Elena's hand tightened around the phone.

She remained silent.

Those words. She remembered those exact words from before. It had been after the man in the suit came for the first time. He also called her then.

Viktor… Viktor Ivanov.

"So, you're with them?" she finally said, her voice low, controlled.

"You could say something like that," came the familiar voice on the other side.

"Since when?"

"Does it matter?" Viktor replied, his tone calm. "And this call isn't about me. It's about you, Elena—or should I say… Eleanor."

Elena's eyes narrowed. Eleanor?

Her real name was Elena. Who the hell was Eleanor? Oh…

"So, that's my new identity?" she asked, her tone tinged with self-mockery.

"I thought it was a suitable and beautiful name," Viktor continued lightly. "All the documents you'll need are in the top drawer to the left of your desk."

Her eyes darted to the drawer. She hesitated briefly before opening it. Instead of the usual files and office supplies, she found a small stack of documents.

At the top was a U.S. passport, its dark blue cover strikingly different from the red one she'd carried as a United Nations official. Behind it, she found a credit card, a driver's license, a social security card, and a small envelope containing an official-looking letter.

Her hand moved to the passport, and she flipped it open to the bio-data page.

Her eyes widened.

What the…

The name had indeed changed to Eleanor Valera. But that was the smallest of the changes.

The face staring back at her from the passport wasn't hers—not the one she'd seen in the mirror every day for decades. It was that of a much younger woman, one who didn't look a day over 30.

There was a faint resemblance to her younger self, but this… this was a polished, idealized version.

Her gaze shifted to the birth date: 1998. The day and month remained the same, but the year had shaved decades off her life.

She shook her head. None of this made sense. She was in her mid-60s. How could she possibly pass off as this young woman?

"How does it look?" came Viktor's voice from the phone.

"What kind of twisted joke is this, Viktor?" she demanded, her tone sharp.

"Joke?" Viktor's tone turned faintly amused, but still carried its usual seriousness. "While I enjoy a bit of humor, Eleanor, I assure you I'm not one to joke about matters of this nature. There's a mirror in the second drawer, by the way. You may want to take a look."

Elena hesitated.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the second drawer and retrieved the only item inside: a compact mirror. She flipped it open, the reflective surface catching the light as she lifted it to her face.

She froze.

The reflection staring back wasn't hers.

The graying hair, the wrinkles, the years of stress etched into her features… all gone. Instead, she saw the younger, much beautiful version of herself from the passport. Smooth skin. Bright eyes. Thick, lustrous hair framing a face that looked like her but wasn't her.

Her breathing hitched.

She stared at the mirror, unblinking, her chest tightening as disbelief coursed through her. Slowly, shakily, she raised her free hand to her face, running her fingers over the unfamiliar contours. The skin felt warm. Soft. Real.

Her lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came out. Finally, her voice broke through, low and trembling, the edges fraying.

"What… what the fuck did you do to me?! What the—"

"A life," Viktor interrupted smoothly. "We—"

"The fuck, Viktor? What the fuck is this?!" Her hand holding the mirror trembled violently before she dropped it onto the desk. The glass shattered, shards scattering across the surface.

Her eyes darted to her arms, seeing them properly for the first time. Smooth, slender… young.

She gritted her teeth, inspecting her body with frantic hands. Surgery? But when? How?

The more she examined, the less it made sense. It was too perfect. Too seamless. And why hadn't she noticed anything before now? How had she adjusted to an entirely new body without realizing it?

Her mind raced. A brain transplant? Some deep, messed-up technology hidden away by this organization?

"Eleanor," Viktor's sharp voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "You gave years of your life for humanity, and now… I am giving you those years back. I'm giving you the opportunity to live as life should be lived. Marry, have children, explore the world as a common person—not someone burdened by the spotlight. I'm offering you the most valuable thing a human can have: time."

Her gaze fell to the shattered mirror, her breathing erratic. A shallow cut on her finger trickled a bead of blood onto the desk, unnoticed.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

She said nothing.

"Eleanor," Viktor continued, his tone steady. "You're a strong woman. You've endured more than most. If it helps, think of this as reincarnation. Consider your old self gone. Dead. This is a chance to live again. What path do you want to walk now? What regrets do you want to undo? You are free. You have all your life savings, plus more, accessible through the credit card. You have a clean slate. And the whole world is yours to explore."

"Why? You do things and that's it?!" she snapped, her voice sharp, trembling with barely restrained anger and disbelief. "Are we supposed to just—"

"Yes," he interrupted, his tone turning much colder. "Those in power rule, and those without it obey. It has always been this way, and it always will be. The only thing that changes is how well those who obey are treated—how 'free' they're allowed to think they are. But freedom is an illusion."

"You are now younger, much healthier than you ever were, and that is because I decided it. Because I deemed it an appropriate exchange for your service."

"As for your consent? I don't need it. When a farmer vaccinates their cattle or moves them to new pastures, do they ask for the animals' consent? No. They do it because they believe it's best. Because they can. Because they want to. Any justification about it being for the animals' benefit is just to soothe their own conscience—not the animals'."

She fell silent, her grip on the phone tightening as her hand grew steadier.

"So that's what I am to you? An animal? Cattle? A pet to dress in ridiculous clothes for your own selfish amusement?"

Viktor chuckled, a deep, weighty sound that seemed to echo through the line. "Just you? No, Eleanor. That's what we all are. That's what humanity is to those who brought The Tower. And perhaps even they are pets to something greater—a never-ending chain where questions always outweigh the answers," he said, pausing briefly. His tone shifted, softer now, almost reflective. "You know, that's what I envy about those who believe in gods of their own making. Their lives are simpler, their answers clearer. They don't ask many questions. And usually… they're far happier than the rest of us."

Elena remained silent, her breathing now more steady and composed.

"Can I ask you one last question, Viktor?" she said, her tone even.

"Go ahead."

She took a deep breath. "All of this—everything your secret organization does—is it truly for the good of humanity?"

The line went quiet on the other side, save for the faint sound of steady breathing.

Seconds passed before his answer came, deliberate and calm. "It has always been, and it will always be."

Elena nodded slowly, exhaling the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Alright," she said, glancing at the passport and the remaining documents. Her eyes lingered on the envelope for a moment before she slid everything into her handbag. "I suppose this will be the last time we ever speak?"

"Perhaps," Viktor replied, his voice softer now, almost wistful.

Elena allowed herself a small, bitter smile. "Goodbye, Viktor."

"I hope you find your happiness, Eleanor," came the familiar voice, calm and resolute.

The call ended with a soft click.

Elena placed the phone down on her desk, her gaze drifting to the ceiling of her office. She stared at it for a long moment before lowering her eyes to her hands, studying the unfamiliar yet strangely familiar fingers.

Minutes ticked by in silence.

Then, with a quiet determination, she stood, gathered her things, and left the room without looking back.

As she walked through the corridors, the thought of causing a scene crossed her mind, drawing a soft chuckle from her lips.

No one seemed to notice her. Well, that wasn't unusual. People rarely paid attention to others unless they had a reason to.

She continued her stride, unbothered, passing through the main entrance after a security guard waved her through without so much as a glance or a question.

She offered him a faint smile, then shifted her gaze forward.

Eleanor's eyes settled on the horizon ahead.

"Ready?"

Diego and Min nodded in unison, their focus sharpening as the bullet between them began to levitate, its rotation picking up speed, forming a smooth, circular orbit in the air.

Ishaam took a steady breath, his mind calm despite the task ahead.

With practiced precision, he drew his knife, made a small cut on his wrist, and let the blood drip onto a piece of wood tied to a long vine.

This was the trick Lukas had shown them: the octopus wouldn't react to inanimate disturbances, but blood—blood would draw them out. It was the bait.

Ishaam's expression remained firm as he swung the blood-soaked wood out over the lake, letting it hover just above the water's surface.

They waited, the air thick with tension.

It didn't take long. Ripples formed, and then— snap! A tentacle shot out, aiming to crush the bait. Ishaam yanked the vine back quickly, keeping the bait just out of reach while maintaining control over the spinning projectile.

The water stirred violently as the octopus's head began to emerge. Its bulbous form glistened under the faint light.

No time to waste.

The spinning bullet in his control became a blur, its trajectory slightly adjusted to account for the creature's position.

Ishaam's mind synced the mental image Lukas had burned into his memory—the precise weak spot on the octopus's head—with the reality before him. The shot needed to hit with enough force, at exactly the right angle, to pierce the thinner part of its skull.

"Hold it steady," he said, his tone firm. Diego and Min intensified their focus, channeling their waves into the projectile. Its orbit tilted slightly, aligning perfectly with the target.

Ishaam's muscles tensed as the creature's head rose higher, exposing the vulnerable spot.

He held his breath, silencing everything around him. His senses zeroed in on the spinning bullet, no longer visible to his eyes but perfectly outlined in the feedback from his waves. It was a delicate balance—one misstep and it would all be for nothing.

This wasn't just another practice shot, though he tried to convince himself otherwise. The weight of real danger loomed beneath the surface, and the pressure gnawed at him. But he had done this before. He could do it again.

His mind raced, calculating every factor: the timing, the trajectory, the exact moment to release. He knew the delay down to the microsecond. He trusted Diego and Min to disengage the field instantly upon his signal. There was no room for hesitation.

The world seemed to slow, the spinning bullet an almost imperceptible blur.

"NOW!"

In perfect sync, Diego and Min cut off their waves. The sudden release caused the bullet to fly straight, propelled with devastating speed toward the target.

Ishaam's breath hitched as he watched the shot. The projectile carved through the air like a streak of light, aimed directly at the octopus's weak point.

THUD

The bullet struck with a sickening crack.

The creature thrashed violently, water exploding in all directions as it flailed its tentacles. For a moment, Ishaam's heart pounded in his chest, unsure if the shot had been enough.

The thrashing slowed… then stopped.

The massive octopus lay motionless.

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the sound of water rippling and their ragged breathing.

"Holy shit," Diego whispered, his voice shaky but filled with awe. "We actually did it."

Ishaam exhaled deeply, his body trembling slightly as the adrenaline began to wear off. He turned to Diego and Min, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips.

"One down," he said, his voice steady but low. "Twenty to go."

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