Ahead of me, one of the side entrance’s glass doors slides open—and Jax steps out. She glances over her shoulder for an instant, and her gaze sweeps over the campus.
I duck below the bushes surrounding the building. My mind stumbles frantically from one possibility to another, each thought as rapid as my heartbeat. What the hell is she doing in here? Who is she with?
Jax probably didn’t travel here alone. She’s a bodyguard and an assassin, which means she’s either here guarding Zero or Taylor, or she’s here on a mission to cop someone. I count to three under my breath, then dare to peek around the side of the bushes.
Several guards have emerged from the building to join her. They’re dressed in black, too, and I wonder for a moment if any of them are the same people who’d watched me duel Zero in the Dark World. Maybe they’re the type of low-level goons you’d hire out of the Kabukicho area in Shinjuku.
Jax exchanges a few terse words with them, then heads off toward the far side of the complex at a brisk pace. A couple of the guards follow her, while two others start heading back into the door.
I move before I can think everything through. Shoulders hunched; eyes forward. I sneak along the bushes like a shadow, as quickly and silently as I can toward the open door. As the last guard disappears inside the door and it starts to close, I dart forward. I slide into the building’s dark interior without a sound, right as the door slides closed.
Immediately, I slip into the closest hidden crevice I can find—a row of tall recycle bins. But the guards have already disappeared down the hall. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment andlean my head back against the wall, then pull down my mask so I can take in some deep gasps of air. A sheen of cold sweat covers my entire body.
In my next life, I’m going to be an accountant.
Farther down the hall, the guards’ footsteps grow steadily fainter. I wait until it’s completely silent before I pick myself up and move forward.
The building is dark, and no one seems to be on duty. I go until the ceiling starts to get higher and the sound of my footsteps changes. Then I emerge into the main atrium, and I freeze, my mouth open.
The institute’s main lobby could be a museum in itself. The ceiling soars many stories above me, and in the vast space is suspended what I can only call an enormous art sculpture that resembles the electric pulses of a brain—except on a massive scale, extending all the way from the ceiling down to a few feet above the floor. Hundreds of lines of light connect colorful orbs, and as I watch, the lines flash and fade, glow and darken. It’s hypnotizing.
Other displays are encased behind glass boxes—human-like machines with metal limbs and legs, structures made of thousands of cylinders and circles all moving in a rhythmic pattern, curtains of light that look like a neon waterfall.
For a moment, I forget myself and wander from display to display, awed by the eerie beauty of it. I stop at a large timeline projected against the entirety of one wall. It shows the origins of the institute, old black-and-white photos progressing until the timeline ends on a modern-day image of the current building. Then everything shifts, the photos expanding so that they fill the wall, details printed over each image in white letters before scrolling to the next.
Headlines appear filled with praise for the institute—a centerdevoted to giving its clients cutting-edge technology, to conducting experiments decades ahead of their time, to the constant advancement of science.
The muffled sound of some distant sob cuts through my thoughts. I crouch against the wall on instinct, pushing myself deeper into the shadows. The cry has come from somewhere farther down one of the halls. Something about it seems familiar.
I wait. When I don’t hear anything else, I leave behind the main atrium and hurry down the hall closest to me.
It’s too dark in here to see the ceiling now, although the sound of my footsteps tells me how high the space is. Two thin purple neon lines highlight the edges of the floor. Several long minutes drag on, occasional sounds and voices ringing out. Somewhere ahead of me comes another muffled thud, then voices I don’t recognize.
The hall ends abruptly, leading into another enormous space—this time with several brightly lit rooms covered on all sides with thick glass walls.
Inside one room is Zero.
I frown. No, it’s not Zero—just something that looks like him, a black metal suit, tall and lean, its head and body completely encased in armor. A robot? Standing outside the glass room is Zero himself, deep in conversation with Taylor. She has several screens hovering in front of her, all of them only blank white, from my view. As Zero talks, she pushes her glasses up on her nose and types onto a screen in midair. Her shoulders look fragile in their hunched position.
Zero steps away from Taylor toward the glass. She nods at him. And, as I look on,hesteps right through the glass wall and into the room with his armor.
I blink. He’s not here in person—he’s a virtual simulation. Then where is he?
Zero walks around the robot version of himself, inspecting it carefully. A loudbeepsounds out from the glass room—and suddenly, the robot moves. Zero holds out his hand; the robot moves its limb in the exact same motion. Zero turns his head; the robot turns its head, too. Taylor pushes the door open and joins him in the room. She tosses a metal object at the robot, and Zero’s hand whips out. The robot does the exact same gesture, catching the object in a perfect grip.
I gape. Whatever this robot is for, it’s entirely hooked up to Zero’s mind, with a level of accuracy that frightens me.
The muffled sob I’d heard earlier now comes to me again. This time, I turn to see Jax emerge from the shadows of another hall at the other end of the space, shoving a figure forward until they’re both standing before the glass room. As Taylor and Zero step out, Jax forces the figure onto his knees.
In an instant, I forget all about the robot. I forget about Zero’s virtual self controlling the robot with his mind, and Taylor peering at her screens through her glasses. All that matters is the crouched, trembling figure, his skin washed white from the lights, his hair hanging in sweaty strings, his mouth gagged with a cloth.
Tremaine.
Jax’s words drift to me, her voice echoing in the space. “Found him messing with the security cams,” she says. “He tried making a run for the panic room when he realized I was on to him. Somehow, he knew the panic room’s system is off the main grid.”
Zero folds his hands behind his back and observes Tremaine’s bowed figure. “Sounds like someone has been studying the institute’s blueprints,” he replies.
“Sounds like someone was laying a path out for someone else,” Jax adds. “He’s not here alone.”
