the dark one-way glass: “!WON.”

The back door opens, and the four of us leap commando style out from the UTV. With the Power surging through me, I feel like a warrior ready for battle. At the same time, I’m also a bit concerned about the water droplets pelting my velvet coat.

Through the drizzle, bodies, and vapor smoke, I lock on my target. My unspoken objective is to breach the door. Having spent a good portion of my twenties clubbing and entertaining clients, I am supposed to know my way around the red ropes.

As the point man, I cut through the scrum at the head of the line, edging ever closer to the doorman: a short bulky man in a silver suit. Recognition gives way to relief. Giving an underage party girl a polite nudge out of the way, I duck under the dripping awning.

“Hey, Marty,” I say, overshooting his ear and speaking directly into his roll of nape fat.

Pulling back, he wavers for a harrowing moment. Then he places me: a one-time frequent flier; now a rare, albeit altruistic customer. While I smile and ask him how he and his boyfriend are doing, I flip a token of gratitude into his open wallet. The red rope parts.

Inside the dry antechamber is a bulletproof ticket booth, where we shake off rain and more coin. A top-heavy hostess is waiting on the other side of a metal detector with a plastic smile and body. Escorting us through the crowded lobby, her ample chest proves a veritable battering ram. On the other side of a set of swinging doors, we are swimming in a sea of neon and electronica. The flashing and pounding come from everywhere at once.

In a private loge, a producer in a fire-engine-red hoodie conjures up the computer-generated concoctions. Below, dancers are entranced under her spell, moving and swaying to the pulsating beats. To me, it mainly serves as a soundtrack to the visual worlds beyond . . .

The club walls are displaying scenes of clogged traffic under a semisubmerged sun obscured in a heavy haze. A tower of twisted metal stands next to a blue needle pointing into the smog line. The glimpse of a pagoda-style roof and a billboard with a geisha in whiteface give the general direction away. Beijing? Hong Kong?

The hostess leads us around the horseshoe-shaped bar. Brushing aside an undercover bouncer, her breasts direct up a spiral staircase. We bid farewell to her cleavage and, one by one, corkscrew our way above the throbbing dance floor, quarter left turn at a time. The music crescendos as we complete two spins, coming out on top of the VIP lounge, a.k.a. “the Podium.”

The crowd below seems to cheer our arrival as giant Asians hustle by on the billboard-size walls. Their quickstep is almost synched to the four-on-the-floor beat with a sad erhu overdub. Most of the commuters have on masks or respirators; the others simply wear grim expressions. These are the foot soldiers in the never-ending corporate wars.

Meanwhile, in the corner booth of the Podium, a hip-hop mini-mogul holds court with a bottle of cognac. Another table contains a threesome of unshaven Turks puffing on a hookah. Through the smoke, they ogle a table of debutants who seem awash with relief to see us. The celebratory group of young ladies stares our way, scanning for attractiveness, wealth, and fame. We do the same.

Commandeering a table overlooking the dance floor, Javier arranges our seats, orders a bottle of iced vodka, and gives the Podium his own cool appraisal, all in one fluid motion. “Shanghai.” He nods at the city on the walls as we take our seats. “I was there last summer.”

“Is it zoned too?” I ask, giving him room.

“It’s all vertical,” Javier informs us. “The more important you are, the higher you live.”

“I’ve heard that,” Hugo agrees. “They have sky bridges and passenger drones that connect all the towers.”

“My feet never touched the ground,” Javier tells us.

The music takes an airy, crisp shift as the Chinese rat race is replaced with a welcome blue wave that rises up all around us. The warm salt water is almost palatable as afternoon surfers take their turns on moveable mountain peaks. From the crest of the Podium, I catch a caption that identifies the “Gold Coast of Australia at 3:52 p.m.”

The green boards on the walls zap live scenes from around the planet in real time. Ostensibly, it is meant to convey some sort of message of unification. We’re all in this together, experiencing what is happening in our world: Now!

This communal message is lost on the dancers, oblivious to their surroundings. Their outward attention doesn’t extend to their dance partners; most don’t even have partners. Single, solitary units, or so I judge from my elevated, all-Powerful perspective.

Vodka is served on an anvil in a solid block of ice. Large tongs are used by a table attendant to pour the steamy clear alcohol into four frosted glasses. While we imbibe our drinks neat, humor leaks out from our depraved parts. The sicker the better. A couple of glassy-eyed hyenas, Hugo and Grey laugh as Javier spins one of his twisted tales.

“At a research facility, this kid, the son of a herpetologist, wandered into a breeding pond. He’s wading in knee-high water, and at first, he just feels this tapping on his bare legs.” The toe of Javier’s shoe gives my shin a harmless kick. All three of us feel the tap before he goes on. “Then it became more frequent.” Again, our shins are assaulted with little kicks that are progressively swifter.

“Okay, we get it!” Grey complains.

“Hey!” Hugo yells out. “That hurt!”

“The boy slips—falls into the muck—and suddenly, an army of sex-crazed frogs are on him. Hundreds, thousands of slimy frogs. Between the thrashing legs and the croaking and the frothy nests of eggs, a strange sensation overtakes him. That night, that boy became a man—a ‘frog man.’” Javier holds his cell light up to his face. “To this day, some say, he still lurks the ponds and pools in goggles and a neoprene suit, answering only to deep-throated mating calls.”

The table of young ladies is still looking our way, laughing like we are all in on the same joke. With a turn of his big head, Hugo’s hair waves hello.

Before the startled girls know what is happening, Hugo is up and introducing himself by way of pulling up a chair and pouring himself an overflowing flute from one of their champagne bottles. Like a friendly golden retriever, he could lick their faces and sniff their crotches and they’d giggle for more. Once the beachhead has been secured, Grey moves in to mop up.

“Go on over,” Javier orders me.

I shake my head; not yet.

“You want more?” he asks, pointing to the breast pocket where he keeps his Power.

Of course I want more; everyone always wants more. “I’m good,” I lie.

I keep one eye on our compatriots at the next table, the other on the floor below. Natalie is nowhere to be seen among the dancers. Not that I expected her to be.

A plaintive, warbling lament announces the sun rising over a Moroccan temple on the walls. As an annoying snake-charming bagpipe winds its way into the music track, the dance floor thins to a dedicated few. Below our balcony, bodies jam the bar for a quick drink.

“I put in a word for you at Millard-Cushman.” An ad agency. “They handle Fulcrum account.” Fulcrum Asset Management: the shop where Javier works. I was unaware they even advertised.

Before being fired, I would never have considered stodgy old M-C. Now? Maybe they’ll give me a look for Fulcrum’s sake. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll follow up.”

A zither hisses over a surging beat; on the walls, men are gathering before a crackling loudspeaker. Forming rows in the musalla, their heads touch their rugs as they perform first prayers. They are remembering Allah in the new day. God, they seem a long way away.

Perhaps a prayer is in order. It certainly couldn’t hurt. All I want to do is figure out my life. No, find my life. My true life, if there is such a thing. Maybe it lies on the Gold Coast. And while that sounds good, it’s not me any more than kneeling on a prayer mat in Africa.

My head doesn’t dip to the floor, but I do turn inward—to all the emptiness that awaits. A pathetic baby cry for more Power is all I hear: a wail that will only get louder as the night wears on. Even though more Power feels like the answer, it is not. Even I know that.

So I pray for another way.

A strangled howl comes from deep inside of me. Dear God—was that audible? Javier didn’t seem to hear it, or is he too polite to say anything?

Abruptly, the club walls go dark. A power outage? Even the music slurs to a stop like a drunk who forgot his rambling thought. In a world where the senses are constantly bombarded, a pronounced pause is jarring. A crack in the facade.

And I fall through.