Blue Piranha

A full week has passed since they locked me in this white cage, and I still don't know whether the doctor lived or died.

All I can do is replay what I saw:

Forty-six cameras—on a single floor.

Seventeen guards, no firearms. They're protecting something... but not an object. They're afraid of it.

That's why they only carry stun batons: they know if they fire a gun, they'll be the first casualties.

I stare at the lifeless ceiling and run the corridor through my mind again: the blood-washed room, the sealed door at the end.

Where does it lead?

Most of all: if Steven is right, Piranha—my true target—must have knifed the doctor.

Seven days.

Seven silent, windowless days leave a mind plenty of time to wander. The more the body is caged, the wider thoughts can fly.

I sift through every hour of my life—wonder when the "missions" stopped being mine and became seedlings other people planted in my skull.

Sometimes my eyes drift to the hairline crack beside the wardrobe, a dark vein in the damp concrete. My life is that fissure—deep, splintered.

Maybe the first fracture formed the day my mother conceived me—a fetus promised, even before birth, to a terrorist syndicate.

A towel-wrapped newborn, never held by its own mother, delivered as tribute.

I'm thankful high IQ doesn't mean perfect memory; I don't remember those days. Better not to recall being passed along like a cheap weapon.

I was born for demolition and death, my purpose growing until nothing else mattered—

at least until Steven.

Knuckles rap the door—thoughts shatter.

Patrick strides in, scowl nailed to his face.

"Follow me."

I just stare. Permission to leave the cell?

I rise from the cot and trail him.

"Where are we going?"

No answer. His pace is tight, furious.

He slams the lift button—the forbidden level.

The same floor: Hell Gate. The place of blood, glass, and the doctor's half-dead body. They locked me up for those few seconds—now they're bringing me back?

Maybe they've decided to erase me. Maybe the doctor's dead and they'll blame me.

The elevator doors parted and I followed him, tense, into the familiar corridor.

I glanced at the cameras—at the silent, weapon-less guards. The hallway felt even more unnerving than I'd remembered.

Patrick stopped at the scanner.

First, an iris check: a thin green beam swept across his eye, the system chimed three seconds later.

Immediately the overhead camera pivoted; its lens locked onto his face for a physiological scan—body heat, pulse rate, micro-muscle tension. The algorithm confirmed his identity even if his expression was grim and drained.

The door slid open with an abrasive screech.

My breathing snagged. I stepped after him.

This time I studied everything.

The lighting here carried a faint green tint—calibrated to monitor the slightest neural spike, to keep the psyche and every bodily reflex under perfect surveillance.

The floor, pure white and non-slip, absorbed sound yet resisted heat shock or impact. Even our footsteps died in the hush.

Most striking were the cameras.

Forty-six multi-spectrum units in a single passage:

thermal FLIR, 3-D LiDAR, sensors that captured residual heat and frequencies beyond human sight.

Why concentrate all that tech in one corridor?

What were the doctor—and the Triangle Union—really guarding?

Every few metres stood a man.

No firearms.

Only X26P military Tasers and batons tipped for focused electric shock—painful, slow-healing things, and I knew exactly how they felt.

Their lack of guns carried its own dark message:

If whatever they're hiding gets past that door, no bullet will save them.