He was in an ocean of greenery, standing under an ultramarine sky. The air clung to him. He had been in this field before, many times; although, just like all the times before, he couldn't remember how he had arrived there. Each time he returned, the foliage became less overwhelming. It used to nearly bury him, but now the coarse grass only reached up to his hips. Soil pushed its way between his toes as he flexed them. It felt soft and right sticking to his bare feet.

He waded further into the reeds. All around him were plants of varying shades and thickness. There were ferns at his ankles and clumps of leaves strewn all over the ground, wet and pliable underfoot. Some of the grass stalks were tall enough to be a slight hindrance, but he pushed them aside as easily as one might draw back a curtain. They felt sharp against his fingertips and smelled strongly of summer heat.

A breeze began to blow. His hair floated up in front of his face, tickling his cheeks and brushing against his lips. He could sense Her arrival, whispering words on the wind like the soft static of rain. The sound crawled along the ground with padded paws, smooth and weightless as it stalked toward him. He paused and strained his ears.

The wind picked up, lapping at the fabric of his shirt and providing a welcome reprieve from the merciless humidity. It weaved through the field, and set the grasses swaying like pendulums. He could hear Her voice on the wind, faint, but growing stronger by the second. It intoned the same message over and over until the words billowed beneath his hair and flowed into his ears.

Let me teach you a song, it said. I will teach you a song that you will need to keep living. He closed his eyes and let the song overtake him.

The wind carries the soul away, humans steal the heart

O earth, O tempests; O heavens, O light

Let everything cease,

Let everything be,

and live

O soul, my heart, O love, my memory

Return home here

And stay

The sweetness of the melody never ceased to surprise him. It pared his soul away from his body and made his heart ache. Always, it was accompanied by a sense of nostalgia; he felt like he had heard this same song on a thousand different days in a hundred different voices.

Her voice was neither male, nor female; it just was. And yet, it was so gentle and almost motherly, he had taken to referring to it as She. He could hear another sound beneath the song—a vibratory hum, like a swarm of insects.

The wind carries the soul away, humans steal the heart

But here I will remain

to keep singing

Please

Deliver my song

Please

Accept my song

The voice uttered his name. His real name. His breath stuck in his throat. It had been so long. Here was the only place he could hear that name; she was the only one who knew it anymore.

Come here, Singer.

He turned around and found himself in the middle of a forest. She had not taken him here before; yet, something cold pooled in his stomach at the sight of the sweeping branches and mossy undergrowth. The buzzing of wings grew louder, louder than they had ever been, until it was all he could hear. He wanted to raise his hands to block the sound out, but She held him in place.

It will start soon.

"What? It's too loud. I don't understand."

Let me show you.

The woods were on fire now. Branches crashed down in streaks of orange and yellow. Black smoke curled in the air and blocked out all traces of sun and sky. The heat was ten times more excruciating than it was in the field. It felt like his skin would melt clean off his bones, as easily as wax from a candle.

The roar was deafening, and yet, he could clearly hear the incessant buzzing in his head. Indistinguishable shadows darted in front of him. Small, airborne ones danced before him, and then humanoid figures sprinted and tumbled across his vision. One ran out a few feet ahead of him and threw itself onto the ground. It writhed in the blackened dirt, tearing at its body. He could feel the creature's pain trembling in the air and he instinctively ran toward it.

The figure he scooped into his arms was an ancient and decrepit man. The man stared up at him with wide, sunken eyes as his gummy mouth tried to work. If he had managed to form any words, they could not be heard above the chaos. He gave a few more spasms and then went stiff. He was still holding the body in his arms when something wriggled beneath his palm. He recoiled and watched as a sleek black form climbed out of the man's neck. It flexed its silver wings and bobbed in the air in front of his face. It was barely a shadow, but he knew immediately that it was a wasp.

"What is this? Stop! I don't want to see any more!"

He wanted to scream.

The flames erupted behind him and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. There was an enormous shadow looming over him, but he dared not turn around. He remained rigid, letting the heat and flames and the droning of the wasp pound him into the ground.

It is already in motion, She whispered against his ear. But you need not fear, Singer. I will give you the power you need.

"The power for what?"

The power to destroy No. 6.

Nezumi woke gasping for air.

What the…?

He stared up at the stark white ceiling, drawing in one shaky breath after another until his heart ceased its attempts to punch a hole through his chest. He had dreamt of the song, the field, and Her voice many times over the last few years, but this had been nothing like the ones before. The events had progressed as usual up until the forest fire. Then it had devolved into a nightmare.

The power to destroy No. 6.

He turned his head and looked at the desk below. Taped beneath it was a drive that he had been working on for the past two years. He had two identical drives hidden under the couch in the living room and in the bag he brought to work. The hiding places were not ingenious, but he had managed to avoid detection so far, so it seemed to be working well enough.

The time to compile the codes on them was fast approaching, and once united they would sequence a virus that would open every program on an infected computer. One of the city's greatest achievements was that almost everything in it was automated. It made the indolent lives of its citizens more comfortable, and Nezumi's plan much easier. The virus would send the security system haywire and every gate would be green-lit for his escape.

The voice's last words rang in his ears. The force behind them was tangible.

I'm so close to destroying No. 6's hold on me. It shouldn't be long now. I have to bear with it just a bit longer and then I'll never have to see this godforsaken city again.

That was probably why his dream had been so screwed up. It was a subconscious manifestation of his fears that things might go awry at the last minute.

My subconscious is pretty sick, though. What was with that old man?

Something slipped down his neck and a pang of fear shot through him. His hand flew to the spot and came away damp. He relaxed; it was only a bead of sweat. He realized then that his shirt was sticking to him in all sorts of uncomfortable ways.

He ripped off his blankets and sat up. A wave of cool air wafted over him. If he sat still for another few minutes, the temperature control would recognize how drenched he was and adjust the air conditioning accordingly. He would be dry again in a matter of minutes.

He yanked his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. He plucked a navy button up and slacks off the loft railing, and dressed as he walked down the stairs. Fortunately enough, the work uniform for the Robotics lab was relatively inoffensive. Most departments weren't so lucky. The Park Administration employees just a few buildings down, for example, had to wear hideous green jumpsuits. The mere thought depressed him.

The weather outside the window looked cool, but sunny. Winter was fast approaching this year. It was just as well; Nezumi didn't mind the cold, and besides, no one in No. 6 was ever really cold. He toyed with the elastic around his wrist, deliberating whether he should tie his hair up or leave it down today. His hair had grown long as of late, more from neglect than from intention, and it was now just past chin-length. The length of his hair hardly detracted from his looks, and he couldn't be bothered to cut it, so he let it be.

His ID bracelet predicted little to no wind. Down it is, he decided.

He stepped over articles of discarded clothing to get to his bag. He slipped on the boots next to it, and then dragged the bag off the ground and over his shoulder. As a secondary thought, he peeked inside to check for the drive. It was still there, dark and dwarfish in the bottom corner. He nodded to himself and headed into the hallway.

He paused at the top of the stairs and listened. He didn't hear anything, but one did not take chances with the old woman. She was deceptively stealthy, which only made her creepier. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, slid the door until it was just barely ajar, and peered into the room beyond. A voice in the back of his head scoffed at him for resorting to such cowardly tactics, but he had learned a long time ago to ignore it. Avoiding the old woman whenever possible saved him a lot of grief.

He couldn't see her in either the kitchen or the living area from his vantage point, and it remained silent. She must already be in the garden. If I'm quick, I can get out of the house before she sees me.

He slipped into the kitchen and moved to the fridge to pull out the chicken stir-fry and rice that, in the name of practiced expedience, he had prepared in advance. He crammed the Tupperware container into his bag and turned to leave.

"Shit!" He almost jumped back into the stove.

The old woman was standing right in front of him. Nezumi thought he had gotten used to her uncanny materializations, but the woman was like a constantly evolving amoeba of terror. At times even he couldn't help but be amazed by her stealth and sangfroid.

There was a period when he was younger where he suspected she wasn't human. Her movements seemed too smooth, her dialogue too stilted and yet impeccably calculated; he became quite suspicious (and perhaps even a little hopeful) that she was some sort of android. One night at dinner he decided to test this theory by knocking a glass of water into her lap. His hopes were dashed when it only flustered her for a moment before she wrestled her face into an affectionate façade and went on and on about what a silly and clumsy boy he was.

So, although he was unfortunately caught off guard by her sudden appearance, he was not at all surprised when the old woman handled his outburst with dignity. She offered him a painted smile.

"Good morning, dear."

"Hi," Nezumi said, sidling along the island towards the living room.

"Where are you going?"

"Same place I go every morning. To work."

Her eyes followed him around the room, but she stayed rooted to her spot in front of the fridge. "Aren't you going to eat breakfast first, dear? I made quiche last night. I could heat up a slice for you, if you'd like."

"Sounds great, but I'm actually running late as it is, so why don't we take a rain check on that?" He sidestepped to the door. For some reason he always felt that to turn his back on her would be a mistake.

"You don't have to be in until nine. Won't you stay and eat a little, dear? We could use the time to catch up. We never talk anymore."

"Can't. I have a morning ritual that you probably know all about, so I gotta go."

"Be back by curfew," she called, as he leapt out the door.

Geez. That was just as horrible as I remember it. Maybe I should start leaving earlier. Dodging her is starting to get just as draining as avoiding conversation.

He ambled past the guard station at the Chronos gate, without a greeting passing his or the sentry's lips. He didn't have to be at the lab for another hour, but he always left the house early. He cut through the Forest Park. City Hall loomed above the trees. It was the tallest building in No. 6, and the closest thing the city had to a skyscraper. Most residents referred to it affectionately as "The Moondrop;" although he never understood why, because it didn't resemble a moon or a drop of any kind. Sure, its exterior was pockmarked similarly to the cratered surface of the moon, but it was oblong and dome-shaped and not at all attractive. If it was going to be called anything more pretentious than City Hall, then he always thought "The Honeycomb" would be a more apt nickname.

His workplace was one of five buildings that ringed City Hall like spokes on a wheel. Two of the others were the hospital and the Department of Public Safety.

"Good morning," a cleaning robot trilled as it moved past towards the city center.

The robots that patrolled the park were only recently introduced, and still in their trial period, so until the kinks were worked out, their design and function was to remain simplistic. Their programs were supposed to be tailored to allow them to distinguish trash from non-trash, small animals, and insects. However, in the weeks since their implementation, he often spied them holding objects like hats or scarves and staring at them as though at a loss.

The park was just starting to get foot traffic. A young woman jogged by and two girls pedaled around him on their bikes, presumably to school. Outdoor exercise had come back into vogue. He had suspected this was so, because he had spotted bikers and joggers more frequently during his morning walk. The newspaper confirmed his speculation a week ago, when it came out with an article detailing how running shoes and bike sales had taken off in the last year.

He reached a crossroads in the path and was nearly run over by a female biker when she cut across without looking. The rush of air in his face testified to just how narrowly he had escaped a collision.

"Hey, watch it!" he snapped.

The girl had been staring down at the 3D display on her ID, but she skidded to a stop when she realized her blunder.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" She canceled whatever program she had been watching and flipped the kickstand down with her foot. "I wasn't—I mean… I'm sorry."

He exhaled through his nose. "Don't bike if you're not going to pay attention."

The girl blinked apologetically, and Nezumi continued walking. He had only gone a few paces when he heard the faint clicking and dirt crunching behind him. He tried to remain calm. It was ridiculous to assume that just because he recognized the sounds of a bike behind him that she was following him—and even if she was, it was possible that she had always meant to go up this path, and her obliviousness had caused her to overrun the turn. Or maybe it was a different biker entirely. He stepped off the path and trudged along in the grass beside it to give them room to pass him.

He cringed when the female biker appeared in his peripheral vision and stayed there. "Hey, um…" she said, looking right at him. "Sorry again for almost hitting you."

I already heard your apology before. Why follow me and say it again?

"It was completely my fault," she continued. "I wasn't paying attention and I didn't realize how fast I was going."

Nezumi flicked his eyes to her. New bike models were equipped with built-in restraint mechanisms; it was impossible to go over the designated speed limit. So either she really wasn't paying attention…

Or she's lying.

She had dismounted and was rolling her bicycle alongside her, so apparently she had no intention of leaving. The girl smiled at him. He shoved his hands into his pockets and increased his walking speed.

"Yeah, so… I'm Mira, by the way. And you are…?"

"CVC-00103221," he rattled off, glaring at the path ahead.

"Huh?" She cocked her head to the side.

She's a good actor. But then again, they all are.

The speed difference was starting to show, but the girl jogged a little to get back in line with him.

"Hey… That's a Chronos ID, right?" Her voice grew more animated. "You're from Chronos? Wow, I'm so jealous! You must be really smart!"

He clenched his jaw.

"Gifted Curriculum students get to work close to the city center, right? So you must be… Wait…" Her gaze was drawn to City Hall and she gasped. "You don't work in The Moondrop, do you?"

"Cut the crap already," he muttered.

"What?"

He drew to a halt and faced her. "Look, as fascinating as this conversation is, I'd rather be alone right now, so could you just…" He waved a hand in the general direction of away.

The girl watched his hand for a beat. Then her face started to flush. "Oh, o-okay. Sorry, I— Sorry." She clambered onto her bike and spun off. Nezumi watched her disappear around the corner.

And now I feel like a jerk. Maybe I was too harsh. But that's only supposing she actually was just a normal girl trying to flirt with me. For all I know, she could've been a tail. Not that it matters. Innocent or not, no good would come of it.

The park around him was growing busier by the second. He checked his ID. It was 8:19. Usually, he headed to work and clocked in before anyone else. He didn't feel safe in the empty lab per se, but he appreciated the loneliness. The silence of the building in the half hour before work started was nothing like the ominous stillness of his house; it was a comfortable quietude, accompanied by the low hum of machines.

But the thwarted social encounter had agitated him, and the last place he wanted to go was No. 6's labs. He decided he wanted breakfast after all.

He stepped off the cement pathway of the Forest Park and onto the paved streets of Lost Town. The most immediate difference one could discern between Chronos and Lost Town was the layout of the areas. Chronos was, first and foremost, a residential neighborhood, with yards and houses larger than most people knew what to do with.

Lost Town, however, was compact. The streets were lined with restaurants and stores and bakeries, and the owners usually lived above or in the back room of their establishments in order to conserve space. Since the houses in Chronos were reserved for those who performed exceptionally on the two-year-old aptitude exam, the majority that didn't measure up was crammed into Lost Town. In comparison to the pristine, whitewashed walls of upper town living, the lower district looked worn, but the rows of brick buildings had an old world charm that Nezumi liked.

Shop owners were only just preparing inside their shops. It would be an hour still before most of them opened. He made his way to the only street that put out food this early. He scanned the windows for signs of life, and his eyes fell upon a squat red brick building as a force of habit.

His heart twinged. The store it housed was closed at the moment, and besides, it no longer sold food, but handmade jewelry. He tore his eyes away and approached a small bakery across the street. The wooden sign hanging above it exclaimed, Panda! The bell chimed when he entered.

"Good morning," droned a pimply youth. "What can I get you?"

Nezumi peered into the case of pastries. "What's that?" He pointed at a yellow muffin.

"A muffin."

Nezumi checked if the boy was being sarcastic, but he just looked bored. "Yes, but what kind?" Nezumi clarified.

The boy turned his head and shouted into the back room, "Ma! What muffins did you make this morning?"

"What? Corn!" an older female voice yelled back.

"Corn," the boy reiterated to Nezumi.

Nezumi had a strong urge to leave the shop immediately, but his stomach was already looking forward to the prospect of food. He pressed his lips together and pointed at a glazed donut in the corner of the case.

"I'll take one of those."

The boy shrugged and wrapped the donut in wax paper.

After he had exited the shop, Nezumi took a bite and grimaced. It tasted the way disappointment felt. Maybe I should've went for the corn muffin… On second thought, if they managed to ruin a donut, I don't want to taste any of their more ambitious creations.

The shop across the street demanded his attention. He gave in. The events of the morning had already been so dreary, one moment of masochism wasn't going to have too much of an effect. Besides, his association with that place wasn't all that bad.

The shop he was staring at now hardly resembled the one from two years ago. The door had been redone in pastel yellow, and the sign had been painted over to read The Glass Slipper in dainty script. The building's location and his memory of what it once was were the only proof that it even used to be Hiro's Green Grocery.

The woman who owned the converted jewelry store was placing trays of earrings and bracelets in the window. She smiled when she noticed him staring. He choked down the rest of the donut and headed back toward the park.

Hiro would have been appalled if he knew I had stooped to eating crappy stale donuts. He was always going on about the positives of fresh fruit and healthy breakfasts.

He had wandered over to Hiro's grocery store on a whim one day. He had gotten into a fistfight with one of the other Gifted Curriculum brats after school, and he was storming around Lost Town to cool his head. So when the mustachioed man working the fruit and vegetable counter called out to him that berries were medically proven to relieve stress, he snapped back that he knew from personal experience that punching nosy old men in the face was an equally fabulous way to deal with stress. The man looked so shocked that Nezumi was about to begrudge him an apology, but then the man burst into laughter and tossed him an apple.

"You're sharp!" Hiro had remarked with a grin. "Come back sometime, yeah?"

Nezumi walked away, thinking that the guy must have had a few screws loose, and yet a couple days later, he had found himself back again. Hiro recognized him immediately and struck up a conversation about fruit, or something similarly inane. The man seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. But Nezumi was most intrigued by how delighted he became whenever he made sarcastic comments or poked fun at his health food fetish. Hiro was never embarrassed when he was insulted, and even appeared to enjoy it.

He was so completely un-No. 6 that Nezumi didn't even bat an eye when, two weeks after he had become a regular at the grocery, Hiro pulled him behind the counter and asked if he wanted to join his acting group.

"Isn't that illegal?" Nezumi had asked with mock seriousness.

"Not at all," Hiro said. "Organized plays are illegal, yes, but we're not really acting in the formal sense of the word. It's just a bit of lighthearted banter between friends. Improv, if you will."

"You must be having a hard time recruiting people if you're inviting kids to join."

Hiro smiled. "Well, naturally, I'm very astute when picking new members. Even if performing isn't strictly illegal, I'm well aware not everyone is as open-minded as I." He nodded several times as though agreeing with himself. "That being said, there are two regulars, plus me, and our little acts never fail to draw a crowd, however temporary. But to return to the point, I work very hard to select only the most sporting and trustworthy persons to whom I offer membership, and I'm really hoping that my judgment of your character wasn't wrong?"

Hiro paused for his answer and Nezumi witnessed a rare break in his trademark joviality. The older man's eyes were wide as he stared into his, and there was just a hint of uncertainty in his brow.

Nezumi smiled thinly. "Well, I'll do most anything if it means I'll be away from my house a little longer. I suppose I can lend my 'sporting and trustworthy' person to your cause."

Hiro beamed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Atta boy! I knew you'd agree! You're an artistic soul, Takashi. I recognized it the moment I met you. Come here, I want to show you something."

Hiro took him to the back room of the store and showed him his most prized possession: a piece of paper onto which he had inscribed his favorite soliloquy. He said it was from Shakespeare's finest and most tragic masterpiece, The Scottish Play, and went on to tell him every detail he could recall about it. The words on the page captivated Nezumi, and Hiro's descriptions of all the great plays that were, and that he would never see, stirred in him a deep longing. He had agreed to join Hiro's makeshift troupe out of curiosity and respect for the man's trust, but after seeing the lines from The Scottish Play, Nezumi genuinely wanted a taste of what it was to act, even if it was only a watered-down version.

His first performance was that weekend. Hiro and the other group members had set a tradition of wearing masks to protect their identities, and Hiro bestowed one of his own creation on Nezumi the day before they performed. When Nezumi asked why they had to hide behind masks if what they were doing wasn't illegal, Hiro laughed. The man assured him that they hadn't had any trouble as of yet, and besides, the authorities weren't really all that concerned with their activities.

The performance went well. They gathered in the park, and managed to draw a small crowd of children and teens. In the end, though, the Security Bureau arrived, and then it was every man for himself. He and Hiro ran into an alley in Lost Town, stuffed the masks into Hiro's bag, and waltzed out like nothing had ever happened. Before they parted ways, they shared a conspiratorial smile, and Nezumi felt that as long as they continued to be careful, it just might work.

But there wasn't another time.

He had gotten tied down with schoolwork in the days after the initial performance, and he hadn't had time to pay Hiro a visit until the following Wednesday. He turned onto Hiro's street and stopped dead in his tracks. There was a crowd out in front of the grocery. He broke into a cold sweat when he saw the squad car. Two Security Bureau officials were escorting Hiro out of his shop and to the car. His hands were handcuffed behind him, but he stood tall as he walked. Their eyes met, and although Hiro wasn't smiling for once, he tilted his head slightly as if to say, "It can't be helped. We always knew this was a possibility." Then he disappeared into the squad car.

In the heat of the moment, Nezumi had taken a step toward the car, but an officer stopped him. He asked why the man was being arrested, and was told that he was being brought up on charges of public indecency, and that it was of no concern of his. Nezumi wandered around the Forest Park for hours after the incident. He dreaded going home, because he knew the Security Bureau would surely be waiting to arrest him on the same charges. Eventually, he steeled himself against his fate.

But no one ever came. The news ran a brief bulletin on how three unnamed persons had been taken in for questioning earlier that day on counts of public disturbance, but there was not a word about him. He waited for days, but nothing ever came of it. He couldn't understand it; every other person in the troupe had been arrested, so they had to know he was also a member. Were they sparing him because of his age? But his involvement would warrant a warning, at the very least. For some reason he was being exempted from punishment.

He had known he was treated differently. He had figured out that the old woman was keeping surveillance of him early on, but there was more than just that. He was forced to endure monthly check-ups because he had a "weak constitution" and the old woman was "concerned for his health;" after the deaths of his parents, he was placed in Chronos, despite having been a former Lost Town resident; whenever he got into physical altercations with other students, he only ever received a slap on the wrist when by all accounts he should've been expelled from the Gifted Curriculum.

He had known that the authorities paid him special attention, but No. 6's vigilance toward him had never adversely affected anyone around him. Then again, he never had anyone close enough before Hiro. The only people who ever talked to him were the old woman and his course instructors.

Honestly, sometimes I wonder how you got into this program.

In the days following Hiro's arrest, those words resurfaced in his memory. They were the words of his teacher, Ms. Kim, a few months after his admission to the Gifted Curriculum. She had been a hateful person from his twelve-year-old perspective. She always called on him when he raised his hand, but she gave him sour looks when he got it correct, and never failed to sneer when his reply didn't satisfy her. They didn't like each other, and so when she quit suddenly in the middle of the year, he was relieved he wouldn't have to put up with her criticisms anymore. Actually, he had been ecstatic when he heard the news, because the day before her resignation was announced, he had had a particularly disagreeable conversation with her.

Class had ended for the day, and they had to hand-in a writing exercise before leaving the room. Nezumi was one of the last kids out, and when he gave Ms. Kim his paper, she scanned it and told him to wait. He had to stand there in humiliated silence as she read the entire sheet.

"Just as I thought," she'd muttered when she finished. "You did the assignment wrong. Again."

"I answered the questions truthfully," he replied.

"Takashi, you are completely missing the point of the exercise. The questions do not require your honest opinion. All these questions have specific answers, and if you had managed to keep up with the lectures, you would know them. This is one of the easiest assignments in the course, if you can't do at least this correctly, how can you expect to do well?" She scoffed and shoved the paper back at him. "Honestly, sometimes I wonder how you got into this program. Do the assignment over, and do it right this time."

He hated her so much in that moment he wished she would disappear. Then the next day, as if some higher power had heard his prayer, another teacher came in and informed the class that Ms. Kim had resigned. At the time it seemed like nothing more than a stroke of luck, but after Hiro was arrested, he couldn't stop thinking of how Ms. Kim had sneered at his gifted placement. She may have been angry and frustrated, but she had questioned the government.

He knew something was suspicious with his status upgrade to Chronos and acceptance into the Gifted Curriculum, but the old woman never gave him a straight answer about it. She waxed poetic about the kindness of the No. 6 government and eventually Nezumi had caught on to what she was really trying to say: Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Hadn't Ms. Kim done just that? She had insulted him, and by extension, the authority that placed him under her tutelage. In retrospect, after Ms. Kim, he was never again criticized as overtly and not one teacher ever questioned if he was meant to be in the class. He began to suspect that Ms. Kim hadn't resigned voluntarily.

It wasn't a coincidence that Hiro and the other members were arrested after he joined them. They had performed several times in the past few months; the Bureau could have acted at any time, and yet the group had never suffered any repercussions more severe than being chased away. They were arrested because of him. No. 6 was watching his every move and did not hesitate to remove anything and anyone that didn't fit their plans for him. Ms. Kim's own actions had led to her termination, but Hiro's fate was entirely on him.

And they wanted him to know it. They could have apprehended the troupe at any time, but they waited until he would be there to watch as they forced Hiro into the Bureau car. They were trying to condition him with regimented education, monitored living, and bald-faced threats. They were trying to break him.

The issue with their ploy, however, was that they had laid all their cards on the table. In order to successfully cow him, they had to confirm every suspicion he had about the reality of his imprisonment. When he realized the extent of their control, it became easier to navigate his way around it while he worked on a way to escape No. 6's grasp. He made a vow to himself from that day forward that, until the opportune time, he may suffer himself to bend, but he would not be broken.