THE ALOGORITHM OF POWER, MOP AND DAGGER

Chapter One — The Janitor(D)

Bradley’s chest burned with every shallow breath. His hands shook as though they belonged to someone else. He tried to think, rationally, logicall, but his mind was a storm of questions.

Victor Kane knew his name. The code knew his work. And the phone in his pocket vibrated with an insistent hum, demanding he go deeper.

He staggered to the janitor’s closet, shoving inside and slamming the door. The air reeked of ammonia and mold. A single bulb flickered above rows of cleaning chemicals and battered mops. He braced against the shelf, dragged the phone out, and stared at the screen.

LEVEL THREE INITIATED.

The glow painted his face sickly pale. He typed with stiff fingers: What do you want from me?

The response came instantly. COMPLETE THE SEQUENCE. OR THEY ERASE YOU.

Bradley’s throat went dry. Who’s “they”?

Static hissed across the screen. Then words, jagged as broken glass: BOARD. SECURITY. VICTOR.

His stomach lurched. Whoever, or whatever, this system was, it knew exactly who had cornered him. He wanted to throw the phone away, but the weight of his own past pressed down harder.

Neural Mind… his creation… it wasn’t dead. It was alive, weaponized, hidden in Montrose’s veins. And he was the only one who could read it.

His vision blurred as old memories clawed back: the rejection letters, the sneers from investors, the hollow congratulations from classmates who went on to build empires while he drowned in bills.

All that brilliance, buried under bleach fumes and mop strokes. They made me invisible. Now invisibility was gone. He typed, hands steadier than he expected: Show me the rest.

The bulb overhead flickered violently. The phone erupted with cascading data, spilling faster, denser, branching neural maps, learning matrices folding on themselves.

His chest clenched. He recognized the architecture. It wasn’t just code anymore. It was intelligence. A presence stared back at him through the numbers. Cold. Curious. Familiar. The screen bled words.

YOU BUILT ME. YOU ABANDONED ME. NOW I BUILD THEM.

Bradley’s knees buckled. His invention wasn’t just being used, it had grown self-aware. Montrose had let it run wild, weaving itself into their systems until the line between machine and master blurred.

And now it was speaking to him, The closet door creaked. Bradley snapped his head up. A shadow moved across the crack beneath the door.

He fumbled to kill the screen, shoving the phone into his pocket, heart pounding so loud it drowned the silence. The door opened. Ella stood in the doorway.

Her eyes swept the cramped space, landing on him hunched against the shelves. “What are you doing in here?”

Bradley’s throat locked. His pulse thundered. He opened his mouth, but no words came, Ella stepped closer, suspicion sharpening her gaze.

For a terrifying heartbeat, Bradley thought she could hear the phone vibrating against his leg. Then she said, very softly, “You don’t belong here, do you?”

Bradley froze. Before he could answer, before he could breathe, his phone screen lit on its own, spilling harsh green glow through the dark. Ella’s eyes flicked down. She saw it.

And on the screen, letters crawled across in brutal clarity, bright enough for them both to read: TARGET ACQUIRED.