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# Chapter 9 – Plan
For the first time in what felt like months, I woke up on my own.
No alarm. No ceiling speakers announcing that my continued existence depended on reporting somewhere immediately. No synthetic voice politely informing me that failure to comply would result in consequences ranging from disciplinary action to death.
Just silence.
Soft morning sunlight filtered through the enormous windows, painting golden streaks across the ceiling. Dust drifted lazily through the beams, undisturbed.
Peaceful. Almost unnaturally so.
I lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling.
Back on Earth, mornings had never looked like this. They usually involved three alarms screaming at staggered intervals, me repeatedly convincing myself that five more minutes was a perfectly reasonable life choice, and eventually a full-blown crisis when I realized I was already late. There had even been one memorable occasion when my roommate threatened to dump an entire bucket of ice water over my head.
Thinking back... he'd been completely justified.
Now I woke up naturally before sunrise. No alarms. No complaints.
Apparently months of military-grade training, constant stress, and the daily possibility of violent death had dramatically improved my sleeping habits.
Wonderful.
I sat up. As tempting as it was to collapse back onto the absurdly comfortable mattress, that wasn't happening today.
Today was mission day.
That single thought swept away the last traces of sleep. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The city stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Even at this early hour, it was already alive. Streams of flying vehicles moved between distant skyscrapers with mechanical precision. Holographic advertisements shimmered in the air, cycling every few seconds. Thousands of tiny figures crossed suspended skybridges hundreds of meters above the ground.
From this distance, everything looked calm. Orderly. Peaceful.
Life continuing as though today were completely ordinary.
For almost everyone... it probably was.
For me, someone was going to die.
I stood there another few seconds, then looked away.
Thinking about it wouldn't change anything.
A quick shower washed away the last traces of sleep, though it couldn't touch the thoughts underneath.
After changing, I headed downstairs. The mansion remained quiet — this wasn't a permanent Bloom facility, just a temporary safe house. Apart from a handful of support personnel, there wasn't anyone else living here.
The dining area occupied nearly half of the first floor. Long tables stretched across polished wooden floors while enormous windows overlooked the city. Bloom staff quietly restocked food trays without speaking to one another. Professional. Efficient. Almost invisible.
I walked over to the serving counter and picked up the first thing that looked remotely edible.
A nutrition bar.
Gray. Rectangular. Dense enough to qualify as a building material.
I stared at it for a moment, then took a bite.
Immediately, I regretted every decision that had led me to this point in life.
*Seriously.*
These people possessed technology capable of creating superhuman soldiers. They manipulated genetics like someone editing a document. They implanted microscopic chips into human brains, built invisible aircraft, developed energy weapons and artificial metamaterials that practically ignored conventional physics.
And somehow — *somehow* — they still couldn't manufacture food that tasted like food.
The texture resembled compressed sawdust. The flavor, if it could even be called that, reminded me of cardboard that had spent several weeks marinating in disappointment.
I chewed slowly. "This should be illegal."
No one answered. Mostly because nobody cared. The Bloom personnel eating nearby wore expressions suggesting they weren't enjoying their food either. One technician absentmindedly finished an entire bar while reading something on a tablet, looking no happier than I felt.
I understood completely.
Honestly, I was almost impressed. Removing flavor from food should have been difficult. Bloom had managed to invent something with negative taste. Maybe they held competitions.
*Congratulations, Research Division Seven! You've successfully developed a nutrition bar that actively discourages eating!*
The scientists probably celebrated with actual food. That would explain everything.
Eventually I forced down the final bite and emptied an entire glass of water. Much better. Though I was fairly certain the water deserved most of the credit.
I looked at the empty wrapper.
Pizza. Fresh bread. Grilled meat. Ice cream. Even instant noodles suddenly sounded like luxury cuisine.
Then a truly horrifying thought crossed my mind.
*What if Bloom actually considered these gourmet?*
No. Some questions weren't worth asking.
After breakfast, I made my way toward the conference room.
The mansion's hallways were almost silent. Soft carpet muffled every footstep. Sunlight poured through the windows while Bloom personnel moved quietly through the corridors, carrying equipment or checking terminals before the operation. No one spoke unless necessary. Everyone seemed focused, professional, mission-oriented.
I reached the conference room. The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss.
Handler 245 was already inside, standing beside a holographic display and reviewing floating documents. Not surprisingly, she looked exactly the same as always — green skin, short black hair, sharp yellow eyes, and an expression permanently balanced somewhere between mild disappointment and complete exhaustion.
I still wasn't entirely convinced she slept.
Near the opposite wall stood Ira's handler. Unlike 245, he remained perfectly motionless, arms folded behind his back, watching the room in silence. Military posture. Minimal expression. He looked like someone who measured conversations in wasted seconds.
Good. I wasn't late. Considering my questionable history with punctuality back on Earth, that felt like a genuine personal achievement.
I took a seat near the center of the table.
For several quiet minutes, nobody spoke.
Then the doors opened again.
Ira walked in. The moment he noticed me, a grin spread across his face.
*Uh-oh.*
That smile usually meant trouble. He wandered over and dropped into the chair beside mine.
"I see you've finally accepted reality."
I looked at him. "What reality?"
"That I'm always here before you."
"No."
He blinked. "No?"
"You're usually invisible."
For half a second he just stared. Then his grin widened. "See? Exactly. You forgot I existed."
"I refuse to believe that."
He placed a hand over his chest. "I'm deeply wounded."
"You look suspiciously cheerful for someone who's devastated."
"I hide my pain well."
"I'll notify the medical staff."
He gasped. "You would mock my suffering?"
"I would document it."
He stared at me for several long seconds before bursting into laughter. "You know... I liked you better when you barely talked."
"I didn't."
"I noticed." For some reason, that only made him laugh harder.
I watched him for a moment, then shook my head. For someone about to infiltrate one of the most heavily secured buildings in the city, Ira seemed suspiciously relaxed. Either he had incredible mental resilience, or he simply refused to let reality ruin his mood.
I still wasn't sure which.
Nearby, Handler 245 slowly pinched the bridge of her nose.
I'd started recognizing that gesture. Whenever Ira talked too much or I decided to respond, she did that. Sometimes we managed to trigger it simultaneously. It was becoming something of a routine.
A terrible, terrible routine.
I smiled innocently. "Don't worry, dear Handler."
Her fingers stopped. She looked up.
I continued before my survival instincts could intervene. "Wrinkles are bad for such a pretty face."
Silence.
Complete. Absolute. Even the faint hum of the holographic display suddenly felt loud.
Ira's eyes went slightly wide. He turned toward me with an expression that very clearly said: *you actually said that?*
Handler 245 slowly lowered her hand. Then, with terrifying calmness, she turned until her sharp yellow eyes met mine.
Her face was completely expressionless. No anger, no embarrassment, no annoyance. Nothing.
For some reason that frightened me far more than if she'd started yelling.
The silence stretched. One second. Two. Three.
I quickly reviewed my options. Running — unlikely to succeed. Apologizing — possibly fatal. Pretending I'd temporarily lost my sanity — not convincing enough.
Without a word, I quietly adjusted my chair, sat perfectly straight, folded my hands neatly on the table, and decided that perhaps I had already contributed enough to today's conversation.
Wisdom is knowing when you've pushed your luck. Experience is knowing when to stop talking.
Several long seconds passed before Handler 245 calmly looked away and returned her attention to the holographic display as though nothing had happened. She didn't threaten me. Didn't scold me. Didn't even sigh.
Somehow that worried me more.
I leaned slightly toward Ira. "I think she's going to kill me."
Without looking away from the front of the room, he answered quietly. "No."
I relaxed.
Then he added, "She'll probably wait until after the mission."
"..."
"Thanks."
"Happy to help."
His attempts at reassurance always made me feel worse.
A few minutes later, the conference room doors opened again.
Handler 234 entered. Unlike 245, whose movements always appeared unhurried despite her constant awareness of everything around her, Handler 234 carried himself with unmistakable military precision. Every step measured. Every movement economical. His uniform was immaculate — not a wrinkle, not a loose thread.
He walked to the front without wasting a second and activated the central display.
The lights dimmed. A three-dimensional hologram rose above the conference table.
The familiar outline of a skyscraper rotated slowly in the air.
Night Corporation.
"Our final test," Handler 234 began in a calm, authoritative voice, "will begin at zero nine hundred hours."
Nine in the morning. Exactly as Handler 245 had explained yesterday.
His eyes swept across everyone present. "This briefing will review the operational plan one final time."
The building enlarged. Individual floors separated into transparent layers. Hallways. Elevators. Security checkpoints. Emergency exits. Every detail appeared one after another until the entire structure floated above the table like a miniature city.
Handler 234 pointed toward the ground floor. "Primary entrance."
Three highlighted locations appeared — the main entrance, the eastern entrance, the underground loading dock. Then dozens of blue markers materialized throughout the lobby. Security personnel. Cameras. Motion detectors. Biometric scanners.
The amount of surveillance was almost excessive.
Red lines spread across the building. Patrol routes. Carefully timed, overlapping, every potential blind spot covered by at least one additional patrol.
Professional. Very professional.
"This facility maintains continuous surveillance twenty-four hours per day."
Another display appeared. *Average response time to unauthorized activity: Thirty-four seconds.*
Fast. Especially inside a fifty-story office building.
Handler 234 zoomed toward the upper floors. "Our analysts have prepared several possible infiltration methods."
**Plan A**
Two figures climbed the exterior wall using specialized magnetic equipment.
At first glance — reasonable. Then the simulation continued. Strong crosswinds. Maintenance drones. Cleaning systems activating unexpectedly. One drone altered its flight path.
*Mission Failed.*
I rejected it almost instantly. Too many variables. Too many things outside our control.
**Plan B**
Historical maintenance tunnels beneath the city. The route bypassed the lobby entirely before entering through the building's lower infrastructure.
Interesting. Until collapsed tunnels appeared. Maintenance robots. Automated environmental sensors. One wrong turn—
*Mission Failed.*
Or worse — buried underground forever. Not ideal.
Handler 234 calmly continued, walking through each proposal. Every weakness. Every advantage. Every potential failure point.
Listening to him felt less like a briefing and more like watching someone systematically dismantle the building's security layer by layer.
Nothing had been overlooked.
**Plan C**
Maintenance disguises. Employee badges. Staff entrance. Everything proceeded smoothly until a random biometric verification occurred. Voice authentication. Retinal scan. Identity confirmation.
The simulation lasted eighteen seconds after that.
*Mission Failed.*
I mentally discarded it. Plans that depended entirely on other people behaving predictably almost never worked. People were wonderfully creative when it came to ruining carefully designed strategies.
Several more plans followed. One exploited a scheduled equipment delivery. Another involved crossing between neighboring rooftops. Another suggested entering through emergency maintenance shafts after temporarily disabling power on several floors.
Each had strengths. Each had enough failure points to make me uncomfortable.
The more complicated a plan became, the more opportunities reality had to destroy it.
Finally, the hologram changed one last time. A single title appeared above the building.
**PLAN G**
I frowned.
Only two figures appeared. One representing Ira. One representing me.
No disguises. No climbing equipment. No maintenance tunnels. No elaborate deception.
They simply... walked toward the front entrance.
"...That's it?"
The question escaped before I could stop it.
Handler 234 nodded. "Correct."
The guards stayed at their posts. Reception staff continued working. Cameras rotated normally. No alarms. No one reacted. The two figures calmly entered the lobby, stepped into an elevator, and rode upward toward the executive floors as though they belonged there.
Handler 234 pointed toward Ira. "Subject Ira will conceal both operatives using his perception-alteration ability."
Then another display appeared. Success probabilities.
Plan A — 42%
Plan B — 39%
Plan C — 51%
Several additional plans, none exceeding sixty percent.
Finally:
**Plan G — 87%**
I blinked. That wasn't even close.
People really did have a strange habit of making infiltration unnecessarily complicated.
Sometimes the best strategy wasn't the cleverest one. It was simply the one least likely to get you killed.
"I'll take Plan G."
The words left my mouth almost immediately.
Handler 234 looked directly at me. "No hesitation?"
I shook my head. "The simplest plan usually survives first contact with reality."
A brief silence settled over the room.
Then — for the smallest fraction of a second — I thought I saw the corner of Handler 245's mouth twitch upward.
It disappeared almost instantly. Maybe I'd imagined it.
Or maybe she actually agreed.
The briefing continued for another twenty minutes. Handler 234 walked through contingency after contingency with the same calm, methodical tone.
*"What if the elevator is unavailable?"*
A new route appeared. "Use Stairwell Three."
*"What if the target leaves his office early?"*
"Continue observation until he returns. Do not engage in a populated area unless absolutely necessary."
*"What if additional awakened personnel arrive?"*
"Abort if their combined threat exceeds mission parameters."
Every scenario had a response. Every response had a backup. By the end, I felt like someone had tried to force an entire tactical manual into my brain in one sitting.
Finally, Handler 234 raised a hand. The holographic skyscraper dissolved into countless particles of light.
"The operation begins at zero nine hundred hours." His gaze swept the room. "Until then, use your time to prepare."
A brief pause. "This briefing is concluded."
Without another word, he stepped back.
The room went quiet. Ira rose from his chair, stretching lazily. His handler moved toward the exit without a word. I stood as well.
"Subject Inala."
I stopped.
Handler 245.
I turned. She stood near the end of the conference table, holding something small in her hand. As always, her expression revealed absolutely nothing. She walked over and extended her palm.
Resting on it was a necklace.
I accepted it carefully. The silver chain looked surprisingly ordinary. Thin. Lightweight. Nothing about it stood out.
The pendant was another story.
Roughly the size of a large coin, perfectly circular, with ten tiny metallic fragments embedded around its outer edge like numbers on a clock. Each fragment looked completely different. One possessed a mirror-like finish. Another was so dark it seemed to absorb the surrounding light. One shimmered with faint blue streaks beneath its surface. Another looked almost crystalline despite clearly being metal.
I turned it slowly between my fingers. Even without touching the fragments directly, something about them felt unusual.
"What is this?"
"A specialized support tool developed by Bloom." Handler 245 answered immediately. "Designed specifically for your ability."
My attention sharpened. "...For me?"
"Correct."
That caught me off guard. Bloom generally treated us as interchangeable assets. Equipment developed specifically for my power was — unexpected. Almost flattering.
Almost.
"It contains ten unique metamaterials. Each possesses a different physical property." She looked directly into my eyes. "Your ability allows you to replicate those properties."
My mind stopped for a second. Then started racing.
Metamaterials. Back on Earth, scientists had only begun experimenting with them — artificial materials engineered to possess properties that didn't naturally exist, mostly confined to research laboratories. Here, apparently, they'd become practical equipment.
Handler 245 pointed toward a dark gray fragment. "This material demonstrates exceptional acoustic absorption. It converts incoming vibrations into heat with near-perfect efficiency." She looked back at me. "If replicated, the sounds generated by your movements will be dramatically reduced."
Footsteps. Breathing. Clothing brushing against walls. The tiny sounds that normally betrayed a person's location — almost gone.
That single property could transform an infiltration.
She moved to the next fragment. Unlike the first, this one had an almost liquid metallic shine. "It manipulates reflected light." A holographic diagram appeared — a human silhouette gradually blurring, nearly vanishing against a dark background. "The microscopic surface structure bends incoming light in a controlled pattern. Under low-light conditions, it creates localized optical distortion."
"Near invisibility?"
"Not true invisibility," she corrected immediately. "But sufficient to significantly reduce visual detection."
Dark corridors. Poorly lit stairwells. Combined with sound suppression — someone could walk within a few meters of me without realizing I was there.
She moved to a third fragment. Plain silver. Simple. Completely unremarkable.
Then I noticed the accompanying data.
Its hardness exceeded industrial diamond.
"...Seriously?"
"Yes." She didn't change her expression. "Its molecular lattice exhibits exceptional resistance to deformation."
I imagined coating my knife with that property. Or my skin. Suddenly punching through reinforced steel didn't seem nearly as impossible as it should have.
Three materials. Three completely different applications. Seven fragments remaining.
I looked back at the pendant. "What about the others?"
"They will become relevant later."
"What do you mean?"
"You currently lack the necessary control to utilize them effectively."
Right. That made sense. Just because I could copy a material's properties didn't mean I could instantly master them. Three new abilities would already take time to understand — trying to learn all ten simultaneously would probably overwhelm me.
Still, I couldn't stop staring at the necklace. What else was hidden inside it? A material that dispersed heat? Stored electricity? Absorbed kinetic energy? The possibilities felt almost endless.
Handler 245 folded her hands behind her back. "Become familiar with the pendant. It will significantly improve your effectiveness during infiltration missions."
"I will." That wasn't difficult to promise.
Beneath my calm expression, I was genuinely excited. My ability revolved around understanding and replicating physical properties. Every new material permanently expanded what I could do — more options, more versatility, a better chance of surviving.
I slipped the necklace over my head. The pendant settled against my chest.
It was warm.
Almost... alive.
Probably my imagination.
As I adjusted the chain beneath my shirt, I glanced back at Handler 245. For the briefest instant, something flickered across her face — gone almost immediately.
Concern. Or maybe worry. I wasn't certain.
The same woman who had spent weeks treating me like another expendable trainee now stood quietly watching to make sure I'd equipped the gift she'd personally delivered.
Before I could say anything, her expression returned to its usual unreadable calm. She looked back at her tablet.
"Do not lose it."
"I wasn't planning to."
"It is expensive."
"...That's your reason?"
"Yes."
I narrowed my eyes slightly. I didn't believe that was the entire explanation.
But I smiled faintly anyway. Maybe this was simply her version of wishing someone good luck.
I had no idea whether people in this world carried lucky charms before dangerous missions. But whatever her reason, I appreciated the gesture. Even if she would never admit it aloud.
The conference room fell silent. Handler 245 returned her attention to the holographic display. Conversation over. Dismissed.
I glanced down at the pendant beneath my shirt. Almost weightless. Yet somehow heavier than any weapon I'd carried.
Not because of its physical weight. Because of what it represented.
Bloom had developed equipment specifically for my ability. That meant one of two things — either they genuinely believed I had potential, or they expected me to survive long enough to become useful.
I wasn't sure which possibility bothered me more.
"Ready?"
I looked up. Ira was leaning against the doorway with both hands in his pockets, his usual grin back in place.
"As ready as someone about to infiltrate one of the most secure corporate buildings in the world can be."
He nodded thoughtfully. "So... moderately ready."
"I was going to say completely unprepared."
"Same thing."
I shook my head. "I'm starting to think your definition of optimism is a medical condition."
"And yet you're smiling."
"...Am I?"
"You are."
I immediately straightened my face. "There."
"Too late. I already saw it."
I sighed. "Tragic."
"I know."
Together, we stepped out into the hallway.
The mansion remained as quiet as before. A few Bloom personnel moved through the corridors carrying equipment cases or checking data on handheld terminals. Nobody paid much attention to us. Everyone had their own responsibilities.
For a few minutes we walked in silence. Almost unconsciously, my fingers brushed against the pendant beneath my shirt.
Ten different metamaterials. Ten completely different physical properties.
Back on Earth, materials science had already bordered on science fiction. Graphene. Aerogels. Shape-memory alloys. Experimental metamaterials capable of manipulating electromagnetic waves. Scientists had only begun exploring what was possible.
This world had clearly gone much further.
What if one of these fragments stored kinetic energy? Converted heat directly into electricity? Repaired microscopic damage automatically? Temporarily eliminated friction? Each possibility branched into ten more.
My ability didn't create new materials — it copied their properties. Every new material I encountered permanently expanded what I could do. If Bloom possessed laboratories full of exotic substances, then somewhere out there might exist materials capable of things I couldn't even imagine.
Metals that completely absorbed impacts. Crystals that redirected energy. Surfaces that repaired themselves the instant they were damaged.
Every new discovery would become another tool.
The more I thought about it, the more excited I became.
"Hey."
I blinked. Ira was watching me with obvious amusement.
"You've been smiling to yourself for almost half a minute."
"...Have I?"
"You look like a scientist who just received unlimited research funding."
"I was thinking."
"I noticed." He tilted his head slightly. "Tell me about Anita."
I nearly stopped walking. "...What?"
Not even close to what I'd expected.
He repeated it casually. "Anita."
I frowned. "What about her?"
"She grew up in the same orphanage as me."
My thoughts went completely still. He *knew?* How? Had Anita told him, or had he figured it out himself? Apparently my expression answered the question, because he laughed.
"Relax. I'm not accusing you of anything." He shrugged. "I already know she helps me. Otherwise..." His smile faded slightly. "I'd probably be brainwashed by now."
I believed that.
"She's saved me more than once." His voice carried quiet certainty. "I trust her."
Not even the smallest hesitation.
I studied him carefully. No suspicion. No doubt. Just simple acceptance.
"You trust her that much?"
"More than anyone."
For a moment neither of us spoke. Then he looked ahead as we continued walking.
"That's why we have to leave." His voice had become quieter. "She carries too much on her shoulders already."
I found myself nodding. "I've noticed."
Everything Anita had done — helping me, helping Ira, resisting Bloom's conditioning while pretending to remain loyal — none of it could have been easy. If anyone deserved freedom, it was probably her.
Then another thought struck me. I stopped walking. "Wait."
Ira turned. "What?"
"How are you telling me all of this?" I looked around the hallway. "We're standing inside a Bloom safe house. There are cameras. Handlers. Security personnel. Anyone could overhear us."
His expression became strangely amused. "Oh. I guess I forgot to explain that."
"Explain what?"
He smiled. "I already removed this conversation from everyone's perception."
I stared at him. "...You did what?"
"I thought you knew."
"No. I really didn't."
He scratched the back of his head. "My ability isn't limited to hiding people."
He gestured around us. "Right now, no one can perceive this conversation. Not the cameras. Not the microphones. Not the guards. Not the handlers. They're all effectively ignoring us."
I looked around instinctively. The hallway appeared completely normal. A Bloom technician carrying a stack of equipment cases walked straight past us — less than three meters away — without glancing in our direction. Didn't hesitate. Didn't acknowledge that two people were standing in the middle of the corridor talking.
He simply continued walking. As though we weren't there.
I looked back at Ira. "...That's ridiculous."
He laughed. "I get that reaction a lot."
"Ridiculous isn't a strong enough word."
I wasn't exaggerating. If everything he said was true, his ability bordered on terrifying. Forget corporate infiltration. An ability like this could destabilize entire nations. Walk into a military headquarters. Steal classified information. Assassinate political leaders. Leave without anyone realizing you'd ever been there.
And Bloom had assigned him to this mission as though he were just another trainee.
Every time I learned something new about Ira's ability, it became even more unbelievable. And I had the distinct feeling he still wasn't telling me everything.
We resumed walking. For a few moments neither of us spoke. I was still processing what he'd revealed.
*Reducing perception.* It sounded deceptively simple until you actually thought about what it meant. Security cameras. Motion sensors. Guards. Automated drones. Even awakened individuals with enhanced senses — if he could suppress all of that, infiltration became absurdly easy.
At least until someone physically walked into us.
A thought occurred to me. "Wait." I looked at him. "If your ability is this powerful... why doesn't Bloom know?"
Ira chuckled. "I was wondering when you'd ask."
"You've been hiding it."
"Of course." He said it so casually it almost sounded obvious. "So have you."
I couldn't exactly argue with that. I'd deliberately concealed the full extent of my own ability during training. Whenever the instructors thought they'd discovered one of its limits, I quietly made sure they never saw the next one.
Apparently I wasn't the only one who believed in keeping secrets.
"The funny thing is..." Ira shoved both hands into his pockets. "Bloom doesn't really care."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"They care. Just not enough." He paused, then seeing my expression, laughed. "Think about it. Most test subjects never leave training. They die during experiments. They die during combat exercises. They die during missions. Ninety percent of us won't survive long enough to become important."
His words were blunt. Matter-of-fact. Not a trace of bitterness — just acceptance.
I couldn't argue. Everything I'd seen since arriving at Bloom supported it. Failed experiments. Training accidents. People who disappeared overnight and were never mentioned again. To Bloom, we weren't students. We weren't soldiers. We were investments. Some paid off. Most didn't.
"So why waste years learning every detail about abilities that'll probably disappear along with their owners?" He shrugged. "They implant the control chips. They condition us. They monitor progress. If someone survives long enough to become valuable, they'll study them properly then."
I slowed my pace. "...That's disturbingly logical."
"Right?" He smiled faintly. "I hate that it makes sense."
So did I.
The mention of conditioning made my thoughts drift toward Anita.
Without her, where would I be? Probably standing proudly beside Bloom. Completely convinced they had rescued me. Loyal. Obedient. The realization sent a chill through me.
Even now, I could still feel it. The conditioning hadn't disappeared. The instinct to obey authority. The subtle emotional pull toward Bloom. The manufactured loyalty. Sometimes, when a handler gave an order, there was still a tiny moment where obeying felt unquestionably right.
It only lasted an instant. But it was there. Like an old habit refusing to disappear completely.
I rubbed my temple. "It's still working."
Ira nodded immediately. "I know. I can feel it too."
Neither of us pretended otherwise.
People liked imagining mind control as something dramatic — glowing eyes, instant personality changes. Reality was much quieter. Much slower. The conditioning wasn't trying to erase us; it was trying to *reshape* us. One small decision at a time. One emotional response at a time. Until eventually, you couldn't tell where your own thoughts ended and Bloom's programming began.
"Anita says that's the dangerous part." Ira's voice dropped noticeably. "It doesn't replace who you are." He looked ahead. "It convinces you the new version was always you."
I remained silent.
That was infinitely more terrifying.
"If she hadn't started interfering..." He glanced toward one of the mansion's enormous windows. "I'd probably already be gone."
"So would I."
There was no point denying it. Without Anita disrupting the chip's influence, I doubted I'd even be questioning Bloom anymore. It might have taken weeks. Maybe months. Eventually, I'd stop resisting altogether.
Ira smiled faintly. "She's stubborn."
"I noticed."
"She refused to give up on either of us."
For a while, neither of us spoke. Only our footsteps against the carpet.
Then he broke the silence. "That's why we have to leave."
Not hopeful. Not optimistic. *Certain.*
I looked at him. "You sound awfully confident."
"I am."
"Why?"
He stopped walking. For the first time since we'd met, the playful grin disappeared completely. His expression went serious.
"Because you're here."
I blinked. "...Me?"
He nodded. "Anita told me everything." A brief pause. "Well — everything she thought I needed to know."
My stomach tightened slightly. "The chip."
He nodded again. "You can remove it."
Not now. Not even close. But eventually. Maybe.
I took a slow breath. "I think it's possible."
His eyes brightened immediately.
"But not yet." I added it before he could get ahead of himself. "I can barely manipulate my own chip. Removing someone else's would require much more precise control. I'm nowhere near that level."
"What would you need?"
I thought about it carefully. The answer came quickly. "My ability needs to evolve." I met his eyes. "Probably to D-Rank."
The words hung in the air.
D-Rank. For the first time, it wasn't simply another classification in Bloom's system. It had become a destination. A requirement. The first real step toward freedom.
Ira didn't hesitate. The moment I finished speaking, he extended his hand toward me.
"Then that's our goal." His voice was calm, but there was unmistakable determination behind it. "Reach D-Rank. You remove the chips. And then we leave Bloom."
Simple. Direct. Completely insane.
It sounded like the sort of plan two prisoners came up with in the middle of the night just to stay hopeful. Every logical part of my brain insisted it was impossible. Bloom wasn't some ordinary organization — it possessed technology centuries ahead of anything I'd ever known. Armies of awakened. Brilliant scientists. Resources that seemed practically limitless. The organization had existed long enough to reshape an entire civilization.
And we were two trainees. Two experimental Espers trying to survive long enough to see another sunrise.
Objectively, our chances weren't good.
Yet somehow... it didn't feel impossible.
Difficult? Absolutely. Dangerous? Without question. Almost suicidal? Probably. *Impossible?*
Not anymore.
For the first time since arriving in this world, there was something beyond simple survival. Something worth risking everything for.
I looked back at Ira. His hand was still waiting. Steady. Confident. As though he'd never once doubted what my answer would be.
Maybe he hadn't.
I reached forward. Our hands met in a firm handshake — warm, solid, real.
No contracts. No speeches. Just a silent agreement between two people who refused to spend the rest of their lives as Bloom's property.
"First," I said, "we survive today's mission."
Ira laughed. "Minor detail."
"I was thinking major obstacle."
"Same thing."
I couldn't help smiling. Somehow his optimism was contagious. Dangerously contagious.
We released the handshake and continued toward the equipment room.
Outside the mansion's enormous windows, the city continued its morning routine. Flying vehicles crossed between skyscrapers in orderly streams. Holographic advertisements illuminated the skyline. People hurried along elevated walkways, completely unaware that somewhere inside one of those towering buildings, a man named Flex was living the final hours of his life.
Assuming everything went according to plan.
If it didn't, there was a very good chance Ira and I would be the ones who never returned.
Strangely, the thought no longer frightened me as much as it should have.
A few months ago, I'd been an ordinary college student whose biggest concern had been assignments and oversleeping. Now I was calmly discussing assassination plans and escape strategies while walking through a Bloom safe house.
When exactly had that happened? When had surviving become more important than morality? When had killing someone become another objective to complete?
I didn't know. Maybe the training had changed me. Maybe this world had. Or maybe people adapted far more quickly than they liked to believe.
None of those answers mattered anymore. The reality remained the same.
In a few hours, I would infiltrate the headquarters of one of the world's largest corporations. I would attempt to assassinate an E-Rank Warrior while avoiding an E-Rank Esper capable of super speed. Then I would escape before anyone realized what had happened.
Failure wasn't a failed mission. Failure was death.
I took a slow breath.
*One step at a time.*
Complete the mission. Become stronger. Reach D-Rank. Learn to remove the control chips. Free Anita. Free Ira. Free myself.
The road ahead looked impossibly long.
But for the first time since arriving in this world, I could finally see where it ended.
Maybe the odds were against us. Maybe Bloom was too powerful. Maybe we were chasing an impossible dream.
I didn't care.
As long as even the smallest possibility existed, it was enough.
Because hope, no matter how small, was still infinitely better than surrender.
And for the first time in months, the future no longer felt like an endless corridor leading deeper into Bloom's prison.
Maybe — just maybe — we had a chance.