In front of me, a long hall winds laboriously on with glass security doors stretching across every twenty feet. In between each one are four vault doors, guarding their respective high-level secrets—secrets the powerful and very wealthy pay good money to forget. 291HR is behind the third security wall.

Before entering, I log my fingerprint with the soldier in front, grab a mask and a set of earplugs. He slips my wrist onto a metal plate: 68 beats per minute. He gestures, and the glass door slides up.

Sound quickly fades away as I insert the earplugs, until all that’s left is a static hum and the shushing thump of my heartbeat. My two guards insert their own, nod, and we step inside the vault.

In the middle of the room, intermittently lit up by the echoes of light in the crystal walls, is a seated man. His arms and legs are shackled down. A heavy metal band clamps his jaws together. The guards noticeably bristle as his eyes shoot over to my face.

With watchful trigger fingers behind me, I set to work.

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