The hall was cold, and the air was layered with perfume. If you really listened—to the breaths… the tap-tap of a pen on a table… the jiggle of a knee… the whisper of trouser fabric and soles—you could count them. Besides me, six others were here.
The heads of the Rose Organization. They met in this room for special orders; their faces stayed buried in the dark.
I clasped my hands behind my back, stood straight, and waited.
At last, an old man's familiar voice drifted across the room.
'We're glad to see you again, Ashur.'
I kept my eyes on the darkness ahead—on the black shape where I knew the old man sat.
A woman's voice rose from the left.
'We've got a new mission for you. We want you at a party being hosted by our enemy, the Triad Union. Your job is to take back a painting that matters a great deal to us.'
A young man—likely straight ahead—cut in:
'That painting holds data about one of our Special Roses. A kid as singular as you are. Born with a pure, different genetic code—and stolen from us by the Triad Union. Exactly like you. So first, recover the painting. Then find the kid.'
I narrowed my eyes and waited for the rest.
A shape stirred on the left; a woman spoke again, heels ticking every so often against the floor.
'One more thing: you're not going alone. One of our best from the Red Rose Division will back you up. Also, Viuna will be at that party. We want you to bring her in.'
I blinked, thinking. Viuna. I pictured her—last seen at the airport, beyond the gate.
That triumphant half-smile. Small, hot-red lips. Big, bright doe eyes.
A tiny, troublesome butterfly I kept wanting to trap in a glass globe.
Wanting? A sting lanced my temple. I never wanted anything for myself.
My wants were the organisation's wants. I pulled my focus together and said, flat and steady:
'Your order will be carried out.'
Still, even as I spoke, one thing was obvious from the short time I'd dealt with her: taking her would be easy for me—but the girl was built to fly, even if it meant falling, even if it meant burning off her own wings to try again.
She wasn't loyal to the organisation. She hated it. Her grudge probably went back to when she killed her friend—maybe her first love—with her own hands inside the Union.
I faced the black silhouettes and said, cold:
'There's a problem. She'd rather die than come back. During the arrest, she might get herself killed.'
A middle-aged woman answered, a trace of bite in her voice.
'She must not die. We need her for a very important experiment.'
The old man in the corner drew a long breath. His rough, wavering voice carried, calm:
'She may try to kill you. The girl is dangerous. Use force if you have to, but bring her back alive. We want the girl—and the teenager the Union stole from us years ago.'
I stared into the dark, head tilting a fraction. I hadn't thought that fragile, breakable girl mattered this much. Of course… now it made sense why they gave my activation code to her first.
They knew I'd protect her at any cost. Which meant Viuna's priority matched mine.
Conclusion: Viuna is a Special Rose.
I'd heard there were very few Special Roses—agents with unique genetics—spread across divisions: Blue Rose, White Rose, Red Rose…
Without softening my tone, I asked, clear and firm:
'Is she a Special Rose? I need to understand the level of priority.'
Silence settled, heavy. If the answer was yes, it meant she would never taste freedom again—
and she would never be allowed to die.
The organisation might execute useless operatives or punish traitors. But it never killed those with genetic codes—those classed as Special Roses. It used them. Until their last day.
The woman with the sharp heels spoke through a mic:
'That's right. Viuna is a Special Rose—in the Blue Rose Division. Years ago, she was transferred from the camp to a black-site lab, and they ran tests on her for a long time.'
A thin, cold smile touched my mouth. Poor girl. From now on she had no right to freedom—and no right to die.
She'd be captive for ever, like a pretty, tiny insect sealed in glass—for years and years.
The young man on the right asked,
'Ready for the mission?'
'Consider it done,'