“You let someone touch your hair,” Miss Calva said inside. “You know the rules.”
“I’m sorry,” Eloin whimpered.
“Sorry doesn’t fix anything.”
Sky heard a soft metallic click. The sound of metal against metal. She leaned forward and peered through the tiny crack where the door didn’t quite meet the frame.
Miss Calva stood over Eloin, who now sat trembling in a chair. In the woman’s hand was a small silver tool that looked like something from a doctor’s office, long and slender with a needle-thin end.
She pushed Eloin’s hair aside, exposing a small patch of scalp.
“Hold still,” Miss Calva said.
Sky watched, horrified, as the woman inserted the tool into Eloin’s scalp, twisted, and pulled. A thin metallic strand came out, glistening with something dark.
Eloin gasped. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Always so dramatic,” Miss Calva muttered.
She dropped the metal strand into the sink and turned to rinse the tool.
In that second, Sky moved.
She darted into the bathroom on silent feet, grabbed the metallic strand from the sink, and shoved it into her pocket. By the time Miss Calva turned around, Sky was back in the hallway, pressed against the wall, breathing hard.
She ran to a quiet corner, fingers shaking as she opened her hand.
The strand wasn’t hair. It was a wire, thin as thread, with tiny sharp points along it and words carved so small she had to squint.
VLab Prototype 3.
Sky’s stomach dropped.
VLab.
Vale Laboratories.
Eloin’s last name was Vale. Her father’s company did this.
The next morning, Sky waited near the front entrance. Her mother thought she was in the staff kitchen. Instead, she watched the door that everyone seemed to move out of the way for.
A man walked through the foyer—tall, white, in an expensive suit, moving with the brisk confidence of someone who owned the building and most of what he could see. People trailed behind him with tablets and folders, talking quickly.
Ariston Vale.
Sky stepped directly into his path.
He almost tripped.
“What are you—” he started.
Sky held out her hand. The metal strand lay in her palm.
“This was in Eloin’s hair,” she said. Her voice shook, but she didn’t look away.
Ariston frowned, irritation flaring.
“What is this?” he asked.
He glanced down—then his expression changed. His face drained of color. He picked up the strand with shaking fingers.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.