I could be executed.

I peer around her and see nothing but blackness. My curiosity—and unease—is growing by the minute.

I glance at my wrist. Still no summons.

“Who are you?” she says.

“I am Juliette Ferrars. I am a supreme soldier for our North American commander. Let me pass.”

Valentina stares at me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe.

I hear a dull click, like the sound of something opening, and I spin around, looking for the source of the sound. There’s no one.

“You have unlocked your message, Juliette Ferrars.”

“What message?”

“Juliette? Juliette.”

Valentina’s voice changes. She suddenly sounds like she’s scared and breathless, like she’s on the move. Her voice echoes. I hear the sounds of footsteps pounding the floor, but they seem far away, like she’s not the only one running.

“Viste, there wasn’t much time,” she says, her Spanish accent getting thicker. “This was the best I could do. I have a plan, but no sé si será posible. Este mensaje es en caso de emergencia.

“They took Lena and Nicolás down in this direction,” she says, pointing toward the darkness. “I’m on my way to try and find them. But if I can’t—”

Her voice begins to fade. The light illuminating her face begins to glitch, almost like she’s disappearing.

“Wait—” I say, reaching out. “Where are you—”

My hand moves straight through her and I gasp. She has no form. Her face is an illusion.

A hologram.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice beginning to warp. “I’m sorry. This was the best I could do.”

Once her form evaporates completely, I push into the darkness, heart pounding. I don’t understand what’s happening, but if the daughter of the supreme commander of South America is in trouble, I have a duty to find her and protect her.

I know that my loyalty is to Anderson, but that strange, familiar heat is still pressing against the inside of my mind, quieting the impulse telling me to turn around. I find I’m grateful for it. I realize, distantly, that my mind is a strange mess of contradictions, but I don’t have more than a moment to dwell on it.

This hall is far too dark for easy access, but I’d observed earlier that what I once thought were decorative grooves in the walls were actually inset doors, so here, instead of relying on my eyes, I use my hands.

I run my fingers along the wall as I walk, waiting for a disruption in the pattern. It’s a long hallway—I expect there to be multiple doors to sort through—but there appears to be little in this direction. Nothing visible by touch or sight, at least. When I finally feel the familiar pattern of a door, I hesitate.

I press both my hands against the wall, prepared to destroy it if I have to, when it suddenly fissures open beneath my hands, as if it was waiting for me.

Expecting me.

I move into the room, my senses heightened. Dim blue light pulses out along the floors, but other than that, the space is almost completely dark. I keep moving, and even though I don’t need to use a gun, I reach for the rifle strapped across my back. I walk slowly, my soft boots soundless, and follow the distant, pulsing lights. As I move deeper into the room, lights begin to flicker on.

Overhead lights in that familiar honeycomb pattern flare to life, shattering the floor in unusual slants of light. The vast dimensions of the room begin to take shape. I stare up at the massive dome-shaped room, at the empty tank of water taking up an entire wall. There are abandoned desks, their respective chairs askew. Touchpads are stacked precariously on floors and desks, papers and binders piling everywhere. This place looks haunted. Deserted.

But it’s clear it was once in full use.

Safety goggles hang from a nearby rack. Lab coats from another. There are large, empty glass cases standing upright in seemingly random and intermittent locations, and as I move even farther into the room, I notice a steady purple glow emanating from somewhere nearby.

I round the corner, and there’s the source:

Eight glass cylinders, each as tall as the room and as wide as a desk, are arranged in a perfect line, straight across the laboratory. Five of them contain human figures. Three on the end remain empty. The purple light originates from within the individual cylinders, and as I approach, I realize the bodies are suspended in the air, bound entirely by light.

There are three boys I don’t recognize. One girl I don’t recognize. The other—

I step closer to the tank and gasp.

Valentina.

“What are you doing here?”

I spin around, rifle up and aimed in the direction of the voice. I drop my gun when I see Anderson’s face. In an instant, the pervasive heat retreats from my head.

My mind is returned to me.

My mind, my name, my station, my place—my shameful, disloyal, reckless behavior. Horror and fear flood through me, coloring my features. How do I explain what I do not understand?

Anderson’s face remains stony.

“Sir,” I say quickly. “This young woman is the daughter of the supreme commander of South America. As a servant of The Reestablishment, I felt compelled to help her.”

Anderson only stares at me.

Finally, he says: “How do you know that this girl is the daughter of the supreme commander of South America?”

I shake my head. “Sir, there was . . . some kind of vision. Standing in the hallway. She told me that she was Valentina Castillo, and that she needed help. She knew my name. She told me where to go.”

Anderson exhales, his shoulders releasing their tension. “This is not the daughter of a supreme commander of The Reestablishment,” he says quietly. “You were misled by a practice exercise.”

Renewed mortification sends a fresh heat to my face.

Anderson sighs.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I thought— I thought it was my duty to help her, sir.”

Anderson meets my eyes again. “Of course you did.”

I hold my head steady, but shame sears me from within.

“And?” he says. “What did you think?”

Anderson gestures at the line of glass cylinders, at the figures displayed within.

“I think it’s a beautiful display, sir.”

Anderson almost smiles. He takes a step closer, studying me. “A beautiful display, indeed.”

I swallow.

His voice changes, becomes soft. Gentle. “You would never betray me, would you, Juliette?”

“No, sir,” I say quickly. “Never.”

“Tell me something,” he says, lifting his hand to my face. The backs of his knuckles graze my cheek, trail down my jawline. “Would you die for me?”

My heart is thundering in my chest. “Yes, sir.”

He takes my face in his hand now, his thumb brushing, gently, across my chin. “Would you do anything for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yet, you deliberately disobeyed me.” He drops his hand. My face feels suddenly cold. “I asked you to wait outside,” he says quietly. “I did not ask you to wander. I did not ask you to speak. I did not ask you to think for yourself or to save anyone who claimed to need saving. Did I?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you forget,” he says, “that I am your master?”