Blue Piranha

I draw a long breath.

His chest rises and falls—slow, deliberate.

"Why is he even here?" I ask.

The doctor, still staring at the man, murmurs,

"It's classified... Just know he's Rose's most valuable asset. Not a prodigy—an execution machine. They'd do anything to get him back. Years ago we barely managed to trap him. Now we have to re-engineer that machine for our use."

I gape at him, then turn my eyes on the captive.

"Rose is hunting him?"

"Oh, absolutely!" The doctor lets out a sharp laugh.

"You called him Viper?"

I can't steady my pulse. Something about the man unnerves me—like a war-god locked in glass.

"So what do you want me to do?"

The doctor wheels toward a control desk at the far wall.

"I'll explain."

I cast one last look at the prisoner. Not a millimetre of movement—exactly like his name: a viper coiled to strike, yet carved in stone.

We exit the chamber; my steps sweep after the doctor.

"That boy is a machine," he says. "We've spent years searching for the start-up key. We've done everything imaginable, but Rose buried it deep."

"So you need a code to make him switch sides?" I ask.

"Exactly." He parks at the workstation. "We've held him five years—and he hasn't spoken a single word."

"What?" My eyes widen.

He queues up a video dated 2020.

They're torturing Ashur—plastic over his head, water pour, taser shocks, nails ripped one by one—he never even screams.

The doctor watches the screen, thoughtful.

"Every torture you can think of—we tried. Ashur's a locked chest even a nuke can't open... unless we find the key."

I rub my neck.

"Unbelievable."

He nods.

"We run weekly tests—constant psychological strain. From now on, those are your responsibility."

"Yes, sir," I breathe.

He throws a glance at Patrick.

"Don't disappoint me."

A crooked grin. He wheels toward the exit.

"Otherwise... you'll deserve to die."

My heart hammers. When he's gone I face Patrick.

One growl: "Slip once, and you lose your head."

A thin smile. "I'll cut it off myself."

He starts away.

"What is your problem with me?"

He pivots on his heel, eyes drilling into mine.

"I don't trust you," he whispers, vicious.

He strode out of the lab without another word, leaving me to follow.

The doctor had already disappeared, so I had no choice but to stick with Patrick. He's all wiry height and no real muscle—doesn't look as if he could win a fist-fight. I'd love a chance to snap those skinny arms and grin while he screams, but... not yet.

We reached the lift. Patrick stepped in beside me and hit the button for the dining level. Both of us stared at the metal doors in silence. He didn't bother to wait for me afterward—clearly sick of the doctor's faith in me. Men like him fancy themselves the master's guard dog and snarl when anyone else gets a pat on the head. Fool.

I collected a steel tray and held it out at the servery: baked beans in the rectangle, mashed potatoes in the circle.

Reaching for a cup, I stopped—Steven's hand was there first.

"Take this," he murmured.

I shifted the tray to my right hand and accepted the paper cup with my left.

"Thanks."

"Have a good day," he replied, a sly curve on his lips.

I headed for the most remote table—back to the cameras—set tray and cup down, and sat. Lifting the drink, I drained it in one go. When I lowered the cup I glanced at the bottom:

"You can begin."