It's been a week since I arrived.
Every day, in the food queue, I watch the operators from each floor—file after file in single-colour cover-alls, sitting side-by-side and choking down breakfast in silence.
Ridiculous, really—our uniforms make us look like children in preschool.
I'm the only one wearing yellow in the entire hall.
Only in the lab am I sometimes allowed a white coat—brief, blessed freedom from this eyesore colour.
What gnaws at me is why I alone have been assigned to Yellow Sector.
What happened to the other assistants?
Over the years, Rose has slipped plenty of spies into this tower—none ever walked out alive, none delivered anything useful.
Across the hall I spot Steven: hands clasped behind his back, strolling in his crisp white chinos and linen shirt. Blond hair brushed up; the lean muscle of his arms shows even through the fabric.
He drifts toward my table, pretending to survey the room. I keep poking at my chicken and pray Admin Patrick doesn't appear.
Steven stops beside me, voice barely a whisper.
"Getting used to this place?"
I like his voice—he could be a voice actor, maybe even a singer. On Russian winter nights he'd sing, and the cold felt warmer. Or he'd smuggle me a mug of hot chocolate, then sprint off before anyone saw.
I clear my throat, eyes locked on my tray.
"Yeah. Air's a bit rough, though."
One tawny eyebrow arches. He scans the room.
"Too hot or too cold?"
I lean back, tear a piece of toast with my fork.
"Cold right now."
He steps closer; I can see the crease lines on his shirt.
"Rough schedule in the lab? Bet they bury you in work."
I glance at the ceiling camera, then at the water bottle.
"Not really. Haven't managed to do much the past few days."
I tilt my head, murmuring,
"You're an admin—how's your side? Settling in?"
I expect a sly grin. He mirrors my casual sweep of the hall; his long, pale fingers catch my eye—back in the cold, they'd always turn red, and he'd lend me his gloves because I kept losing mine.
"Can't tell yet—buried in tasks," he says, rubbing his neck. The old burn scar there draws my gaze.
"Seen much of the tower yourself?"
He lowers his voice.
"Saw a few floors. Some are still off-limits."
He pivots, pretending to study the far wall; I get a clean view of his face. His lips barely move as he murmurs,
"Soon they'll give Piranha a code—he'll go feral. That's your chance to prove yourself."
My eyes narrow. Orders are starting, then.
I notice Patrick heading our way. I drop my fork onto the tray, smirk, and stuff another bite in my mouth. Steven nods to him and walks off toward the back of the hall. I watch those broad shoulders and bright hair. Have they forced him to grow it out? He hates long hair—everyone teased him that he looked like Thor until he'd shear it short.
Patrick scowls. "Lab. Now."
I tear my gaze from Steven, rise slowly. Patrick's tone oozes frustration—my week of survival clearly irks him. He's itching for the doctor to toss me out.
Time to stay sharper; Patrick is eager to make my first mistake my last.
I trail him from the hall.
I step into the lab and freeze: the doctor's chair is empty.
Patrick looks just as surprised. After a terse call on his radio, he growls that the doctor has gone to the Black Sector—Hell Gate.
Steven's warning flashes through my mind. The Rose Organization must have set something in motion... a way for me to prove myself.
All week I've shuttled only between my cubicle, the lab, and the mess hall. The doctor is a ghost—locked in solitary corners of his own head—so I've had no opening. But now?
Sitting at a side bench, I stare at a heavy glass flask. A crimson solution climbs in glossy bubbles beneath a tight blue flame—like blood gently reaching a boil.
The lab door slams open.
"Move—now!" Patrick's voice is sharp, ragged.
He's pale; the whites of his eyes are streaked red. Without thinking I kill the burner and sprint after him.
" What happened?" I pant.
That's when I notice his sleeves: not spots, not streaks—soaked in blood up to the elbows.
Inside the lift he's shaky, almost translucent.
"Can you perform surgery?"
My eyes narrow. "I'm... I'm not a surgeon."
"You'd better be." His snarl rattles the walls.
"Only two people here understand medicine—you and the doctor. Everyone else is on mission. Be useful, Double-Digit."
The floor number glows black—one of the forbidden levels.
We're going into Hell Gate.