I turn and fix on the Admin, a pulse of raw hatred blooming in my gut. Every inch of him—those ravenous eyes, that sneer—makes my skin crawl.
"The doctor said I could sleep," I state, voice flat.
He smirks, gaze boring into mine. "I have to agree, too."
My fists knot. Another second and that fist will meet his jaw. I fight to quiet my breathing.
He pivots on his heel, hands clasped behind his back. "I'm giving you a tour of the other floors."
My clenched jaw trembles. "I'm sleep-deprived and this—"
"Sleep when I say," he cuts in.
My fist rises a few centimeters; sweat slides from my temple to my chin, drips away. I'm seconds from exploding. Eyes shut, heartbeat forced steady, fingers uncurl.
"Yes, Admin," I rasp.
He studies my face, eyes narrowed, searching for cracks. "Good."
I draw a long breath and follow.
Past the guards, our footfalls echo down the mirrored corridor. Silver doors part; we step into the elevator.
"Want to see Purple Sector?" he asks.
I'd rather collapse for ten minutes—then you can drag me anywhere. But I've endured worse.
"Sure."
He taps the button. "This empire started with one man. Now thousands serve beneath him. Every inch of this tower belongs to that one founder at the apex. But he's not alone anymore—the apex is three."
I let a crooked smile slip. "A triangle."
He nods. "Exactly. We're allowed to see two corners—one you've met: the doctor. But the apex, the first corner... always hidden. No one but the other two ever sees him."
I fight down a smirk and fix on his broad shoulders.
"I heard the second corner of the Triangle was killed. Did they choose a replacement?"
He wasn't expecting that. His hands ball at his sides—so the fool thought I knew nothing?
The elevator bumps to a halt. He growls, "Yes. Replaced."
Doors slide apart and we step into a hushed corridor. Every footfall ricochets off mirrored walls. Dead ahead looms a stylized Triangle emblem.
As we walk, memory unwinds...
****
Small, maybe eight. Perched on a chair, neck craned because the girl in front is taller.
Projected on the screen: a grainy photo of a teen in military fatigues.
Head-coach's heels tap, tap.
"Study him. By now he'd be sixty—no trace of him in decades. We only have a few pictures from his youth."
Pointer swings. "Codename: Fisherman. Once one of Rose's rare prodigies. We raised geniuses for espionage and cyberwarfare—and he fled, betrayed us."
Click.
"Years later the Organization discovered something worse: eight- to fourteen-year-olds—zero-codes with low scores—vanished from our camps."
Coach's smirk curls. "He stole them. Trained them in secret. Built an alliance called the Triangle."
I prop my chin on a fist. "So he's our enemy?"
Coach taps a new slide: a fish caught on a hook beside a black triangle laced with red lines.
"That symbol is his. You are fish—genius prey. He is Fisherman—the genius-killer. He thinks wiping out our prodigies will break us."
A metal door ahead hisses
open; I blink, yanked to the present.
We stop at a wide purple door emblazoned with the same fish-and-triangle sigil. The Admin swipes his card. White-uniform admins outrank everyone—they roam every sector.
I trail him into Purple Sector's main hall, eyes sweeping the room. Perhaps skipping sleep for a tour isn't so bad; the deeper I dig, the sooner I may find Piranha—the person I came for.
They call it the PurpleSector—the third floor of the tower, run by the Triangle's most invisible minds: the hackers.
They're not prodigies, but their skills—and training—are sharp enough that even Rose's best minds have never managed to trace them.
The hall is vast, carved into multiple pods: hundreds of terminals, hundreds of people, each in a designated bay, heads bowed to their screens.
Patrick strides toward a broad-shouldered man in a perfectly tailored suit.
"Admin of Purple Sector," he introduces himself.
I give the man a polite nod. White suit, purple tie—middle-aged, silver streaks through dark hair, powerful build; he looks competent, and very serious.
Patrick throws me a mocking glance, folds his arms.
"Showing the new operator around the floors."
The Purple Admin nods and gestures toward the room. "If you need anything, just ask."
Patrick barely glances at me.
"I'll handle the explaining. You can get back to it."
The man nods and returns to his operators.
I study Patrick's face—harsh and hardly pleasant. Middle-aged, deep claw-like scars down one cheek; thinning hair, high forehead. His narrow, slanted eyes crease as his thin lips move.
"Anything people can't pull off in the physical world," he says, "we do here—identity forgery, espionage, hacking... everything."
I follow him between rows of humming stations.
My gaze snags on a boy—maybe fifteen—typing furiously. Blond hair, blue eyes... For a moment he reminds me of teenage Steven. Steven never cared for hacking or spying, though he was absurdly gifted. Unlike me, who's built for nothing else, he'd wanted to be a musician—maybe even a Singer . I used to tease him: "How does a sniper with a hundred kills turn into a leading man?"
I stare at the kid. If he hadn't been stolen or sold as a child, he might have a normal life—school, impressing the class sweetheart. Living.
Not slavery like ours.
"Steven too—with that European model face and storm-blue eyes—could've made it as an actor, not a spy."
"Where's your head?"
I jerk upright, drag my eyes from the boy, and keep my voice steady.
"Listening."
Patrick sighs, impatient, then continues.
"We spun up Purple Sector a few years ago."
"A few years back we spun this unit up," Patrick says.
"Before that we'd made zero progress in hacking."
I tear my gaze from the maze of work-pods.
"So how'd you level up that fast?"
"Had to borrow stolen prodigies," he murmurs while strolling.
Everything they brag about is stolen. My hidden smirk would've poisoned the air—luckily his back is to me.
We leave Purple. My eyes burn so fiercely they keep watering; he knows I'm running on fumes and clearly enjoys it.
At the lift he turns.
"You may sleep—but in four hours I want you back in the lab."
Relief floods me; I'd settle for a single hour.
"Yes, Admin."
Doors open onto a silent, gray corridor—bare beton walls, no echo but our steps. Only one yellow door at the end. Patrick swipes his card and ushers me into a cramped 3-by-4-meter cell: white metal cot, corner glass shower, toilet by a wall hook, concrete floor, no mirror, one rack with three identical yellow uniforms.
I step inside, facing the blank walls.
"You can sleep. Don't forget your card when you leave."
He's almost gone when I turn.
"Admin?"
Brows knot.
"In Blue, Purple, Red—everywhere—there are crowds of operators. Why is Yellow Sector just me? Only one room?"
A brow lifts; a crooked smile.
"The doctor accepts no one. Trains no one. He keeps a single assistant until he—well—kills them. For now, that's you."
He grabs the handle.
"What happened to the last one? Was this her room?"
Eyes turn flat, heavy.
"Primary aide died on a mission. The replacement... I told you—he burned her alive. So yes, she's dead. That's why you're here."
The door shuts behind him.
I stare at the metal, then drop onto the stone-hard mattress.
Damn this mission.