They came for Nia on Sunday.
Not with guards.
Not with accusations.
With silence.
She didn't show up for breakfast.
Or Ethics Seminar.
Or the mandatory Sunday reflection.
At lunch, I asked a girl from her chem class if she'd seen her.
"She transferred," the girl said, not looking up from her salad. "This morning. Sudden family matter."
I didn't believe her.
I went to Nia's dorm after dinner.
Room 204.
Door slightly ajar.
I knocked.
No answer.
I pushed it open.
The room was empty.
Not just cleared.
Scrubbed.
Bed stripped.
Shelves bare.
Mirror wiped clean — no smudges, no dust, like no one had ever lived there.
But on the desk — one thing left behind.
A single earpiece.
Not hers.
Mine.
The one I'd deactivated.
The one I'd hidden in my shoe after the server room.
Now, it sat in the center of the desk, placed like an offering.
Or a warning.
I picked it up.
Turned it over.
On the back, someone had etched three letters with a blade:
OBS
Not a word.
A designation.
Observation Track.
I didn't sleep that night.
Instead, I checked the drive again — hidden now in the spine of an old dictionary, Words That Survived the Censor. I'd bought it from a used bookstore in the city. Fitting.
I scrolled through the files.
Everything was still there.
Luka's video.
The Apex list.
The logs.
But one file was different.
/Apex/Circle_Members_Internal.xlsx — the one I hadn't opened before.
I clicked it.
A spreadsheet.
Fifty names.
Titles: CEOs. Senators. Judges. Founders.
All linked to Veridian.
All marked with access levels.
Then I saw it.
At the bottom, under Primary Funders, one name stood out:
Robert Morrow – Level 9 Access – Sponsorship Tier: Founder's Circle
My father.
I stared at the screen.
Not because I didn't believe it.
Because I did.
He died when I was twelve.
Car accident.
That's what they told us.
But the file said he wasn't just an alumnus.
He was a founder of Project Alpha Protocol.
One of the architects.
And my scholarship?
Not generosity.
Not merit.
Legacy access.
I closed the laptop.
Sat in the dark.
All this time, I thought I was coming to expose them.
But maybe I wasn't the intruder.
Maybe I was the heir.
And that made me not a threat.
But a test.
The next morning, my tablet buzzed before first period.
New message.
No sender.
Just a video.
I played it.
Security footage.
Me, in the server room.
Door 17.
1:14 a.m.
Face clear.
Holding the drive.
Text appeared on screen:
WE KNOW WHAT YOU TOOK.
WE KNOW WHAT YOU'VE SEEN.
WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
Then, one final line:
THE ASCENSION GALLA IS YOUR FINAL CHANCE TO STEP BACK.
I deleted the video.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't run.
Instead, I opened my notebook.
Wrote three names at the top:
LUKA. NIA. KIERAN.
Then beneath them, one word:
ALIVE.
Because Nia wasn't gone.
She was contained.
And if they thought seeing her erased would break me —
they didn't know what I'd already lost.
Or what I was willing to burn.