The cameras perched in every corner like unblinking eyes. Their lenses swept in slow, calculated arcs, each rotation's a heartbeat I had to match. I moved only when the black sliver of shadow left me unseen, pausing when the glassy eye passed over. My own breath sounded too loud, too quick, but I forced it down into silent rhythm.

  Rows of racks stretched before me, some metal, some wood, all stamped with labels in crisp, official lettering. My eyes caught the words and paused. "Coal Import Logs". I had never seen the word before, nor did I know what coal even was. Yet here it was, stacked neatly, organized in the flies as if it had always belonged.

  Another rack read "Food Allocation Logs", and I imagined bureaucrats meticulously noting every grain of rice. Others bore names I couldn't quite make sense of at first. "Experimental Metals", "Infrastructure Proposals", "Personnel Evaluations". Each title felt like a breadcrumb, a clue, a glimpse into the gears turning behind the government's facade.

  I crouched lower, edging closer, letting my eyes absorb everything. Every label, every stack of papers, every small, mechanical whir of the servers and their cooling fans was a piece of the map I had never been shown. And yet, it all made sense, in a terrifyingly meticulous way.

  One row made me freeze. "Transport Device Incidents" . My heart stuttered. The words alone were enough to pull me closer, but what I found inside nearly froze me completely.

  I crouched down, flipping through stacks of files organized by year. Each folder was meticulous, stamped, signed, and full of photographs and schematics. My stomach churned as I read. Inventors, brilliant, promising minds, labeled as "Incidents", their deaths described with cold, bureaucratic precision. The reports made it clear: the devices had exploded, drowned, failed… yet something in the annexes hinted at another truth.

  The government didn't just report. They took. Each file included diagrams, notes, and sketches of the destroyed machines, carefully copied, re-engineered. Some documents bore the word Submarine.

  Submarine? What is that? A device for the government to travel the sea? At least that's what I am able to guess from looking at these these papers. I blinked at the pages. My mind spun. They had taken the work of countless inventors, repurposed it, and built something… vast. Something I had never imagined.

  I pressed my hand to my mouth. The scale, the cold efficiency. It was terrifying. I had thought I understood the lies, the control, the subtle cruelty of the world I lived in. I had been wrong. This… this was an ocean of deceit. And I was nothing more than an ant staring at it.

  Wait, Mom and Dad!

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  The files, the files! My hands shook as I dug through the stacks, heart hammering against my ribs. Their names… their names had to be here. They were people of great minds, minds that could rival the best scientists. I needed to see their files!

  Hours.... or maybe minutes, I couldn't tell, passed in a blur of paper, folders, and desperation. A 17-year-old orphan, raised with no one to care, thrown into a maze of secrets too heavy for my shoulders. My hands were raw, my breath ragged. And then… finally.

  I found it. Their files.

  I stared, frozen, as I read.

  They had been silenced. Their mouths shut, rocks bound to their feet, and then thrown into the sea, submerged for an hour, drowning in the cold, merciless water. Later, the government retrieved their bodies, staged the burial to look "proper" to the public, a grotesque show of civility.

  My stomach turned. My mind teetered on the edge of madness. The methodical cruelty, the precision, the lies. All the control they exerted, all the faces they hid behind, and my parents… my parents had been nothing more than numbers, as disposable as paper.

  I sank to my knees. Cold, sterile tiles pressed against my palms, but I didn't feel them. I didn't feel anything but the rage, the grief, the horror.

  And somewhere deep in me, something snapped.

  The echo came first, footsteps!—careful, questioning. My chest seized. I had been so consumed, so lost in grief and horror, that I hadn't noticed the shift in the air. Someone was coming.

  A guard. Why? I didn't know. I didn't care.

  I dropped to the floor, every sense straining. My eyes darted to the door to the corridor, a shadowed refuge. I scrambled toward it. My body pressed against it, muscles taut, heart hammering like it could burst from my chest.

  "Hello? Anybody here?"

  The voice carried down the hallway, cautious but curious.

  I froze. Then instinct took over. I grabbed a pile of documents still in my hand, valuable, irreplaceable, and shoved them into the guard's mouth, silencing him instantly. One sharp motion to his neck, and he crumpled.

  Blood spurted from his mouth, dark and fast, and his body went limp. I dragged him behind the door, pressing him into the shadows where he wouldn't be seen at a glance. The floor smelled metallic, thick with the sting of iron, and my own pulse thundered in my ears.

  My breath came in short, sharp gasps. I didn't linger. Another set of footsteps could arrive any moment. There was no time for the shock to settle. No time for the tremor in my hands to mean anything. I moved quickly, silently, like a shadow gliding across the floor.

  My eyes scanned the racks ahead. Phase 1, Phase 2. Both marked with "Success". But it was Phase 3 that drew me. The files unmarked, the unknown, the secrets still hidden. It was pointless to worry about what was accomplished already. Time is running short.

  I pressed forward, careful not to disturb a single stack of paper. Every sound, every flicker of light from the humming machines could betray me. But my purpose burned brighter than fear.

  Phase 3.

  And I was ready.