He throws a sneer at my blank face and heads for the door.
"Better get started—you haven't got much time."
I grind my teeth.
The moment he's gone I glare at the clutter of notebooks and loose sheets on the bench. One deep breath, and I'm in motion: gather everything, cross to the solitary terminal in the corner, sit, power it up.
Mouse in hand, I comb through every folder, determined not to mis-file or delete a single line.
It takes nearly an hour just to sort the notes alphabetically—then by date, then by time—anything to lighten the load.
Transcribing the rough scrawls is tougher. Some passages are so cryptic only the doctor himself could know why they exist.
My neck throbs. Hunger claws. A glance at my watch: after 01:00.
I walk to the door. Two guards stand with their backs to me. I crack it open.
"Where do I collect my ration?"
No reaction.
I slam the door and return to the glow of the monitor. At least working keeps the anger from boiling over.
I stay pinned to the cursed monitor until six a.m., hunched and stiff, eyes burning red.
Thumb and forefinger massage my lids; for a fleeting second I imagine smudging eyeliner—then remember: the moment I walked in here, I became someone else.
My skull throbs so hard I want to smash the terminal and everything on the desk against the walls.
The door swings open. I squint at the Admin, grin etched in pure mockery.
"Morning!"
I rise and stamp a boot in salute.
"Looks like the doctor fried you good on day one."
My stare stays Arctic.
"Breakfast. After that, your shift starts again."
I force my face blank. They really expect a second straight day without sleep?
"Yes, Admin."
He smirks—maybe hoping I'll object. He's mistaken. I didn't claw my way in here to quit before I reach my aim.
"Follow me."
I nod and trail him out. The hallway walls seem to slide closer, weakness and hunger closing their jaws around me.
He pushes through the white door in the corner and we slip into the next corridor, heading straight for the elevator at the far end. He stops in front of it.
"Admin?"
Still not looking at me, he presses the call button, tilting his head just enough to show he's listening.
I clear my throat. "Why doesn't the doctor want an assistant?"
He turns. A glacial stare locks onto mine.
"His last assistant was killed. He's been alone a long time—doesn't like anyone in his space."
A thin smile cuts across his face. "He's one of the Union's prime pieces—rose from nothing, built everything. We owe what we have to his brilliance."
His head cants farther, contempt drilling through me.
"You really think a mind like that needs a dimwit like you at his elbow?"
The elevator doors slide open. I step in behind him.
"You're only a nuisance to him," he adds, still smiling. He jabs the purple button. "Mess hall's open from five-thirty to six-thirty."
I lean against the steel wall. "If he's that brilliant, why did the Rose Organization toss him out? Far as I know, they booted him for lack of genius, and he ran to the Union. How bright can he be if they cut him loose?"
A smirk twists his lips.
"Success doesn't require genius." His fingers tap the triangle badge on his shoulder. "Power is enough."
The doors glide open. He strides out. I raise a brow and follow.
"We're here to build a better world," he says, crossing toward the hall opposite. "The doctor is our leader—we're just soldiers. And you're in no position to question his intellect."
He gestures at the dining room. "Eat. Fast."
I nod, scowling. As I step past, his arm blocks me. I stop, meeting his murky gaze.
"Stay sharp. This isn't kindergarten. Don't get friendly with anyone."
I bite off a breath. "Yes, Admin."
I tear my eyes from his brutish face and walk inside. Bitter coffee stings the sealed air. Pale-gray walls, sterile white light. I reach a red round table, drop onto a low black chair, and stare at the disposable tray—the plastic knife and fork perched on top—waiting.
More than fifty people crowd the mess hall.
Everyone wears the same cover-all, but in different colors—some, blue; others purple; a few in red. Each sits in silence, eating.
I lift a forkful of peanut butter, eyes drifting to a cluster of purple suits behind me—IT staff: pale, drained faces. If I'd spent my life buried in code, I'd look the same.
A straw pierces my milk pouch. While I sip, I study the red-clad group: tall, solid bodies—even the women built like athletes.
A metal tray lands opposite me. I look up.
A tall, lean man lowers himself onto the chair. One brow arches.
"Morning."
Fingers rake his blond hair.
"Looks like you didn't sleep."
I flick my gaze toward the ceiling camera. "Correct."
Familiar blue eyes lock on mine.
"They say newcomers aren't treated kindly."
I tip my head, voice low—no need to draw attention.
"More or less."
A sly smile; he scans the room, murmurs,
"Your admin giving you a hard time?"
I check the hall—Admin Patrick sits alone in a corner. Disgust pricks my throat. I pull my focus back to the big blue eyes across from me and fight down a smile—he always makes me grin.
"Not exactly gentle."
He bites his toast. My stare snags on the triangle badge at his shoulder. I smirk.
"Looks like you're a brand-new admin. They rough on you, too?"
A glint of mischief—he knows I love wordplay, and so does he.
He leans closer. "Yeah, fresh arrival. Why else would I park at your table?"
I bite into my own toast, cheeks bulging, straw still between my lips. His eyes laugh; if he could see my chipmunk face he'd laugh outright.
"What tag did they pin on you?" he asks.
I swallow. "Aalis."
He nods. I hide the mockery in my eyes.
"And you?"
"Already had a name—Steven."
My gaze drifts to the burn scar on his neck, angry lines still visible. So many memories in that scorch.
"Admin Steven—"
Both our heads snap around. Patrick the hyena strides up; my fists knot under the table.
"Unusual to see an admin at an operator's table." His voice drips acid.
Steven smiles lightly.
"New here. Haven't mastered your habit of slotting people by color and belittling them."
I nearly smile but force it down.
Patrick's fake grin cracks; he thrusts out a hand.
"Patrick. Seven years' service."
Steven lifts a brow. "Steven. Pleasure."
I spear another bite, but Patrick barks:
"Aalis, time's up. Back to the lab."
I exhale through my nose, dab my mouth, and
stand. One look at Steven—he watches, perfectly calm.
I trail Patrick toward the elevator.
"You shouldn't get cozy with admins," he snaps.
"You'll cost yourself—and him—your heads."
I scowl. "We only shared a table."
Inside the lift, he smirks at my defiant eyes.
"Cozy starts at tables."
Doors slide shut. He turns on me.
"The doctor's waiting. Pray he isn't in a mood, or—"
I bite my lip, staring at my shoes. Some of my work still isn't finished. I'll have to stay sharper. Steven should never have sat with me.
One misstep in this hell leads straight to ruin.