Trace lifted his hand to his neck to press on the metal beneath his skin, but nothing happened. His Modifier wasn't turning on.

He flashed a look to Isaac, Shallomar, and Alexis. They didn't seem surprised at all—in fact, their expressions told him they expected this to happen.

Shallomar's eyes glistened as she blinked at him. Was what she'd said about that night with Alexis true? Had he been asleep for so long? But then, how did everything feel so fresh? How was he able to move as he did now? "It's natural for your first Modifier to require upgrades after the first year," Isaac said. "With technology that has developed over the past few years, you'll need more than one alteration."

Trace shook his head. Hailey's expression returned to his memory—cold and distant. What had happened to WP-0770? What had happened to Phantom?

Why was he being given special treatment?

"Shallomar," Alexis said. The small assassin tilted her head up toward the redhead. "Your presence has been appreciated. You may leave now."

A glint sparkled in her eyes. "I don't wish to leave yet." She slowly twisted her head in Trace's direction like a possessed doll and—with a bend in her neck—looked at him. "My first recruit is here. Alive, and breathing thanks to you two. I would like a moment."

Isaac nodded at Alexis and the two left the room without looking back. Shallomar removed her gloves, shoved them into her cloak, and looked into Trace's eyes, searching.

They stood alone in the small room together, the air growing hot around them. Had the situation been different—had Trace actually been wearing clothes—maybe there would've been some kind of tension. But he was too embarrassed to feel confident. He knew she wasn't bothered by his appearance, but he still was.

Shallomar stuck her hands out for him to hold, palms down. He shakily brought his bare arms out, his hairs rising on stippled skin. When their hands touched, she sighed.

"You remember me, don't you?" She asked quietly. Her eyelashes fluttered down, so she was looking at her hands resting in his.

"Of course. Just. . . Not that well."

She looked up at him without moving her head and her hood cast a shadow over her eyes. "So honest. Who taught you that?"

Trace gulped. Her voice was nearly threatening. Demanding an answer he couldn't give. While he could remember vivid moments from the night three years ago, he was having a difficult time remember older memories. They were mostly flashes of light and blurry darkness, unfamiliar faces and robotic voices.

Shallomar must've sensed Trace's fear, because she gave his hands a gentle squeeze and her voice changed. "Much has changed since I escorted you here, Trace." She looked around at the room, something warm filling those golden irises. "This room, for one. It hasn't changed one bit. By my order, of course."

Trace glanced around at the room, confused. Was she saying she'd preserved his room for him?

"There was no telling when you would wake up. But I saw to it that you would." She squeezed his hands once more and her dark eyebrows moved over her bright eyes.

Trace didn't back away for fear of being disrespectful, but he was almost certain he'd missed something here. How did she form such a strong attachment to him that she'd go so far as to see that he awoke? She'd only met him once, and for a very brief period, during which Trace remembered being stiff and obedient. Had his demeanor left such an impression on her?

She continued. "The improvement you made in the short time under Modifier control. . ." She breathed in deeply as though smelling something sweet and consuming all of its warmth. "Was not only inspiring, but something that made kept me invested."

Her eyes burned with honesty. She genuinely wanted to see him succeed, and that desire led her to preserve his body. She'd ordered WP-0770 members to take care of him each and every day, tiring them out with the task. He'd been asleep for three years and she waited for him to wake.

Should he. . . thank her? Even though this situation felt very odd?

"I don't know what to say," Trace finally said. He carefully moved his hands back to his sides, then slipped them behind his back to grasp one another. His palms had grown clammy.

Shallomar sighed. "Don't say anything, then. As I said, much has changed during your absence. Take your time to get used to it. Then, when you're ready," she paused, winking at him, "I'll be waiting to upgrade your Modifier."

When had his heart started beating so quickly? It had practically jumped from zero to one hundred with that wink, and he was beginning to sweat all over. He wouldn't recover until she was gone.

"Your team is waiting for your arrival downstairs. You can keep me waiting, but it's disrespectful to leave them in limbo for so long. They should all know you're awake by now." Shallomar then turned toward the door, unlatched it, and gave him one final glance before she shut it behind her.

Trace's knees buckled, sending him to the floor. He wondered how they'd held him up this entire time, what with the insanity his brain now had to process.

Time. Much of it had passed. His injury was healed and his Modifier dysfunctional. And everyone who had entered his room had surely seen his face. His identity was compromised. But this didn't make him feel uneasy. No, it just made him feel. . . different. Was he still himself? He was beginning to question even that.

He'd missed three years of his life. That meant he was seventeen or eighteen now, depending on the month. Had he thought of any aspirations he'd wanted to do in those three years?

Other than joining Phantom, he couldn't think of any.

#

In his wardrobe, new sleek sets of cloaks and masks were hung on thick metal hangers. But each looked slightly different than the others. Some were sharper at the seams, others were clearly made of a lighter material. And there was a thick, long black jacket, too. . .

Trace searched the drawers. All empty. No more casual outfits, it would seem. Not that it bothered him. He'd known all along that Phantom meant business, and business meant uncomfortable.

He chose the cloak that looked closest to those he'd worn in the past and stuffed his arms and legs through the undergarments. Something about them felt heavier. Were they made of stiffer material? Or maybe they were coated in something. Once he had them on, they immediately constricted him, like they were alive and had a revenge story to tell.

His breath was dry and short, coming in gasps as he tried to figure out why the clothing was tightening so rapidly.

But he didn't let this startle him. Trace carefully dug his fingers around the tight fabric latching to his neck and smoothed it from the inside. While he did this, the undergarments sucked on his arms and legs and torso, finding places to sit comfortably. This must've been one of those changes Shallomar had talked about. New uniform technology.

The boots, gloves, and cloak were much the same. The boots were one size too large, but mechanically cropped down to Trace's foot length as he maneuvered his toes into them. The gloves suctioned to his fingers and had rubber-like grips on the tips of them. The cloak was lightweight and had many hidden pockets to hide things in. Its thin material was misleading.

He picked up a mask next, fixated on its weight. Compared with the many pieces of his ensemble, this was by far the heaviest. It must've weighed at least five pounds and was made of some kind of alloy. Colored a non-reflective purple color. At least the group's identifying color hadn't changed.

The last thing that he noticed was different was the slim mirror glued to the inner door of the wardrobe. He was certain that it hadn't been there before.

And he was at once shocked and disgusted by his appearance. He'd seen his body from his personal viewpoint, but seeing his full body stretched out in his reflection sent shivers all up and down his body.

He was extremely thin, like a skeleton wearing Phantom clothing. His eyes were sunken back and had very little skin to cover them. It was as though they were foreign objects in his head, jutting out like some cruel deformity. His hair was long and matted, though someone had cut it so that it didn't go past the Modifier embedded in his neck. And then there was the hair spiked out along his jaw. He had begun to grow a beard. Splotchy and not at all attractive, but still, it was a beard, nonetheless.

He would need to eat a lot, work out, and get himself back to full health before he would be able to handle another round of Modifier torture. Seeing himself like this made him thankful for Shallomar's strange kindness. If she truly meant it when she said she would patiently wait for him, he'd take his time to get himself back to where he started.

There was no elevator. The hall was carved out of pure metal and doors zigzagged down the hall like the floor of a luxurious hotel. There were at least ten rooms alone in this hallway.

Trace flicked the lights off and closed his door carefully behind him. This was nothing like he remembered at all. Was he even in the same bunker?

He turned toward the lighted stairwell and descended slowly, testing the weight in his legs. When he reached the bottom, there was no one. Not a single person. All lights were off, and the air smelled of fresh linen.

But Trace strained to see through the darkness, strained to see if he could spot anyone. Then, he caught a pair of glowing purple eyes from on his left. He couldn't tell who it was from the eyes, just that there was malice in them. And they were alert, hot, and filled with energy.

His tongue tied itself into a knot, refusing to greet this apprehensive shadow. Instead, he stiffened his joints and continued into the dark space, arms extended so his hands would reach anything potentially harmful before he did.

And then, as though like stars appearing in pitch black night, dozens of purple irises suddenly lit up around him, blinking and winking at him like he was some ancient exhibit worth studying. They reminded him of a pack of wolves concentrating on their prey. It dawned on him that he couldn't see any of their information, like their Modifier number or their physical attributes. This both scared him and sent a rush of relief over him. He would've felt overwhelmed by the number of new faces and numbers to memorize.

Their Modifiers must have been crowded with questions about his sudden reappearance, his sudden revival. And he was glad he couldn't hear them. He appreciated the silence. But he wanted to see them to give them some sort of human identification.

Light switch, he thought to himself. If he was right about what room this used to be, he was in the kitchen. And that would mean the switch was. . .

He inched back a few steps, finally hitting what felt like a counter. The edge of something. He ran his gloved hand along the wall and felt every microscopic blemish in the metal like it was obvious—the glove's technology made it feel like he was touching it with his bare hands. Trace ran his hand along the wall until his gut told him to stop, but there was no switch. The wall was rough where it had been before. It had either been relocated or removed altogether. But why would Phantom remove a switch?

"Stop trying to illuminate us, 1207," a voice growled in the darkness. It spiked the air with tension as it rang along the metallic walls. "The Association restricted our electrical supply to anywhere other than our personal spaces at least two years ago."

Trace couldn't hold in his curiosity. "But. . . why?"

"We don't need it anymore. The Association has prohibited its frivolous usage, declaring it a scarce resource to be used in emergencies only," another piped up, this voice younger, tinny. Perhaps fourteen, as Trace was when he'd joined. The thought made him uncomfortable. After all, he still didn't feel like he'd aged three years. Trace was still the same new recruit he was when he joined WP-0770 just a short while ago.

"But seen as how you are unable to respond to us via Refiner, it must be difficult for you to do much else." The deep voice boomed across the room again. There was a hint of sympathy in his voice as it sighed and dropped off as he said the word "difficult."

The words scrambled in his head at first, wrapping around each other like a vine on steroids. And then, finally, the sirens started going off. Refiner? What the hell was that?

"There's a meal for you in the warehouse," the same tinny voice shouted. He almost couldn't register these words, but his stomach growled in response. He was still caught on this Refiner the young assassin spoke of.

Regardless, he tried his best to remember what they'd just said, pushing aside his curiosity for the moment. "Is that. . . the basement?"

The assassins surrounding him nodded in unison and something about this was amusing, cartoonish even. Trace almost let out a laugh, but that would've been inappropriate. They'd only nodded, which was a completely ordinary act. But the perfect synchronization of the action seemed so comical, like something scripted or meant to be in a stand-up skit.

"I'll take him down," an older, gruff voice murmured. The group turned to look at an assassin on the far left, with slightly less bright eyes that had a laziness to them.

As soon as this member had said it, the rest of the assassins suddenly seemed uninterested in everything having to do with Trace. It was like his shiny newness was gone now, and he was invisible. He didn't see where they went, just that the glowing purple orbs that had been hovering around him were now gone.

But the one assassin who'd volunteered to accompany him stayed in the same spot, blinking lazily at him. Just a floating pair of eyes, half-closed under weighted eyelids.

"Okay, follow me," he said, his voice grumbling. The eyes suddenly darted forward as the assassin walked, gliding as though on a flat surface. But Trace knew the assassin simply distributed weight in each of his steps perfectly to minimize peculiar pacing. It also made his footsteps virtually silent.

Trace obeyed, quick to keep his chaperone's eyes in sight the entire way for fear of losing his way. If the assassin got ahead of him at any time, Trace would be left in darkness, and he wasn't sure if the man would turn around and re-guide him if necessary. Phantom assassins weren't toddlers, after all.

They came to a stop and the man pressed a button. It made a soft clicking noise in the silence and illuminated yellow with a dark, sharp arrow pointing down. The elevator was still here. Something familiar.

They both entered and the door slid shut prematurely, almost squishing Trace in it. He felt his heart race as he whizzed past it, feeling the wind of the heavy metal as it threatened to amputate his right arm. The elevator was dark inside, too. A dim, red strip of light indicated with scrolling letters that it was currently functioning in a "power saving mode." The man pressed a button with the large letter W on it, and the elevator moved slowly down.

"I'm Trace, by the way," Trace said. As soon as he said it, he knew it was a stupid thing to say. Of course this guy knew who he was. As far as Trace was concerned, there was no doubt everyone in WP-0770 had waited for the day their comatose member finally woke up. Or maybe they had been aware but didn't care at all for his revival.

As usual, things moved too quickly. One moment, Trace was practicing with Alexis, the next, they were fighting Phantom's own people, then Trace collapsed and awoke three years later to meet his Escort, Shallomar, who told him much had changed. And now, he stood awkwardly in a pitch-black elevator with a mumbly old assassin that was bringing him to the basement for breakfast.

Not to Trace's surprise, the man didn't respond to his greeting. When the doors parted, there were dim lanterns that lit up across what seemed to be an endless expanse. An abandoned underground city.

He saw different rooms swirling around each other like a maze, blobs of different bizarre shapes fitting together like a puzzle, and he realized this must have been where he'd had his assignment. But before, the flashes of light and darkness had confused him. Seeing this underground space with light felt strange, but also mesmerized him. He had no idea the space was as large as it was and that it had so many different rooms that served different purposes.

The man led Trace into one of these rooms, where there was a single light hanging from a metal roof. It dangled over a long metal table, reflecting off the surface very slightly. Two benches stretched along the table like knives, clean and metal and sharp. At the end of the table, a silver container and disposable fork awaited, steam puffing out of a hole that was perforated in the top.

Trace watched as his chaperone took a seat at the table, keeping his head down so his hood would conceal his face. Though Trace could tell from his stalky build and labored breathing that this was someone he knew well and a rush of relief washed over him like a cold, refreshing spring breeze.

He slid in across from him, crossed his arms, and leaned forward. "Derek."

The man shuddered at the sound of his name, twisted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don't go by that name anymore. We address each other by our Refiner numbers."

Trace thought for a moment. He tried to remember the number that he'd seen only once when his Modifier was fully functional for the first time. He didn't want to get it wrong, but he knew he wouldn't. He was confident in his memory. "962?"

He grunted. "They make you put the zero in there now."

"0962?"

Derek nodded, then sighed. He lifted his eyes to Trace and they were heavy and tired. He must've gone through a lot over the past three years, but he still looked better than Hailey and Wyze had. "And you're 1207. It's all everyone ever talked about for the past three years, you know."

Trace winced at the mention of his number. He hadn't seen it personally, but he knew from the moment it was spoken that it had belonged to him. Trace leaned on his elbows and spoke in a hushed voice—who knew who would be able to hear them? "What happened while I was . . . you know . . ."

"Dead?" His voice rang flat, but there was some of his old humor there. Never once would Trace have thought he'd miss Derek's irritating voice, but he felt it now. He wanted some semblance of the old. Maybe that would help him get used to the new.

Derek pointed down with a thick finger at the sweating container, then jabbed that same finger at it, pushing it closer to Trace. He raised his eyebrows and lifted his head slightly—a gesture to say "eat first, talk later."

Trace grabbed the hot metal, ripped the plastic off, and dug his fork into the green mush. He couldn't help but smile as he pulled his metal mask off and shoved the warm stuff into his mouth. He breathed in huffs, drawing in the cold air to cool off the food. Yes—the food was the same.

Derek watched as Trace ate, devouring every last morsel of the grass-tinted slush of nutrients, and his eyebrows twitched on his forehead—a slight glitch of a gesture that Trace had missed.

When Trace was finished, he waited patiently for Derek to start speaking. Even if Trace spoke first, he wouldn't know where to start with his questions.

Sensing the pressure from Trace, Derek sighed, then found Trace's eyes. Locked on them. "You want to know what happened while you were. . . gone."

Trace nodded furiously, twice. Up, down, up, down.

Derek breathed in deeply, then released it as he wove his fingers together on the table. His eyes were difficult to read, searching for words to say, as though looking into Trace's would give him a place to begin. Finally, he carefully said: "For starters, there was a merger."

"A merger?"

Derek nodded once, then looked away. "Phantom invaded the Association on Isaac's command. Killed its main leaders and took over. Accumulated all of its workforce and people. Started crafting a new plan." His eyes quivered in the whites, shimmering purple like the Northern lights. He gulped before he said his next words. "They want to use us to initiate total global rule."