All day we were confined to the Red Sector.
Bodies of inmates who'd died under torture were dragged from their cells while we logged every detail—name, ID number, cause of death…
Admin Patrick's absence gnawed at me. What were they planning?
My sole heartbeat of hope was a message from the Tailor; somehow he had to smuggle me Ashur's wake code. I didn't know how—only that he'd find a way. He always did.
⸻
Stepping out of the lift, I wondered why the Doctor no longer wanted me speaking with Ashur. Maybe his doubts about me were hardening into certainty.
I slid my pass beneath the metal handle of my door, casting a sidelong glance at Patrick's office. A chill coiled through me.
Inside, everything sat exactly where I'd staged it:
— the gray bedspread, creased a hand-span on the right;
— the showerhead in the glass cubicle angled left;
— my second uniform hanging on the rail, deliberately skewed.
I breathed deep and crossed to the tiny window—the only view a scorched patch of desert behind the compound. Slumping into the chair, I toed off my sneakers and dropped my logbook on the table.
And froze.
The collar of my hanging uniform had been folded flat—I'd left it kinked.
I rose, laid a hand on the rail, and stared. A fine line of stitching glinted beneath the collar…
I stopped breathing.
⸻
The last time I saw the Tailor he was leaning against a black Benz, shades hiding his eyes. A private jet idled miles away; the air reeked of fuel, and summer sun baked my freshly dyed black hair.
"Why'd you come all this way?" I asked.
A smirk tugged his mouth as he pushed off the car and closed the distance.
"Needed to be sure you'll finish the job?"
He slid off his glasses—dark, warm eyes I always imagined my father might have had.
"I want you to understand something," he said.
I folded my arms, peeled my own shades away, noticing how sky-blue his jacket was.
His voice dropped, low and steady:
> "Ashur carries a unique gene. On top of that, the Organization has tested him for years—they implanted a microchip just behind his ear.
> He's a controlled machine. When he hears certain codes he obeys like a robot—no doubt, no pause… even if the order is to pull the trigger on himself."
I licked my dry lips. "So the chip shocks his motor nerves, forces compliance? He has zero control?"
The Tailor nodded once, sweat glistening on his flushed face.
"HQ only issued two codes. You hold the *speak code*—use it in conversation and he'll start talking.
Steven has the *wake code*. We call it *Waking the Devil.* With both, you can get Ashur out."
His gaze bored into mine.
> "The Triad Union stole Ashur from us. They've hunted that wake code for years, desperate to switch him on and take control."
Arms folded, I asked, "What if something happens to me—or to Steven? Then the pair of codes is broken."
He drew a breath that tasted of mint smoke; I knew his cigarettes were menthol.
"Don't worry," he said softly. "I'll arrange everything, as always. If your clothes ever tear… I'm the one who sews them."
I snorted, eyes closing against the mounting heat. "When am I even supposed to use that code? Doubt Ashur can do much once it's spoken."
He gave a gentle smile—the only kindness I'd felt since Steven. From afar he'd always watched out for me.
"You'll know when, Viona.
And then you'll see what *waking the Devil* truly means."