I blinked, yanked out of the memory. I was here—in my room—staring at the uniform.
My heart kicked wild. Quickly, I bit through a seam in the collar, ripped a slit, and tugged out a strand of yarn hidden inside.
My eyes flicked to the door; my fingers numb, I let the uniform drop.
Red, blue, green, violet—more than fifty colors knotted in sequence, tiny rings on a coded string. Every knot meant a letter. I ran through the Tailor's color-alphabet, heat and sweat slicking my fingertips.
Start… wake code… Shi—
The door crashed open.
I didn't look up; I clenched the yarn tight. I had the damned code at last.
Cold sweat crawled down my temple. Heavy boots thudded on the floor.
I turned.
Admin Patrick filled the frame, a sly grin carved across his mouth, flanked by three red-armored guards.
My pulse thundered. Batons gleamed in their fists; their eyes spat ice.
I locked on Patrick's stare, fists coiled at my sides. His gaze reeked of victory.
He tipped his head. A guard lumbered forward.
The yarn bled color into my palm, but it no longer mattered. They would never read this code; the only safe vault was my mind.
The giant's baton rose. Over his shoulder I spotted the Purple-Sector admin—the one who'd ratted me out—glowering.
Game over.
Metal arced toward me. In that last instant I saw Patrick's smug, mocking eyes—
—and then a flood of black.
I hit the cold parquet on my back.
And then…
nothing.
***
They were dragging me by the elbows, hard enough for the joints to scream.
The rubber tips of my sneakers screeched across the tile—dead weight on a morgue slab.
Maybe I'm already dead.
Viona, that hit must've scrambled your brain. Dead people aren't supposed to feel pain, right?
It felt like a hot coal was pressed behind my eyelids—they burned and weighed a ton.
Footsteps—two men, hauling me God-knows-where.
A door clanged open… chair legs scraped… a fist gripped my collar and dumped me like a sack onto cold metal.
The stench of dried blood told me no one had stitched my head; I'd been out for hours.
My body rocked; damp, stale air clawed at my nose. They noticed I was coming to—chains bit into my wrists and ankles.
How do you escape a death sentence?
"Well, look who's awake."
No mistaking that grating baritone—the Doctor—echoing through a cold isolation cell.
My eyelids wouldn't open; something heavy pinned them down. I guessed it was an iron visor.
"That thing on your eyes is just steel, but if it heats up," he said, "the skin behind your lids will fry—until your eyeballs cook and burst."
I leaned back against the chair and smirked.
"Hmm… now that is a fresh toy. Wish I'd met it sooner—could've used it myself."
No point pretending anymore; they'd never let me go. Might as well give the bastard the real me.
His hand tangled in my hair and yanked. White-hot pain tore across my scalp. Then—bang—my face slammed into the table. Cartilage crunched; pretty sure my nose broke.
Darkness flickered at the edge of consciousness, but luck hates me—I stayed awake.
Blood ran to my lips; I licked it off.
"I just had that nose fixed," I muttered, grinning through the mess.
He barked a laugh, the sound ricocheting around the cell.
Yep—Red Sector, special-torture unit. No windows, no breeze; just cold walls and the stink of rot.
"Can't believe I fell for you," he hissed, palm heavy on my shoulder. "Thought you were on our side."
A weak, wry smile tugged at my mouth.
"None of us picked our side…"
His breathing turned rough, like a starving animal.
Death was the only end he could offer, but not here. I'd get out; Ashur would be free; Steven would be avenged.
I swallowed the bitter taste in my throat and angled my head toward him.
"We just have to obey our own bosses, Doctor.
You're a lapdog for the Triad Union…
and I'm the Rose Organization's."