I freeze; then he lunges, seizes my arm, and drags me. The door flies open; he all but flings me into the corridor. I hit the floor, whip around, lock eyes with that soulless stare—then the door slams.
The bang rattles my bones. Hands trembling, I ball them into fists, teeth grinding. I press a palm to the floor, push myself upright.
Footsteps. White shoes stop beside my hands. I lift my head and stare straight into the Admin's narrowed, mocking eyes.
"Admin," I whisper.
I stand, drawing a slow breath to pull myself together.
A growl slips out, caged behind my teeth.
"Why didn't the doctor know I'm supposed to be his assistant?"
He smirks.
"Oh, right. Forgot to mention it."
My jaw locks; fists tremble with fury. His gaze drags over me, head to toe.
"Maybe try being a little… flirtier."
His fingertip brushes my arm.
"Then he might not treat you like trash."
That sly smile stays plastered to his face.
"Funny, isn't it? The Union sends a little girl to assist the doctor."
He leans in, vile lips almost grazing mine, and breathes,
"He'll eat you alive."
I'm panting. Do not lose control. My hands ball, eyes blazing.
He pulls back, scoffs, and strolls past me. A rap on the door, a swipe of his card— the lab opens.
I want to rip his head off right there.
But I stay cool.
I don't go down that easily.
I've come too far to infiltrate this place.
Cold Russian days flash by—fingers numb on a trigger… endless torture to prove my "loyalty" to this filthy Union.
And now I'm here, inches from my target.
I will not surrender.
I stared at the door until my eyes burned. Blink. Blink. My clenched teeth had bruised my jaw.
A moment later he stepped out.
He fixed me with that taunting look.
"I told him you're the new assistant. For now he's short-staffed—he'll have to tolerate you. You may go in."
I hid my smirk behind lifeless eyes.
"Thank you, Admin."
He brushed past; I abandoned patience, strode after him, and slipped through the door before it shut.
The doctor, back turned, bent over a microscope. Alcohol and dried blood stung the air. His voice rang out, cold and precise:
"Until I grant permission, you don't speak."
Staring at the loose waves of his dark hair, I answered, "Yes, Doctor."
He straightened, eyes locking on mine.
"Did I give you permission to speak?"
"No, Doctor."
His appearance jarred me—tall, powerfully built, younger than thirty. I'd pictured a gray-haired relic; instead, the Union's most wanted physician looked almost… fresh.
He left the microscope and faced me fully, gaze unblinking.
"You like talking, don't you?"
Eyes down. "No, Doctor."
A crooked smile. Two long strides closed the distance.
"Know what they call me?"
"No, sir."
His head tilted. "Angel of Death."
I kept my stare fixed on his shoes, afraid he'd read the thoughts crowding my skull.
"Any idea what it cost to earn that name?"
A breath, icy against my cheek. "How many people I killed?"
I swallowed.
"If you don't want to join that list, keep your wits."
How many have I killed? Enough to earn my own title—the Jellyfish.
I remember the day they pinned it on me… a dossier thick with names I'd sent into the Oblivion Trials. Seeing them still curdles my stomach.
I couldn't help it; I looked up.
I shouldn't have.
His eyes were winter, empty and strange. Terror prickled my skin. I clenched fists, ground teeth—anything to stay still. He wore the fear of his victims like cologne.
Thin, pale lips moved:
"I don't know why they sent a weak little girl like you instead of Paola. While you're here you obey every order, and you do not get on my nerves. You speak only when I allow it. Clear?"
Heel slam. "Yes, Doctor."
He'll learn soon enough I'm far more than fragile.
For the record—he's killed fewer than I have. I never murdered a child. Him? I doubt he can claim the same.
He turns his back on me and bends over the microscope again.
I step up beside him, keeping a polite gap. Every few seconds, he jots something down in a small notebook on the bench.
"No work history either?"
I take a long breath.
"No, Doctor."
A smirk. He lifts his head, letting the pen clatter onto the page.
"So why ship you here? You've clearly got a low IQ — and you're just reclaimed trash."
I stay calm.
"True — I never earned a barcode in the Rose Organization. They tossed me in a corner to die. Your system rescued people like me; instead of killing the cognitively inefficient, you upgraded us."
My head tilts slightly.
"So if they chose me as your assistant, I've already proved I'm useful."
He braces one hand on the granite edge. My eyes catch on the pink-stained skin — blood he didn't bother to scrub away. The Admin said he'd been to Red… Whose pain is still on his gloves?
Dark flecks still pepper the white of his coat. When he steps closer, his bitter cologne coils in my lungs.
I meet his stare. That dormant sneer surfaces as he scans me.
"So you claim I can count on you?"
Hands sink into his pockets.
"Yes, Doctor."
That hidden sneer spreads.
"We'll see."
He lifts the notebook and offers it to me.
"Enter every note into the system. I don't want a single detail missing."
I take it. He nods toward the workstation in the corner.
"Figure out which file and folder each formula belongs in."
I swallow. Does he really think I can't handle a task this trivial? Poor fool.
I look him straight in the eye.
"Yes, Doctor."