The windy night howls once we step out of the treehouse. My body shakes under the comfortable sweater, either by the weather or the biting anxiety.

We've been planning this the whole day. What can go wrong?

"From now on, put this on your ear." Roy reveals a small, black gem on his palm. It doesn't glimmer under the moonlight, so it can't be a pure stone. Miro and Sandra also receive theirs with an odd look. "The Office has a similar device, but mine has... minor modifications. These Onyx Agents can only communicate through me. So you can only hear me, but I can hear all of you. So when something happens—"

"The Office's version is linked to their security's Tracer screen, right? So you're like... the Tracer screen now?"

Roy runs his palm over his face, as if searching for the right explanation. "Yup." He sighs, throwing a curt smile before clambering down the stairs, barging through the restless air.

But Sandra hasn't put the topic down. Scurrying so she can match his pace, she continues, "One day, can you make this easier? And when did you steal these from The Office?" Her rising tone defeats the whistles of the wind, drowning my fear of these vengeful trees. But the rumbling sky steals Roy's answers from our ears, shooting me back with the usual paranoia.

Miro and I tread side by side, the robot in his backpack occasionally buzzing. He masks his anxiety with a neutral expression, but his quicker steps prove otherwise.

We're still bustling between the trees when it rains. Lightly at first, but growing violent within minutes. The drops cast thin mist upon the fake glasses Sandra forced me to wear, and the foggy air makes me shiver.

Why, of all nights, should it rain today?

What if the people we're meeting scorn of our soggy attires? Will we be considered disrespectful? What if the meeting—

"Allice Worke should calm down," Xin-Yo chirps from Miro's backpack, surprisingly winning against the rain despite the Polyester Absorption Panels muffling it.

"I'm calm. Stop reading my mind."

"Xin-Yo doesn't read minds."

We dart to the abandoned outskirts, taking shelter under the remaining roofs. The broken paths try to drown us in their puddles several times. A queasy smile appears on Miro's lips at the sight of his muddy sweater.

Before I get a chance to look at mine, a gate appears across the lonely street.

"Besides analyzing data, Xin-Yo's special ability is night vision. Other than that, Xin-Yo still has the mental age of a month old's. It will develop with time—"

I grunt under my breath. We're already at Nexon Neighborhood, and Xin-Yo's technical chatters aren't calming me up. The place's notorious playing-card statue makes me more fidgety; these people aren't going to betray us, right?

The neighborhood is poorly lit. In this weather, the houses look haunted.

The number six, two-storied house seems dead weren't it for the weak lamps. What an odd sight for a Highlife site. But within, there's a respectable Lowlife-turned-Highlife grandma and his twin sons—the Warners. The Highlife twin, Mr. Julian Warner, is Roy's neighbor, while his Lowlife twin is Mr. Jules Warner, my courier friend at Daily Dose.

Life can draw a strange line between a person and another.

We're still passing the lawn when the wind whips a net to my face. I pass it to Roy; it must be the same with what Mrs. Ailee mentioned.

"This is sick," he murmurs, dropping the thread.

I knock the door, ceasing the conversation from inside. A click comes from the keyhole. The door swings open, revealing a burly man with a massive, brown mustache and a gray turtleneck sweater. He ushers us in as his eyes dart around like an owl, but not before addressing me with glee.

Mr. Jules Warner. It's only been days since we last met at Daily Dose's booth, but he already shrinks a lot. His damaged house must take a toll on him.

"Come, sit here." A spectacled, white-haired grandma gingerly touches my shoulder, hinting at the last four plastic chairs in the circle. This must be Grandma Mead.

Three out of six hosts are wearing tidier outfits. There's another youngster—a busily-typing-on-phone girl—besides us four.

The seat burns. Or is it my nerves?

"Welcome to our strange headquarter." Mr. Julian smiles like a child who just lost his milk tooth. He has the same huge brown mustache like his twin, but with a white turtleneck sweater instead of gray.

"Let's get to the point, shall we?" Grandma Mead relies on her cane as she wobbles around. "This turmoil wouldn't have existed if Mop Head stayed put in his grandiose office, not lurking around like a feral dog—"

"Language, Ma." Mr. Julian clears his throat.

"Why should I behave when out there, tons are more bastard than I am?"

Good point, though her words begin to unhinge my nervousness a bit.

"Now there, Ma, you don't want another stroke," a woman next to Mr. Jules, who's alike to Auntie Morgan except for her makeup, speaks gently. "Anyway, are you two the Highlifes that help Allice and Miro?"

"Highlife!" Grandma Mead approaches Roy and Sandra, pressing their backs to the wall. She only casts a welcoming stare to Miro and I. "Are you sure they're Highlifes, Alexa? They don't smell like colognes. The girl doesn't even wear makeup."

"They're different," I quickly retort before she jumps to more uncomfortable stereotypes. "They're my good friends, Roy and Sandra."

"Do call me Grand-Mad. And I'll keep an eye."

"So, where were we?" Mr. Julian claps. "Are we really grouping here? I mean, haven't done it before—"

"You haven't?" I cut in. "But my parents were accused to—"

He snorts, throwing his bulky self against the croaking chair. "Old Jorge's bluff. There haven't been any organized rebellions yet. Only small, hotheaded groups like those protesters. They're easy to put down."

Realization pours on me like ice cubes. "Then why were they charged with it?" Oddly, despite it's still my first time talking to Mr. Julian, he's as easygoing as his twin is. Though the latter appears to be quieter.

"You, sweet boy, don't know half of Dogson's politics yet." Grand-Mad smiles sadly. "They accidentally found 'secret files' while photocopying under his order. He forgot to left those out of their tasks. The contents haven't leaked, but there are rumors."

Roy smiles smugly, leaving the nervous shell he's been in since his arrival. "Those rumors are as true as this meeting, Grand-Mad."

"What a pity." Grand-Mad shakes her head. "It has always been his agenda. Future inventions, mad ideas... genocide of our kind. For what cause... unknown."

"That's why Allice's parents are still jailed..."

"And why he pays our family to shut up." My blood boils as I recall the conversation. Why didn't I emphasize that I'm not his errand-boy?

"We must do something." Sandra sits straighter. "Stop that plan from happening. But we must know what it is first, and why he's doing this."

"Must we use an insider?" a blonde woman with a black-and-white office attire and drooping glasses speaks from Mr. Julian's side, peeling her nails without looking at us.

"We can't use strangers, I think," Sandra counters, causing the woman to perk up. "It's an unhealthy workplace. Even if you have their badge"—all eyes are directed to the ID card on the woman's shirt—"you can't guarantee anything."

"You seem to know a lot, don't you?" The woman sneers. "Suggest a better plan, then."

"We can't use strangers, but we can use ourselves."

"You're mad."

"Look at Allice's parents." Sandra spits out. "Jorge had his own secretary. Allice's parents were just helpers—photocopiers. Has anyone thought they were framed by someone else—or Jorge himself—so they were kicked off his campaign? There hasn't been any proof that Jorge gave them those papers himself, right?"

"Will you three go?" Mr. Julian's wife shoots again. "Or should I? I work there."

"What do you—"

Before Roy blows his question, police sirens wail from afar.

Are they after us? Or are there other criminals around here?

The twins dart to the door, bolting it with a plank and stack crates of liquor with laboring breath. Roy, Miro, and I join them. Once made, Mr. Julian drags Grand-Mad, flicking the room's lights off. "We're going to the storage."

"But dearest peppers—my dirty laundries are still there," Grand-Mad protests, almost slapping her sons several times. But they swat her remark like it's a fly.

"Stupid girl!" I turn back when Mr. Julian's wife yanks her daughter's hair. "You useless rat. Why did you post our meeting to Friendly Dogson? I told you this is a secret. Do you know whose app is that? The Office's!"

As the others climb the steps, I approach them. "They probably aren't after us—"

"They are, sweet boy." Unlike Grand-Mad's pronunciation, hers is full of sarcasm. It's a wonder her eyes haven't caught fire. "I don't raise her for sixteen years to be a traitor." With a haughty flick, she releases the girl's hair. Sandra, Roy, and Miro stare from above, ignoring her hasty steps.

"You okay?" I gently tug her wrist since the sirens blare louder. It's like they're in front of the house. Slammed doors and drawn-out weapons echo through the night, announcing terror like they did a few days ago. Still, she won't budge.

"Leave me alone. I'll live as a prisoner better than with her." She shrugs as her shoulders slump forward. "She has taken my Air Phone too. I'll turn myself in."

I'm dealing with a phone-addicted chimp, then.

"Don't be stupid." Roy zooms down the stairs. "Then why should Allice save you in the first place?"

"I didn't ask him to."

It hurts where it isn't supposed to.

A door shuts in the distance. In the dark and unguided, we're like stray puppies. Heavy footsteps clash against the thick puddles outside.

Sandra rushes to the top of the stairs, reducing her phone's flashlight with her thumb as she tiptoes on the second floor, Miro's hand in hers.

Roy and I exchange eye-rolls at the spoiled girl, who's chasing Sandra's shadow. Slightly before we enter the storage, she asks, "Are you Irene's brother? You have the same hair."

Roy's answer is cut short by a bouncing voice from the lawn. The calm and composed voice holds coldness to it—one I can't shrug off since our first encounter. "You should've watched what your kid's doing."

"Blast—Irene's here." Lightly brushing his Rubik's Shield, Roy heads to the balcony, through a glass door opposing the storage. From the shadows, he glares at the authorities below. But never, even once, his gaze lands on the four-legged shadow on the opposite neighbor's roof. And his oblivion scares me; which OCZ creature is it?

He turns to us. "You know the plan."

Sandra's hair spreads on her back as her hair clip turns into a lengthy sickle, its tip glinting in the darkness.

The boomerangs in my palms sting like ice. But it's better than getting newer weapons and failing to adapt; years ago, Dad taught me how to use a boomerang from our family heirloom as a defense mode.

"What do I do?" Miro's voice is as fragile as a snowflake. "Should I use my... Rubik's Shield too?"

I'm about to shoo him into the storage when Roy interferes with his brotherly smile. "We can handle this. Get in with the others and protect them."

Miro's downcast face blooms brighter at the encouragement. I press down the bubbling envy in my chest and turn to the whiny girl, whose arms are wrapped like she owns the world.

Judging from Sandra's silent sigh, this girl must play a useful extra part in our plan.