I leaned against the elevator's metal wall, eyes narrowed on Ashur's file.
Nothing set him apart from me.
Same recorded IQ... same physiological baselines... even his CT scans looked perfectly normal.
So what made him different?
I dragged a hand through my hair, chewing the corner of my pinkie nail the way I do when my brain spirals.
Tattoo close-ups filled the next pages.
Rose organisation had only told me this man mattered—that I was to hand him over alive even if it cost my own life.
But why?
Because he's a pro killer? Because he'd survived five years of torture without uttering a syllable?
None of that felt "normal," and why would the Triangle keep a silent, unco-operative captive breathing all this time? Why did the doctor hunt his psyche like a lunatic archeologist?
There had to be something else—something unique—and I meant to find it.
Ding. The lift opened; I stepped out and headed for my corridor, mind still churning—
"Aalis."
I jerked my head up. Steven.
Messy blond hair pushed back, anxious blue eyes locked on mine. He moved in, positioning himself between me and the far camera. I forced my face neutral.
"What are you doing here?" I hissed.
Those eyes—I'd seen them in every cursed tight spot we'd ever shared. We'd grown up in the same grim places, scored the same off-the-chart IQ, sold at birth by mothers who had signed away their rights for cash. No stolen-child fairy tale for us; we were inventory.
Together we endured the drills, the beatings, the psychological hacks that forged us into Rose's cleanup crew—assassins, hackers, diplomats, bodyguards—whatever the mission needed.
We even graduated the same day, earned our pins side by side... and discovered luck never bothered with either of us.
Now luck had dumped us both into the most dangerous op of our lives, and Steven was giving me that look again—the one that screams, Mission is blown.
"S-Steven... what are you doing here?
He blocked my path, breathing hard, lips barely moving as he murmured:
"We don't have long. Your admin's gone— They told me to tell you: get to the lab."
While he spoke he kept his mouth's motion minimal, silent-film style. I fixed on his lips, reading.
"End of this month they're shipping Ashur to Russia. They can't crack him—they're going to sell him."
Shock flared. I whispered, "The doctor will never allow that."
Steven flicked a glance down the corridor, sweat beading at his temple.
"He has no choice. Ashur's useless to them. They'll cash out while he still has value."
I masked my reaction—there was a camera behind him.
"No... we can't lose him."
"Then do something." Sweat glistened on his broad brow. "We have to act."
I hissed, low enough for the mic to miss:
"I've been stuck with that bastard doctor a week—Ashur won't even lift his head. How am I supposed to prove myself?"
Steven raked a hand through his hair.
"The Tailor said to remind you—use the wake-code. My contact's blown; they'll come for me soon. Ashur has to be triggered. Without him you'll never get out. He needs to hear the Ros-Org code—then he'll strike."
My heart lurched. His sad, exhausted eyes... Was this a goodbye?
He blinked softly. "Don't worry about me... Keep going."
I clenched my teeth—tears pricking. I wanted to hug him, but that would doom us both. His fingers twitched in our old hand-cipher:
"Watch yourself."
The elevator doors slid open. Patrick strode out, brows welded together. Cold dread punched my gut.
He stopped beside us, drilling Steven with a stare.
"What are you doing here?"
Steven met his eyes, calm.
"While you were away I was told to inform your operator the doctor needs her in the lab."
I steadied my breathing.
Patrick's gaze cut to Steven's damp forehead.
"I was in Purple. Thought you were assigned Red—extracting intel from that captured spy. Shouldn't you be there?"
He jerked his chin at me.
"Go. Lab. Now. Find out what's wrong."
I nodded and started down the hall—heart shattering. Steven's contact
was caught, being tortured in Red; it was only a matter of time before Steven's name spilled.
Patrick's bark halted me:
"Last time I catch you chatting with my operator," he warned Steven, "you'll regret it."
I threw Steven one final look—those bright, worried blue eyes.
If anything happened to him on this mission, I'd settle scores—first with Rose, then with the Triangle. And if Piranha got in the way, I'd put him down, too.
All because of that cursed man none of us even understood—yet everyone wanted alive.
And In that moment, I knew one thing—
No turning back