"What's your name?"
I trail the man at an unhurried pace.
"Aalis—Number Sixteen."
He climbs the stairs; my eyes stay fixed on his broad shoulders.
"Which Triangle Union did you serve in?"
A slow breath. I let my gaze roam, curious.
"The Russian Secret Union, Sector Z."
We enter an endless, white corridor. Floors and walls are pure mirror, giving them 360-degree vision—even behind us.
Each step shatters the silence
"Do you know whose right hand you're about to become?"
My stare never leaves his shoulders.
"Yes."
He nods and stops at the final white door. A camera peers down; the handle blinks green, and the door slides open. I follow him into the next hallway.
"How old were you when they reclaimed and trained you?"
I glance at my shoes, trying to remember which age those forged documents assigned me. I'd checked the damn fakes so often I'd started believing them myself.
"Fourteen."
A loud, mocking snort.
"What were you doing till fourteen—playing hopscotch? I can't believe they picked an idiot like you for something this important."
My fists clench at my sides.
He wheels on me, eyes sweeping me top to toe with open contempt.
"Why give a little girl with a number like yours a pass into this place?"
A hard breath. He pins me with a flat, emotionless stare.
"Without my say-so, you don't step into or out of the Blue Sector. Understood?"
"Yes."
He keeps the same icy tone.
"Remember—you're just recycled trash. You're about to face one of the Union's top vertices... the Head of Sector Three."
I meet his gaze, burying every hint of feeling.
"Yes."
Let him believe I'm some dim, disposable creature the Union scraped out of the gutter and taught to obey. It's amusing... and useful. I rather enjoy his delusions. Poor fool.
A smirk tugs at his mouth; one brow arches.
"It doesn't matter that you were worthless till fourteen. The Union did you a favor—pulled you out of the garbage. Slip up here, and right back into the trash you go."
He jabs a finger at me.
"They're giving you one shot to rip off that 'Worthless' label. Use it."
I stamp my heel once, firm.
"Yes, Admin."
Though all I can think about is murder.
Which method suits him best? Sever his limbs and let him bleed out? Gouge out his eyes first—no, less satisfying. Strangulation? Strangulation might do...
His stare drills into mine.
"Languages?"
I shove the thoughts aside and answer without pause.
"Russian, English, Persian."
He nods, turns, and I fall in behind him again. At the corridor's end he swipes a card and opens another door. I step into a wide hall, forcing my uneven heartbeat to steady. I won't let him rile me. His petty rank means nothing. For now, I'll let him talk. When the time is right... I'll settle the score.
Tall workbenches ring the lab, each crowded with glassware and humming instruments.
"This is the Yellow Sector. You stay here."
He exhales slowly.
"This tower has seven floors, each marked by a color. You work in Yellow. Admins—team leaders—wear white, which means they don't belong to any single floor. They're the exception."
He hands me a thin plastic badge.
"Your access card."
I take it.
"The other sect—"
"Green and Orange are training and service, bottom-tier, barely worth mentioning." He cuts me off.
A curt nod from me, and he fixes his stare on mine.
"Third floor is Purple—IT specialists. Fourth is Blue—defense and security. Fifth is Yellow—classified research and experiments. Sixth is Red—prison, interrogation. Seventh is Black."
His voice drops. "Black has nothing to do with you. Don't even ask."
He heads for the door.
"The doctor will be here soon. He's checking on Red."
"I heard each floor has a symbol... and that Floor Seven was added a few years ago. Why so secret?"
My eyes narrow. "Just curious."
A dry laugh. Hands slide into white-uniform pockets.
"Curious, are we?"
I drop my gaze to the floor.
He steps in front of me—close enough that his breath scorches my forehead.
A gravelly whisper: "Ever heard of 'Seven Steps to Heaven'?"
I keep staring at the floor; he leans nearer.
"Floor Seven is the Devil's gate."
I swallow hard. He straightens. Cold, impenetrable eyes. The man smells like dried blood—nausea claws at me.
"Remember—too much curiosity can cost you your head."
Fingers rake his collar; he clears his throat and snaps,
"No one but Admins and the doctor sets foot up there." He strides to the door, adds, "He'll brief you on the rest."
He turns back.
"Hey, Zero-Number."
My brows knit together. "Zero" is what they call throw-aways—people considered slow. Another jab at me.
"No one here gets called by a number. From now on we use your name."
He leaves.
I cross to a corner workstation, palm skimming the surface. Hard to believe how far they've advanced—their building, their rules, their hardware, even their weapons.
Hands disappear into the pockets of my yellow cotton coat. Only lab gear in sight. The room is white, frigid, and that silence claws at what's left of my nerves.
Two doors stand at opposite ends. A camera perches high on the far wall.
Two granite-topped benches—one-and-a-half by three meters—dominate the space, plumbing snaking beneath.
Deep breath. I turn my back on the door and stare at the far wall: a plain, blank frame—no picture, no color. White on white, meant to tug the mind apart. They're testing our limits.
I move to a bench; the granite is acid-proof, unyielding.
The door creaks open. A man steps in, oblivious to me. He peels off bloody gloves, drops them into a bin. Black hair explodes around his head like Einstein gone feral.
He rounds the bench—stops dead when he sees me. Narrow, ice-cold eyes rake me.
"Who are you?"
One step forward.
"Aalis—Number Sixteen. Discarded by. Discarded by the Rose Organization."
The Union found me, took me to the Reclamation Camp at fourteen, branded me Sixteen, and let me prove my worth. I've transferred here to assist you."
He strides closer; the floor seems to quake.
"Who let you in?"
A glance at the door.
"Th—the Admin."
Fingers claw through his tangled hair; his eyes flare. A low growl:
"Get. Out."