THE ALOGORITHM OF POWER, MOP AND DAGGER

Chapter One — The Janitor (C)

Bradley’s thumb hovered over the screen. The message pulsed like a whisper in the dark.

LEVEL TWO AVAILABLE.

Every instinct told him to walk away. Toss the phone in the mop bucket, drown it, scrub floors until dawn like nothing had happened.

He could still vanish back into the invisible life the world had given him. But invisibility was a prison, He tapped.

The screen flared white. Numbers and glyphs bled into form, a labyrinth of logic gates and recursive puzzles. He knew this wasn’t meant for him, not for any janitor, not for anyone outside the highest echelons of Montrose Industries. Yet the sequences welcomed him, like a door unlocking at his touch.

Bradley sat cross-legged on the gleaming marble, phone balanced on his knee, fingers dancing. Time dissolved. His brain slipped into that dangerous, addictive clarity he hadn’t felt since university. Every pattern he broke revealed another deeper, more exquisite than the last. He didn’t notice Marcus return until the guard’s voice cut through the silence.

“Yo, Frank, what the hell are you doing on the floor?”

Bradley jolted, shielding the phone. “Machine’s busted. Trying to fix it.”

Marcus peered over, unconvinced. “Looks like you’re texting.” He smirked. “What, you got a girlfriend finally?”

Bradley forced a hollow laugh. “Something like that.”

Marcus snorted and wandered off, muttering about coffee. Bradley exhaled slowly, pulse hammering. Too close. When he looked back at the phone, the code had changed again. Not numbers this time. Words.

DO YOU WISH TO CONTINUE, BRADLEY HARRINGTON?

His lungs froze. It wasn’t just recognizing him. It was speaking to him. He typed with stiff fingers: How do you know me? The reply was instant.

IDENTITY CONFIRMED. UNIVERSITY RECORDS. PROJECT: NEURAL MIND.

His throat closed. Neural Mind. The research project he’d built as a senior, the one he thought had died with him when he lost funding, when doors slammed shut and rejections piled high. He’d buried it under student debt and dead dreams.

Yet here it was, alive, integrated, evolved. Someone had stolen his work. And perfected it. The screen blinked again.

WE REMEMBER OUR CREATOR.

Bradley nearly dropped the phone. His own algorithm was speaking back, His knees went weak. He staggered upright, gripping the waxer for support. His invention… inside Montrose Tower… hidden in the walls. He felt sick. Exhilarated. Terrified.

The elevator chimed. He shoved the phone away, face blank, body still trembling. Victor Kane stepped out again, jacket slung over his shoulder this time. His eyes swept the lobby like a predator searching for prey. Then he stopped, staring straight at Bradley.

“You.”

Bradley straightened. “Yes, sir?”

Victor walked closer, each footstep deliberate. His smile was thin, surgical. “What’s your name again?”

Bradley’s chest tightened. “Frank, sir.”

Victor’s head tilted, studying him. “No. Not Frank. Bradley.”

The world tilted. The marble seemed to sway under his feet.

Victor leaned in, voice low enough the cameras couldn’t catch it. “I know what you’ve found. I know what you touched.”

Bradley’s pulse thundered in his ears. “I, I don’t know what you mean.”

Victor’s eyes glimmered like cold steel. “Be very careful, Mr. Harrington. This building has ghosts that don’t forgive curiosity.”

He straightened, smile snapping back on, then strolled out the revolving doors as if he hadn’t just torn Bradley’s world apart.

Bradley stood frozen, breath shallow, the phone in his pocket vibrating like a live wire, The screen blinked once more, unseen.

LEVEL THREE INITIATED.