The red bubble over the messenger app displays an unfathomable number. I've never gotten so many notifications, even after my first undergraduate conference where I turned my phone off for three whole days in an attempt to appear more professional. My thumb hovers over the app. Do I want to see where the 999+ notifications came from?

I'll have to clear it eventually, especially if I want to keep up with new notifications from my various group projects. There's one for philosophy, one for biology, even one for probability and statistics, which the group goof insists on using to play Poker.

I open the app, but instead of my dark-themed screen and a list of contacts and groups, a red firewall blares at me. Several other students in the library glare at me and I mouth, Sorry, but I have no idea what's going on. An exclamation mark pulsates inside a triangular symbol, and three numbers blink on my screen: 707.

"Congratulations! Or rather, you poor sucker. You've been hacked by Agent 707!"

"What the fuck." I'll admit, though, this agent's voice is hot even as he mocks me through my phone.

Midterms haven't started yet, so no one is really studying. A couple students lean closer to me to see what's on my screen.

"Dude, you're so fucked," a guy with rhinestone-studded glasses cackles.

A girl with long, ombre hair puckers her lips at me. "Did you go on a porn site?"

"No!" I exclaim, my face flaring red. I don't know why her accusation riles me up, but it's extremely uncomfortable having people think I did something immoral and disgusting, especially when I didn't.

The guy beside me cackles again. "No shame, dude. I go on the hub all the time but nothing like that has shown up on my laptop."

"Yet," the girl hisses through her swollen lips.

I turn my phone off, pack up my things, and stride out of the library. Less than a minute after I started walking, my phone buzzes and Agent 707's taunting message blares at me again. My phone is off, but 707 and his stupid, tiger-striped exclamation mark don't care.

I bring my phone up and hiss, "What do you want from me?"

The librarian looks up as I walk past. I lean on the brick wall outside and wait. The hacker has hesitated, as though baffled that I'd speak back.

"You broadcasted yourself to me," I point out. "Maybe this is your idea of fun, and you chose your target by random. But you want something."

Agent 707's astonished reply makes him seem younger. He could be a genius teenager, for all I know. "I want you," he says, his voice buzzing from my phone, "to take ten steps forward from where you are."

I turn around but no one seems to pay any attention to me. Between scurrying to class or dawdling along with their nose glued to their phone, clustered in groups discussing where to go for lunch or on their phone chattering in another language, everyone lives their own complicated lives. Why would anyone pay attention to another person in the crowd on his phone like most of everyone else?

"Ten steps forward, messenger," the hacker repeats.

What the hell. I oblige, then wait for Agent 707 to reveal himself.

"Now head east and cross at the intersection before boarding the first bus that arrives. You'll only need to wait twenty seconds if you walk as slowly as you did just now, messenger."

His instructions are oddly specific, but I have nothing else to do right now. I finished the readings, I did the assignments, and my group projects can wait—especially probability and statistics, which will have nothing to do with Poker.

At the bus stop, Agent 707 counts to twenty, mixing in random words between each number—"One-Mississippi-two-for-a-tango-three-little-piggies-four-ways-to-turn..."

At eighteen, I can see the bus turn the corner. At twenty, it screeches to a halt, spraying slush onto the edge of the curb.

Agent 707 is clearly having fun. "What did I tell you? Didn't I tell you?"

He leads me downtown and where to transfer. He warns me to keep my head down and stay away from the aggressive homeless man in the green hat. He predicts the next bus and, what the hell, I get on and find myself in another city. I'm such a loser.

"Where the fuck did you bring me, Seven?"

The hacker hesitates again. Is he going to lie? I'll switch over to a map on my phone and see my location. He sounds pleased when he announces, "The greatest city in the world, the capital of the most prosperous country in the world; you, adorable messenger, are in the City of Castles, the Capital of Capitals."

He's telling the truth. I check my phone, but I can tell from the bright neon signs and vibrant energy.

"For the record, Seven," I reply, squeezing into a cozy bubble tea shop with a claw machine full of giant stuffed milkshakes and unicorns, "the City of Castles is only the fourth largest metropolitan economy in the world."

"When did I say otherwise? Being in the top four is still impressive."

"Not if there are only four competitors, buddy." I watch as a young couple tries their hand at the claw machine. The man cheers his girlfriend on as she goes for Mr. Diabetes. The five-litre stuffed chocolate milkshake slips out of the claw inches from the vault.

"There's a claw machine in that bubble tea shop, right?" Seven pipes up. "We can take a detour if you want. I'll teach you how to win a prize."

This isn't why he brought me here, but what the hell, I'm in the City of Castles and I want Mr. Diabetes. I prop my phone between my ear and shoulder like an old-school househubby and grab the joystick.

He guides me to maneuver the joystick to bring the claw to the right position. The trick to most claw machines is to spend more time setting up before releasing. It's like what they say about sharpening your ax—but with a joystick and three-fingered claw, and no trees or stuffed toys will be harmed.

The bubble tea shop employees and customers cheer as I hold up Mr. Diabetes and take a selfie. Without thinking, I send it to Agent 707.

His voice is drowned by the cheering. I give the stuffed chocolate milkshake to the lady who tried earlier—it's more voluminous than me and she could probably fit inside—and the crowd cheers louder.

"What did you say?" I speak into the phone when I'm back outside.

"How could you give away Mr. Diabetes?!"

I turn back to the bubble tea shop. The lady stares after me while her boyfriend glares daggers through the window. Everyone else has lost interest already, their attention back to their friends, dates, phones, and drinks.

"You're almost there," Seven promises as he leads me to a luxurious-looking apartment building. The architecture emphasizes aesthetic over practicality, so empty rooms jut out into the sky in the shape of... a tardigrade?

I repeat the code after him, and the receptionist hands over a ring of heavy brass keys.

"Hold up," I finally say, key hovering a breath away from the door to Room 902A-F. "Are you asking me to break into someone's fancy condo?"

"It's empty."

"This is illegal!"

"This is your apartment now, sweet messenger."

I take a screenshot of my phone, with Agent 707's tiger-themed firewall plastered all over my messenger app. If the police catch me, at least I won't be floundering.

"You're adorable, messenger."

"Shut up, Seven."

Who am I kidding? I'll still flounder. And probably cry and make a fool of myself. I smooth out my metallic jacket and pretend this is my apartment. If someone says otherwise, then I'll pretend I have the wrong room—set of rooms—condo—neighborhood. Yeah, I'll look like an idiot.

Hell, I followed an anonymous hacker to the City of Castles and into an eleven-figure life. I must be delusional. Worse, I half-expect Seven to assure me that I am not delusional, as if the guy can read minds.

The tiger-striped exclamation mark poofs out of my phone's existence. Seven is gone. The door closes behind me and the lights turn on. If I didn't know it was automation—City of Castles, eleven-figure life, put the pieces together, buddy—I'd think I walked into a horror film.

The walls are adorned with golden brocade. I remove my high-top sneakers before stepping onto the plush white-and-gold carpet. My feet actually sink an inch. Ivory and leather furniture stand polished and gleaming under the soft white light. With no shoes, books, or scent of cooking, the only sign of life is a closed laptop with a white sticker and three letters in elegant, gold script.

Oh, I've definitely walked into a horror film.