ROOTS

Act I: Pigment Failure

Chapter 1: The Write-off

(Introduction to fear, Lars's decommission)

A siren. Not the one that wailed at the "Pigment-8" chemical plant, heralding the end of a shift. This one was different. Thin, steady, piercing. Sterile.

Kael froze. The spoon of synthetic gruel stopped an inch from his mouth. Down in the courtyard-well of their "Brunette" block, a dazzling white van hissed to a stop with the sickening sound of hydraulics. The "Sanitation Patrol."

Two figures emerged from the van. They weren't people – just white suits with dark slits for eyes. "Color Inspectors," unmistakable, as were the consequences of their visits. They didn't look around. They always knew where they were going.

The door to the third entryway. Apartment 312.

Kael went cold: 312. That was Lars – old man Lars, the former foundry worker.

"Mom," Kael hissed, not turning around. "They're at Lars's."

His mother, Elina, emerged from behind the curtain separating the room from the kitchen. She was wiping her hands on her apron. Her dark, almost black hair (like all Brunettes) was pulled into a tight bun. But at the very roots, at her temples, a betrayal was pushing through: gray, a thing unspoken. It was worse than any disease.

"Quiet," she said, but her voice trembled. "Don't look. Get away from the window."

But he couldn't.

The door to 312 burst open. They weren't walking Lars out – they were dragging him. A small, withered old man Kael had known his whole life.

His hands were bound behind his back. He wasn't screaming, just sobbing quietly.

His head...

"They got him," Kael whispered. "He didn't make it in time."

Lars was no longer a Brunette. His head was almost entirely gray. Not the noble platinum of a Blond, but a "dirty," "empty" color.

The color of "Fading."

One of the "Inspectors" held a "Chromo-Scanner" and read from it in a flat, mechanical voice:

"Lars Henrikson. Pigment status: Defect-Gamma. Over fifty percent Fading. Subject to Write-off."

"I paid!" Lars suddenly howled, digging in his heels. "I paid the Browns for an extension! I had Flux!"

"Flux is irrelevant in cases of Defect-Gamma," the Inspector replied indifferently. He nodded to his partner.

The partner took out a pair of clippers. Old. Rusty.

"No!" Elina cried, turning away from the window and clamping her hands over her mouth.

Kael watched. He forced himself to watch.

The "Shave of Shame" began. The clippers bit into the gray hair with a sickening grate, shearing it down to the pink skin. It was a ritual. You are no longer a Brunette. You are no longer a Red. You are a Nobody.

Lars, shorn and weeping, was thrown into the van. The door slammed shut. The sterile siren wailed again, and the van drove off, leaving only tufts of gray hair on the street, which the dirty wind immediately snatched up.

Kael stared at the hairs for a long time. He could smell not only the van's exhaust, but the smell of fear. His own.

He turned to his mother. She was standing at the cracked mirror, feverishly, painfully, rubbing cheap black dye from a small tin into her temples.

The dye stained her forehead.

"Kael, we need more dye," she whispered, not looking at him. "This one is almost gone.

And it... it's not holding anymore."

Kael looked at her hands, trembling with fear. At the gray hairs that this cheap stuff no longer covered.

He looked at his own palm, slick with sweat. He had just seen what happens when you "don't make it in time."

He had to do something to earn "Flux" for good dye. For fake papers. For anything.

But a Brunette could never earn that much "Flux."

Then, for the first time, a thought formed in his head. It wasn't just a thought; it was heresy. It was a plan that made his blood run cold.

If he couldn't earn it as a Brunette, he would take it as...

He looked at the propaganda poster on the opposite wall. A smiling, brainless, platinum Blond advertising the "Status-Bank."

...As a Blond.

---

Chapter 2: The Gifting of Order

(Revelation of mythology and history, visit to the Chromist)

Prologue (Wall installation in the "Museum of Color")

First, there was Chaos. In the South, under the scorching, mindless sun, the wild tribes of Reds devoured each other, driven only by the fire in their blood.

In the North, in the icy purity, the Blonds found Harmony. Their minds were cold as ice, their hair pure as the first snow. They were Order.

In the temperate lands lived the Browns and the Brunettes – the hands and spine of the future world, awaiting their Guide.

And then came the Age of Conquest. The noble Blond-Navigators, guided by the Albino-Prophets, brought the light of Order to the savage South. They "cleansed" the continents, enslaved Chaos, and gave the lower castes Purpose.

Thus, the Nation was born. United. Indivisible. Pure.

---

Kael left the housing block. He had only one path – to the "Gray Zone," the rotting seam between the Brunette barracks and the gleaming towers of the Browns. Only there could he find a "Chromist" – an underground master of color falsification.

He passed the square, dominated by the giant bronze monument, "The Gifting of Order."

The monument was an exact replica of the lie they had hammered into their heads since childhood.

At the top, gazing proudly North, stood an idealized Blond. His metal hair rippled in the wind. At his feet, looking up with gratitude, sat a Brown with an accounting ledger – the "Administrator." Lower, on his knees but with pride, a muscular Brunette held a hammer in his hand – the "Worker." And at the very bottom, in the dust at the base, writhed a savage, almost bestial Red, shielding his eyes from the "light of civilization."

"Cleansed," Kael thought bitterly, remembering the story of the genocide of the Southerners his grandfather used to tell in a whisper. "They call genocide 'cleansing'."

He walked past "Pigment-8," the very chemical plant where Brunettes worked three shifts producing elite dye for the Blonds – the same dye that fought their graying. The same dye that was unavailable to the Brunettes themselves.

At the checkpoint to the "Gray Zone," a Brown patrolman stopped him. Not a "Color Inspector," just a common bureaucrat in a uniform, with "pure" chestnut-colored hair. He lazily scanned Kael's ID card.

"Where are you headed, worker?" The Brown pronounced the word "worker" with barely concealed contempt.

"To the 'Gray.' For hydraulic parts."

"Mmm," the Brown drew out the sound, looking Kael over. "All you Brunettes are the same. Always drawn to filth. It must be your southern blood. No matter how much you 'ennoble' it, the savage always crawls out."

Kael gritted his teeth and said nothing. This was the standard ideology. Brunettes were "ennobled" savages. Lesser Browns.

"Alright, go," the Brown waved him on. "But if the 'Flux' scanner picks up a single unregistered transaction on you, you'll be coming back from here in a 'Sanitation' van. Got me?"

Kael nodded and walked away quickly. He could feel the Brown's eyes on his back. The bureaucrat knew that Brunettes only went to the "Gray Zone" for one of two things: illegal "Flux" or illegal services.

He ducked into the narrow, chemical-stinking alleys. Here, the patrols' jurisdiction ended and the black market's rule began. He turned three times, passed through a rusty boiler room, and knocked on an inconspicuous steel door under a staircase. The coded knock: three fast, one long, two fast.

The door creaked open. A single eye glittered in the crack.

"What do you want?" a voice rasped.

"I'm from Lars," Kael said, hating himself for using the name of the freshly "written-off" old man. "I need the 'Full Platinum'."

---

Chapter 3: The Platinum Debt

(The painful procedure, the deal with Silas the Brown)

The door opened. Kael entered the underground laboratory.

The acrid smell of ammonia, ozone, and something sickeningly sweet hit his nose. It was the concentrated smell of "Pigment-8," but a thousand times stronger.

The "Chromist" was not a Brunette. He was a Brown.

He was instantly recognizable: neat, lifeless chestnut hair, sharp features, clothes that, though dirty, had once been expensive. He looked like the patrolmen at the checkpoints, only his eyes held no lazy contempt. They held a sharp, cold, and empathy-less intellect.

"Lars is 'written-off'," the Brown said indifferently, not looking up from his test tubes. "His account is closed."

"I'm not on Lars's account. I need the 'Full Platinum'."

The Brown looked up at him for the first time. He eyed Kael from head to toe like a butcher sizing up a carcass, and smirked.

"The 'Full Platinum'? Kid, do you even know what that is? It's not that crap your mother smears on her temples. It's not dye. It's an infusion. Blond technology."

He stepped closer, grabbed Kael by the hair, and yanked. "We don't dye. We kill. We burn your black pigment out from the follicle itself. And then we inject the 'Platinum.' It hurts. A lot. And if you're allergic, your brain will boil in three minutes. You ready for that?"

"How much?" Kael forced out.

The Brown named a figure. Kael didn't know how much it was in credits, because the figure was named in "Flux." It was a fortune a Brunette couldn't earn in ten lifetimes.

Kael put his savings on the table – a wad of crumpled credit bills and a few salary chips. The Brown didn't even glance at them.

"Get that trash out of here," he said.

"Credits are paper for Blonds and Brunettes. Tokens. I need 'Flux.' I pay the Brown patrols in 'Flux' so they don't notice my door. I buy reagents from my Brown brothers at 'Pigment-8' with 'Flux.' Only 'Flux' buys silence. You don't have it. Get out."

"Wait!" Kael grabbed his sleeve. "My mother... she's about to be 'written-off' for graying. I'll do anything."

The Brown (he introduced himself as Silas) studied him for a few seconds.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Alright. You'll get your 'Platinum.' You won't pay for it. You'll work it off."

"At the factory?"

Silas laughed.

"No. There." He nodded toward the gleaming towers of the "Golden Quarter."

"You'll be my man in the Blonds' world. You'll be my eyes. You'll listen to how they talk, what they breathe, and most importantly – how they pay my Brown bosses in 'Flux.' You'll be a Brunette pretending to be a Blond, working for a Brown. You're getting into a debt you can't get out of. Deal?"

Kael looked down at his dark, calloused hands. He was climbing into one cage to save his mother from another. "Deal."

The procedure was torture.

Silas strapped him into the chair.

"Don't move. If I hit an artery, you die. If you scream, the patrol hears, we both die."

Kael gripped the armrests as the first needle entered his scalp. It wasn't an injection. It was a jolt. A liquid, icy fire that seemed to burn through his skull. He could feel his own hair dying. The smell of burning flesh. He bit his lip until it bled, but he stayed silent.

It lasted three hours. Three hours of agony as Silas methodically, follicle by follicle, killed the Brunette in him. Then came the second phase – the infusion. A new pain, cold and aching, as the "Platinum" filled the dead roots.

When it was over, Kael was shaking, drenched in a cold sweat. Silas undid the straps and turned him toward the mirror.

Kael didn't recognize himself.

A stranger looked back at him. A pale, exhausted face, but crowning it was a halo of perfect, shining, platinum hair. The color of power. The color of the enemy. He felt sick. He looked like the people he had hated his entire life.

"Congratulations," Silas said without a trace of a smile, holding out an ID chip. "You are now 'Kaelen of House Mirus.' A poor, nearly extinct branch of 'pure blood' from the distant colonies, returned to the capital. Learn the legend."

He tossed Kael a clean, though well-worn, tunic – the attire of a Brown, the first step toward a "decent" appearance.

"And one more thing, 'Kaelen'," Silas said as Kael stood at the door. "This infusion is the best there is. But it's not forever. Nature always wins."

He jabbed a finger at Kael's head. "Your roots. They'll grow. Every day. A millimeter. And every one of those millimeters will be black. You've just traded the fear of a 'write-off' for the fear of 'exposure.' Welcome to the Blonds' club. You're in the same prison as they are now."

---

Chapter 4: Milord Kaelen

(Infiltrating the "Golden Quarter," meeting Varus)

The border of the "Golden Quarter" wasn't a wall; it was light.

From the filthy, eternally dim "Brunette" district, Kael stepped into a world bathed in artificial sunlight. The air here was different – warm, smelling of ozone and flowers. The architecture was clean, white, spires reaching into the sky. There were no "Color Inspectors" to be seen here – only quiet, polite Brown patrols in perfectly tailored uniforms.

Kael, dressed in his new, clean tunic, felt naked. Every step echoed loudly in his head.

His hair.

It felt like his platinum hair was screaming. That every passing Brown guard, every Blond gliding by in a silent electric car, was looking at him and seeing a fake. He instinctively hunched his shoulders, as he had done his whole life in his district.

"Shoulders back," hissed the chip-communicator in his ear. The voice of Silas, the "Chromist." "You are a Blond. You don't just walk, you proceed. You own this world; you don't beg from it."

Kael forced himself to stand straight. He approached the checkpoint. The Brown in the booth was the complete opposite of the one at the "Gray Zone" border. This one was clean-shaven; he smelled of expensive soap.

"ID chip," he said, politely but coldly.

Kael held out the chip with a trembling hand. The Brown scanned it. "Kaelen of House Mirus," he read, and a faint expression flickered across his face. Not contempt, as for a Brunette, but... pity? Or disgust? "Distant colony. The family is almost 'faded' in assets, I presume?"

"Yes," Kael forced out, remembering Silas's legend. "I am here to... restore the honor of the house."

"Of course, of course," the Brown nodded. "Well, welcome home, milord."

He pressed a button, and the turnstile opened silently.

Milord.

The word burned Kael. He walked through. He was in the lion's den.

Silas had arranged the lowest position available to a "pureblood" for him: assistant archivist in the House of Lord Gelius van Der. Gelius was one of the most influential Blonds in the city; his bloodline was considered impeccable.

Kael walked across the mirrored floors of the estate. Brunette servants in livery hurried past, not raising their eyes to him. They saw only the color of his hair. They saw a master in him, just like the ones who had "written-off" their grandfathers. Kael wanted to scream at them, "I'm one of you!" but he just gritted his teeth harder.

His paranoia intensified. A light rain began to fall – artificial irrigation for the rooftop gardens. Kael almost dove under an awning in panic. He remembered Silas swearing the infusion would hold up to water. But his fear was stronger.

He entered Lord Gelius's private office. The chief administrator was waiting for him. It was a Brown. His name was Varus.

Varus was the epitome of his caste. Medium height, in a perfectly fitted suit, with hair the color of expensive walnuts. He wasn't smiling; he just looked at Kael, and that gaze contained all the world's accounting.

"Kaelen," Varus said, his voice quiet but biting. "You will be Lord Gelius's personal assistant. Your job is to keep track of his schedule. But in fact," he stepped closer, "your job is to make sure Lord Gelius does not miss his schedule. Do you understand the difference?"

"I think so, sir." "You don't think. You execute. Lord Gelius..." Varus closed his eyes for a moment, as if searching for the word, "...is artistic. He lives on inspiration. Your job is to be his reality. He is in his personal chambers now. Preparing for the 'Evening Reception.' Go. Make sure he is ready on time."

Kael nodded and headed for the heavy golden doors. He expected to see a titan behind them. An architect of this world. A descendant of the "Navigator-Conquerors."

He opened the door.

And froze.

---

Act II: The False Elite

Chapter 5: The Imperfection

(Gelius's exposure, panic over a gray hair, signing the Directive)

Gelius van Der's personal chambers were not an office. They were a temple. A temple dedicated to a single deity – Gelius himself.

The walls were not hung with maps of conquests; they were adorned with his own portraits, done in different years. On a podium in the center of the room, there was no command chair, which Kael had expected to see. Instead, there stood a mother-of-pearl inlaid barber chair, surrounded by a whole battery of mirrors, lamps, and silver flasks.

Lord Gelius himself, descendant of the "Navigator-Conquerors," stood before the main mirror. He was dressed only in a silk robe. He looked to be about forty, and he was perfect. Flawless skin, chiseled features, and a cascade of thick, shining, platinum hair.

The Lord was crying and sobbing quietly, like a petulant child who'd had his favorite toy taken away.

"It's a catastrophe," he repeated, sobbing, to the terrified Brunette servant girl who was holding a silver tray of instruments. "A ca-ta-stro-phe!"

"What... what happened, milord?" Kael asked, stepping forward. His voice sounded unnatural and far too rough for this room.

Gelius spun around. His blue eyes, red from tears, focused on Kael. "You! Are you the new assistant? You're 'Kaelen'?"

"Yes, milord."

"Do you see THIS?" Gelius hysterically jabbed a finger at his own temple.

Kael moved closer. He expected to see a scar, a disease, anything. Looking closely, he saw nothing.

"Look closer!" Gelius shrieked. He grabbed a pair of tweezers and pulled a strand back at the very root. "There!"

And Kael saw it: one single, short, stubborn, gray hair, dull as pewter. "Defect-Gamma."

Kael froze. His entire life – the risk, the pain, the betrayal of his own kind, the fear of his mother's decommissioning – all of it was to become this man. And this man was terrified of ceasing to be him.

"My personal 'Chromist' is sick!" Gelius paced the room, waving his arms. "They sent a new one. What if he notices? What if he reports it to the Inspectorate? They'll say my pigment is 'spoiling'! They'll freeze my assets! Me... me..."

He couldn't say the word "write-off." Aristocrats weren't "written-off" like Brunettes. A different term existed for them: "noble departure." In other words – suicide under pressure.

"They'll make me 'depart'!" he realized. "And all because of this!"

Kael looked at this powerful lord, and instead of fear or hatred, he felt only an icy, nauseating contempt. He thought he was walking into a lion's den. Instead, he'd landed in a peacock enclosure.

"Milord," came the quiet, dry voice of Varus, the Brown administrator, from behind him. He was standing in the doorway, holding a stack of documents. Varus surveyed the scene with an indifferent gaze: the sobbing Blond, the terrified servant, the stunned Kael.

"Milord Gelius," Varus repeated, as if speaking to an unreasonable student. "You have discovered another 'imperfection.' What a tragedy."

"Varus, you don't understand!" Gelius shouted.

"I understand everything," Varus approached and gently, but firmly, took the tweezers from Gelius. "Servant, bring 'Infusion Number Seven' and the personal sterilizer. Immediately."

The servant girl bolted from the room. Varus went to the mirror and, with one precise, practiced movement, plucked the gray hair.

"There, milord. Problem solved," he tossed the hair into the bio-waste bin.

"And now, if you have calmed down, you need to sign the Directive on grain distribution in the 'Brunette' blocks."

He placed the document in front of Gelius and offered him an expensive pen. Gelius, still sniffling, absently scribbled his signature in the spot Varus silently pointed to, without even glancing at the text.

"Excellent," Varus took the document. "Kaelen, see to it that the lord gets dressed. He cannot be late. The stability of the House depends on his appearance at the reception."

Varus left.

Kael remained alone with his "master." Gelius had already calmed down and was now gazing at himself in the mirror with admiration, adjusting his perfect platinum hair.

"Did you see how rude he was, that Varus?" Gelius muttered. "Browns. No sense of beauty. Just numbers. But you have to hand it to him, he solves everything. I don't know what I'd do without him... So, what should I wear? The blue or the azure?"

---

Chapter 6: Two Drops of Flux

(The double life: stealing "Flux" for his mother and spying for Silas)

Kael's days blurred into one long, silent scream.

His morning began not with an alarm, but with a jolt of icy panic. He would wake up in his small assistant's room in Gelius's estate and, before washing, would rush to the mirror.

Pressing his face to the glass, he would scan it feverishly.

They were there. The roots. A tiny, almost invisible dark line right at the skin. A fraction of a millimeter. But for Kael, it was the front line. Every day, he lost another fraction of a millimeter to nature.

He learned to wash in ninety seconds to avoid crossing paths with the other Blond servants (similar "burnouts" from faded Houses) in the communal bathroom. He avoided pools. He flinched whenever one of the Blond aristocrats tried to pat him on the head in a friendly gesture. Every touch was a potential exposure.

His job was absurd. He carried silk cushions for Gelius, tasted his food (not for poison, but for "aesthetic compliance"), and, most importantly, maintained the "Pigmentation Calendar" – the lord's hair care procedure schedule.

He watched the elite. And what he saw confirmed his discovery.

The Blonds didn't govern. They posed.

Their conversations at receptions boiled down to three topics: bloodlines (who married whom and whether it "spoiled" the blood), art (meaningless light installations), and, above all else, "Purity of Color." They discussed the "tragedy" of House Aquinas, which had a child with an "ash" tint. They whispered about Lady Elara's "suspicious" hair thickness, clearly hinting at illegal stimulants.

They were "stupid," just as Varus had predicted. They were the product of centuries of targeted upbringing that had turned them into a beautiful but incompetent facade.

At night, his real life began.

He needed to send money to his mother. But credits didn't circulate in the "Golden Quarter." A different power ruled here.

Sneaking into Varus's office, Kael found what he was looking for – the Brown's personal terminal. It didn't look like the Brunettes' bank terminals. It was a complex device that required authentication. Silas had given him a code – a backdoor left by another Brown dissident.

Kael entered the system. There were no numbers, dollars, or credits on the screen. There was only a single shimmering symbol, like a ripple in water, and numbers next to it.

This was "Flux" – the invisible blood that fed the real power. With trembling fingers, he transferred a tiny sum – enough for his mother to buy the best black-market dye for a year – to an anonymous account Silas had left for him. The transaction left no trace. It simply dissolved into the rushing stream of "Flux."

Kael closed the terminal and leaned against the wall, feeling the sweat run down his back. He had just committed a crime far worse than dyeing his hair. He had stolen from the Browns.

Near dawn, he contacted Silas on the encrypted communicator.

"The transfer went through," Kael whispered. "Will your people get the dye to my mother?"

"Already on its way," Silas's voice was cold as steel. "That's not why I sent you there, for you to solve your petty family problems. What did you see?"

"I saw Gelius. He's a child, like all the Blonds. They fear gray hair more than death."

"I don't care about the Blonds," Silas snapped. "The Blonds are decor. I'm asking about Varus. About the Browns. What are they doing?"

Kael remembered. He remembered the document Varus had slipped Gelius to sign.

"Varus made Gelius sign the Directive on grain distribution. Gelius didn't even read it."

A long silence filled the communicator.

"The 'Directive on grain'?" Silas finally said slowly. "The one that cuts rations in the 'Brunette' blocks by thirty percent to 'free up assets' for 'Pigment-8'?"

Kael went cold. He had seen that document. He hadn't understood any of it. "I... I didn't know."

"Exactly," Silas hissed. "Gelius is afraid of a single gray hair. Meanwhile, Varus condemns your own district to starvation with a single stroke of a pen. Stop looking at hair, Kaelen. Start watching the 'Flux.' Find out where it's flowing."

---

Chapter 7: Bureaucratic Node 7

(Tailing Varus, hacking the terminal, "Institute #1")

The tension became almost physical. Kael could feel it pressing on his temples, but the reason wasn't just fear. It was his own physiology, his rebellious roots.

The black line at the base of his platinum hair was now a millimeter high.

He learned to mask it. He started using Gelius's expensive powder-corrector, meant to "soften" the platinum shades at the roots. He stole it bit by bit, risking being accused of theft. Kael took every glance from Gelius at his hairstyle as an interrogation.

This fear made him invisible.

He became the perfect spy. He no longer watched the Blonds. He watched those who stood behind them – the Browns. And he saw a network.

They were everywhere: administrators like Varus; financiers at the "Status-Bank," logisticians at the "Pigment-8" warehouses. Engineers maintaining the "Golden Quarter's" artificial sun. They were the nervous system that allowed the Blonds' body to move, eat, and breathe. They wore modest, functional clothing. Their chestnut hair drew no attention. They were the color of the background, the color of reliability. And they were everywhere.

Blonds socialized at receptions. Browns socialized in corridors, with nods, glances, passing data-chips to each other.

Kael focused on Varus. He wasn't just Gelius's administrator. He was a node in this network.

Twice a week, Varus left the estate. He didn't take Gelius's personal transport, but a nondescript official electric car. Kael, using his false status as an assistant, followed him.

Varus wasn't heading to the government building complex. He was driving to "Brown-City" – the business district, where there wasn't a single Blond. A place of pure function. Varus entered an inconspicuous gray glass building. It had no sign. Only a number: "Bureaucratic Node 7."

At night, Kael once again slipped into Varus's office, to the "Flux" terminal. He had become bolder. He wasn't just looking for a balance; he was looking for transactions. And he found them.

It wasn't a bank account. It was a pipeline. Huge, unimaginable flows of "Flux" were moving through Varus's terminal. But they weren't going to the accounts of Gelius or other Blonds. The Blonds were paid in "standard" credits, like servants.

The "Flux" was going to three places:

1.      "Pigment-8 Logistics." Enormous sums. Far more than needed for dye production.

2.      "Project Alba." An unknown organization.

3.      "Institute #1." The largest, most regular, hidden transactions.

As Kael was copying the logs, the office door quietly opened.

Varus was standing on the threshold.

Kael's heart stopped. He froze at the terminal. Varus watched him silently. The Brown's gaze was devoid of emotion – no anger, no surprise. Just cold assessment.

"I... Milord Gelius asked me to check the reports," Kael stammered. A pathetic lie.

Varus slowly approached the desk.

"You are lying, Kaelen. And you lie very badly. Not at all like a Blond. They lie more gracefully."

He glanced at the terminal screen.

"You're interested in 'Flux.' That's commendable. At least it's smarter than what your master is interested in."

Varus walked right up to Kael. So close that Kael could smell his expensive soap. The Brown wasn't looking him in the eye. He was looking at his hair.

"You're having pigmentation problems, Kaelen," Varus said quietly, almost friendly. "At the roots. Very sloppy."

Kael went cold.

"That's a very bad sign for your House," Varus continued, walking around him. "A Blond who can't maintain his color loses everything. He gets written-off. The Color Inspectorate will be here tomorrow morning. They will conduct a full bio-scan. They will see your roots, your real blood."

Kael backed against the wall. He was trapped.

"But," Varus said, sitting down in his chair and folding his hands on the desk, "I have a proposal for you. You're not a Blond. You're a Brunette. A very brave and very stupid Brunette. I admire your courage, but I despise your stupidity."

"What... what do you want?"

"You didn't find what you were looking for, Kael," Varus used his real name for the first time. "You were looking for a way to hurt us. But you found what scares us."

He tapped his finger on the screen, on the line item "Institute #1."

"You work for Silas," it wasn't a question, but a statement. "Silas is an idealist. He thinks we, the Browns, are the enemy. He thinks we want power. The idiot."

Varus raised his eyes to Kael. They held no malice, only a bottomless, dead weariness.

"We don't want power, boy. We bear it. We are the dam holding back something far worse than us. You want to know where the 'Flux' goes? I'll tell you. It goes to keeping them in check."

"Keeping who in check?"

"Project Alba," Varus answered. "Our real masters. The ones you know as the Albinos."

---

Chapter 8: Varus's Dam

(The great revelation: the truth about the Albinos, Blonds, and "Flux")

Kael felt the floor drop out from under him. Albinos. The mythical "Prophets" from the history books. The ones "culled" at birth.

"You're lying," he whispered, but it sounded unconvincing.

"I'm a bureaucrat, Kael. I don't lie; I file reports," Varus leaned back in his chair. "Lying is the Blonds' art. Truth is our tool, as Browns. And our burden."

He activated the wall screen. Instead of "Flux" charts, a black-and-white, flickering image appeared. A night-vision camera.

Kael saw a room. No, it wasn't a room, but a sterile white hall, bathed in invisible ultraviolet light. In the center, in a complex chair connected to dozens of tubes and wires, sat something. An Albino.

It was fragile as glass. Completely bald, with thin, almost transparent skin through which veins were visible. Its eyes were closed, but it wasn't asleep. Its fingers, unnaturally long, fluttered over a sensory panel, the principle of which Kael couldn't even understand.

"Institute Number One," Varus said quietly. "It's not a myth. It's our biggest, most expensive, and most dangerous secret. It's their 'gilded cage'."

"But... in the textbooks..."

"The textbooks say they 'guided' the Blonds during the Age of Conquest. That's true. They ruled openly. And it was hell," Varus's voice grew quieter still. "They are pure intellect. Without empathy. Without emotion. Without an understanding of color. To them, we are all just defective copies. During their rule, 'decommissioning' wasn't a sanitary measure; it was an industrial standard. Reds? Exterminate as 'chaotic.' Brunettes? Too low-efficiency, leave a minimum for manual labor. Browns? Useful, but inefficient."

"So, what happened?"

"My ancestors," Varus said with a note of cold pride. "The Brown administrators. They pulled off the greatest con in history. 'The Great Repainting.' They couldn't defeat the Albinos with force – they controlled all the systems. So, they gave them what they wanted."

Varus clicked the remote. The image of Gelius laughing at the reception appeared on the screen.

"They bred the Blond caste. On purpose. Decades spent breeding an aristocracy that would be beautiful, 'pure' (close to the Albinos' white color), and, most importantly, absolutely incompetent."

Kael listened, unable to believe it. "You... you created them...?"

"We created a buffer!" Varus slammed his palm on the desk. "The Albinos despise us, the Browns and Brunettes, for the 'filth' of our pigment. But the Blonds... they are 'aesthetically acceptable' to them. They see them as their idealized, but irrational, avatars. We convinced the Albinos that humanity couldn't be ruled directly – it's too chaotic. We offered them the chance to become 'shadow gods'." Varus pointed to the screen again.

"We built the 'Institute' for them – a world of perfect logic. We connected them to the systems. We created 'Flux' – a language they understand. It's not money, Kael. It's data. It's a flow of resources that we direct to them. We pay them tribute. We pay for them to sit in their bunker and play God, thinking they're running the world, while we, the Browns, try to keep this world from falling apart."

"'Project Alba'..."

"Is the Institute's life support system. 'Pigment-8' doesn't just produce dye. It produces their air filters, nutrient slurries, medications. Everything to keep them happy in their cage."

Varus stood up and walked over to Kael. He looked at his dark roots again.

"And now you listen to me, boy pretending to be a Blond. Your friend Silas is a fool. He's an idealist. He thinks he's fighting me. He wants to start a Brunette uprising, to overthrow the Blonds. He doesn't understand that he's not breaking my system. He's breaking the dam."

"If the Blonds' system falls," Varus was almost hissing, "the Albinos will see that their 'avatars' are useless. They will decide the experiment with 'soft control' has failed. They will lock us out of the systems and take direct control. They will come out of their cage, and that's when the real 'decommissioning' will begin. Not of old men with gray hair, but of entire continents."

He picked up the communicator from the desk. "The 'Color Inspectorate' is already on its way for you. I called them myself when I detected your breach. They will be here in five minutes."

Kael lunged for the door, but Varus didn't move.

"You have one way out. You don't work for Silas. You don't work for me. You work for the Balance. You will return to Gelius and become my agent among the Blonds. And you will help me find and stop Silas. Not to save my power. But to stop him from getting us all killed." Varus held out a tiny chip.

"This is an infusion. A new one. You can't hide your roots from Silas, but from the Inspectorate's scanner... it will buy you an hour. Choose."

The "Sanitation Patrol" siren wailed from the estate courtyard below.

---

Act III: Breaking the System

Chapter 9: Noise in the Protocol

(The deal with Varus, deceiving the Inspectorate, Kael becomes a double agent)

The siren below fell silent.

Kael stared at the chip in Varus's hand. "An hour." Five minutes had already passed. There was a polite but insistent knock on the office door.

"Choose," Varus said.

Kael snatched the chip. He didn't know how it worked. He just pressed it to the base of his skull, as the Brown had instructed, and pushed.

A blast of icy pain. It felt like a thousand needles had stabbed into his brain, deafening all his senses. He barely kept from screaming.

"Enter," Varus said in a steady voice, turning away from Kael.

The door opened. Two figures in white "Color Inspector" suits entered, holding bio-scanners. But they weren't led by a Blond. It was a Brown in the gray uniform of an "Adjudicator." He looked first at Varus (respectfully), then at Kael (coldly).

"Administrator Varus," the Adjudicator nodded. "We received a signal of a 'Pigment Anomaly' in this sector."

"That is correct, Adjudicator," Varus radiated calm. "I initiated the signal myself. Our new assistant, Lord Kaelen, had a complaint. We suspect its cause is a 'Colonial Defect' – a side effect from off-world water. I would like you to confirm."

It was the perfect lie. Varus wasn't defending Kael; he was "reporting" him, but on his terms.

The Adjudicator nodded. The Inspectors stepped toward Kael. He forced himself to stand still. His guts twisted in terror. He could feel his black roots screaming under the thin layer of platinum.

The scanner whirred, shining through his skull. One of the Inspectors frowned, looking at the small screen. "Strange. The signature is 'noisy.' High-frequency interference at the follicle..."

"As I thought," Varus interjected. "A classic 'Colonial Defect.' You can note it in the protocol. Thank you for your promptness, Adjudicator."

The Brown-Adjudicator, who seemed to understand everything, gave a short nod. "Protocol closed. Inspection complete."

The Inspectors, clearly confused (they had expected to catch a "fake"), put away their scanners and exited silently.

Kael exhaled. His knees buckled. The chip, which he was still clutching in his hand, was hot. "It... it worked," he whispered.

"For one time only," Varus cut him off, sitting down at his desk. "You're in the system now, Kael. Not just mine, but their system. You are 'noise' in the protocol. They will be watching you. But as long as you do what I say, I will classify this 'noise' as 'interference'." Varus pointed to the door.

"Now go. Your Lord Gelius can't find his sapphire tie clip. He believes it's a Brown conspiracy to sabotage his image."

---

Kael walked through the golden corridors, but the world had turned upside down.

He no longer saw enemies and victims. He saw only different levels of one giant, desperate lie.

He entered Gelius's chambers. The aristocrat was indeed in a panic over the tie clip.

"Kaelen! Finally! That Varus... he wants me to look drab!"

Kael walked past him silently, looked under the sofa, and pulled out the shining clip.

"Here it is, milord."

Gelius beamed. Kael looked at this Blond, and for the first time in his life, he didn't feel hatred. He felt a nauseating, awful pity. This man wasn't a predator. He was bait. A beautiful, stupid lamb, specially bred and placed at the top to distract the wolves.

Later that night, in his small room, Kael switched on Silas's communicator.

"You!" the "Chromist's" voice hissed. "You disappeared. What happened? The patrol..."

"I'm fine," Kael tried to keep his voice steady. "It wasn't a patrol. It was Varus."

"He knows?!" "He... he suspects. But not the truth." Kael had to improvise, to build a lie on top of a lie. "He thinks I'm just stealing 'Flux' for myself. He thinks I'm a common thief pretending to be a Blond. He even... he laughed at me. He thinks I'm stupid."

Silas would believe this lie. The Browns' contempt for Blonds and Brunettes was well known.

"Good," Silas's voice softened slightly. "Use it. Let him think you're an idiot. I need data. We're preparing a strike."

"What kind of strike?"

"The 'Pure Color Day' is in three weeks. The Nation's biggest holiday. We're going to hit 'Pigment-8.' The main warehouse."

Kael went cold. He knew what "Pigment-8" was now.

"You want to... steal the dye?"

"We want to destroy it. The entire reserve!" Silas's voice was filled with fanatical delight. "We want to see the entire 'Golden Quarter' turn gray! We'll show the world their true face!"

Kael closed his eyes. Silas didn't understand. He didn't just want to wash away the dye. He wanted, without knowing it, to shut down the life support system for "Institute #1." He wanted to wake the Albinos.

"I... I'll get you the security schematics," Kael whispered.

He cut the connection. He had to stop Silas. But to stop him, he had to help him. And report every step to Varus.

He was no longer a Brunette. He wasn't a Blond either. He was the only one who knew the truth, trapped between two forces, either of which could destroy him.

---

Chapter 10: Alpha Vault

(Varus's plan to use Silas's rebellion as "cover")

The roots became Kael's personal hell.

Varus's chip had fooled the scanner, but it hadn't stopped biology. The black line at the base of his skull became too obvious to hide with simple powder. Kael had to spend an hour every morning, stealing not just powder from Gelius, but a thick, waxy "Root-concealer." He applied it with surgical precision, but it looked wrong. The hair at the roots looked greasy, lifeless.

Gelius noticed.

"Kaelen, darling," he said one morning, wrinkling his nose. "You look rather... dull. You need more shine. You're a Blond, not a Brown! Take my 'Platinum Spray.' And for Order's sake, go see my Chromist. You're embarrassing my House."

Kael nodded, freezing. A visit to the Blonds' Chromist was a death sentence. His biometrics would be entered into the database, and the deception would be exposed instantly. He had to act fast.

Under the pretext of "ordering new spray" for Gelius, he gained access to the estate's logistics terminal. It was the lowest access level, but it was connected to "Pigment-8." He downloaded what seemed important: patrol schedules for "Sector B" (the outer perimeter of the warehouses) and the delivery schedule for "Base Solvents."

This was real information. And he hated himself for what he was about to do.

At night, in the "Gray Zone," he met with Silas. The Chromist was waiting for him in the same basement where Kael had been "reborn."

"You're late," Silas hissed. He looked haggard, a fanatical fire burning in his eyes. "What do you have?"

Kael silently handed him the chip. Silas inserted it into his terminal. His eyes darted over the lines.

"Patrols... schedule... Yes!" he slammed his fist on the table. "This is it! This is the breach! They change the guard at 03:00, and for fifteen minutes, 'Sector B' is almost uncovered! We're going in."

"And then what?" Kael asked, trying to keep his voice from trembling. "You get past the outer ring. What about the vaults?"

"The vaults are your job," Silas locked eyes with him. "I don't need schedules; I need the access codes for 'Alpha Vault.' That's the main 'Infusion-Prime' warehouse. It's the heart of their grayness. You have to get them."

Kael felt the air leave his lungs. "Alpha Vault." He was sure Varus had mentioned it in connection with "Project Alba." It was the Albinos' life support.

"I can't," Kael said. "That's Varus's access level."

"Then get it!" Silas roared, grabbing his tunic. "You're pretending to be one of them! Seduce him! Kill him! I don't care! You have one week. Or I tell your 'milord' Gelius that his precious assistant is a filthy Brunette. I'll tell your mother her son became a Blond's whore."

Kael tore himself free and ran out into the street, gasping for air.

He contacted Varus immediately. "He's demanding the codes for 'Alpha Vault'."

There was a second of silence on the communicator. Kael expected panic, anger, an order to kill Silas. But Varus replied calmly, almost with satisfaction.

"Excellent. He took the bait."

"What?" Kael was stunned. "He wants to blow up..."

"Precisely. And you're going to help him. Tomorrow morning, you will 'accidentally' find a data-chip in my desk. It will have the codes. You will 'copy' them and give them to Silas."

Kael leaned against the wall.

"Are you insane? You're giving him the codes? You'll kill... you'll kill the Albinos?"

"Don't be an idiot, Kael," Varus's voice was ice. "Do you really think we Browns keep the Institute's life support in a place called 'Alpha Vault'? That would be too poetic. That's the Blonds' style."

"But... what's in there, then?"

"Glucose. Fifty tons of colored, flavored glucose. A decoy. We were waiting for someone like Silas to decide to be a 'hero'."

Kael tried to grasp the scale of the manipulation. "Why?"

"Silas is a problem. He's 'noise.' He draws attention to 'Pigment-8.' But if he stages a loud, failed diversion, he'll be declared terrorist number one. His Brunette-idealists will lose faith in him. We discredit him."

"But that's not all," Kael guessed. "It's too complicated."

Varus chuckled. It was the first time Kael had heard anything like amusement in his voice.

"You're getting smarter, Brunette. Of course, that's not all. While Silas and his clowns are blowing up tanks of syrup at 'Alpha Vault' in the north... the entire Color Inspectorate will be there. And at that exact moment, we Browns, using the 'emergency protocol,' will quietly move the real reagents out of 'Omega Vault' in the south. We are moving 'Project Alba' to a new, more secure location."

Varus paused.

"Silas's uprising isn't a threat. It's our cover. Your job, Kael, is to make sure that idiot gives us the biggest fireworks show in the city's history. Right on 'Pure Color Day'."

---

Chapter 11: Silas's Fireworks

(The massacre at the square, the betrayal, Kael breaks and runs for the tower)

"Stealing" the codes was ridiculously easy. Varus "accidentally" left his personal terminal unlocked for two minutes. Kael, pretending to look for Gelius's tie clip, went in, copied the file "ALPHA-CODES (Urgent)," and walked out. It all went too smoothly.

He gave the chip to Silas. The man was euphoric.

"You did it! You're a hero, Kael!" The Chromist hugged him, and Kael recoiled from the fanaticism and from himself. "'Pure Color Day' will become the day of 'The Cleansing'."

"Pure Color Day" arrived. The entire city became a theater. Triumphant music poured from the speakers. Holographic projections of the "Blond-Conquerors" flew over the "Golden Quarter."

Lord Gelius was in ecstasy. He had dressed in a snow-white ceremonial uniform, and his platinum hair, which he had worked on for three hours, shone like a halo.

"Kaelen, faster! We're in the main box!" he fussed, like a child. "The whole city will be looking at us!"

Kael followed him. His own hell had hit bottom. The concealer no longer held power over his hair's roots. The black line at the base of his skull had become obvious. He tried to comb his hair differently, but it only drew more attention. He was on the edge.

"You look terrible," Varus tossed at him when they met in the hall. The Brown was in a modest but perfectly tailored gray suit. "Nervous?"

"My hair..." Kael hissed. "I need fixative. I need..."

"You need patience," Varus cut him off, his tone icy. "In six hours, the 'incident' will be concluded. 'Project Alba' will be secure. And you will get your infusion. But if you fail now, if Gelius suspects something because you're shaking," Varus looked him in the eye, "the 'Color Inspectorate' will find you before you can blink. And they'll 'write-off' your mother for good measure. Now go and smile. You're a Blond."

It was a death sentence. He was chained to this day.

The main box overlooked the square in front of "Pigment-8." The perfect spot for the Blonds to "bless" the source of their well-being.

Gelius stood on the tribune, lazily waving to the crowd of Brunettes herded into the square. Varus stood behind him, in the shadows, as befitted a Brown, holding a folder.

Kael stood two steps away from them. His communicator (Silas's channel) was vibrating silently in his pocket. It was the signal. "We are in position."

He looked at Varus. The Brown gave a barely perceptible nod: let them begin.

Kael pressed the communicator: "Clear."

And then the explosion hit. But not where Kael expected. Not at "Alpha Vault." The explosion struck "Sector B" – the very one whose patrol schedules Kael had stolen for Silas.

Panic erupted in the square. The Brunettes in the crowd screamed. Silas and his group of Brunette rebels, dressed in "Pigment-8" work uniforms, burst from the smoke.

"Freedom!" Silas yelled. "Down with the Color dictatorship!"

Gelius recoiled in terror. "Varus! What is this? A riot?"

"Precisely, milord," Varus replied calmly, his eyes fixed on the scene. "A terrorist attack by the Reds. Just as our analytical department predicted."

"Reds?" Kael was stunned.

"Well, we can't blame the Brunettes," Varus smirked. "It would ruin the statistics. But the Reds are eternal savages. It suits them."

A tragedy was unfolding in the square. Silas and his men were running toward "Alpha Vault," but their path was blocked not by regular patrols: heavy, armored "Color Inspectorate" vans rolled out of the "Pigment-8" gates. Not two in suits, but a hundred. In full combat armor.

Kael went cold. The patrol schedules he had passed on...

"It was a trap," he whispered to Varus.

"It was an optimization," the Brown corrected him. "It's foolish to hunt down terrorists one by one when you can gather them all in one place. The schedules you 'stole' were fake, Kael. They didn't open a breach. They created one, herding them right into our kettle."

Kael watched as the "Inspectorate" opened fire. They didn't use stun grenades, but live ones. Brunettes, his brothers, his people, were being mowed down like grass.

Silas, wounded in the shoulder, saw Kael on the tribune. He looked at him: his eyes reflected not hatred, but a terrible, soul-chilling incomprehension. He understood he had been betrayed.

"Kael!" he screamed, before an Inspector tackled him to the ground.

"And now," Varus touched his communicator, "while everyone is watching this... fireworks... 'Omega Vault' has begun evacuation."

Kael watched the slaughter. He listened to the screams and watched the Brunettes' blood mix with the dirt of the square. He thought of his mother and of Lars. He thought of Silas, who was a fanatic, but who at least had been sincere.

Kael looked at Varus, who was coolly conducting this chaos. He looked at Gelius, who was hiding behind a column and fearfully checking if his hairstyle was ruined.

And in that moment, something inside him broke. He was a traitor to the Brunettes. He was a puppet for the Browns. He was a fake to the Blonds. He was a Nobody.

No. He was a Brunette.

And while everyone was watching the square, Kael stepped into the shadow where Varus stood, snatched the Brown's personal terminal-key from his pocket, and sprinted toward the main broadcast tower rising directly above the tribune.

---

Chapter 12: The Solvent

(The climax. The live broadcast exposure)

"He took the key!" Kael heard Varus's furious, cracking yell behind him. "Get him!"

But it was too late. The chaos in the square was his ally. The "Color Inspectorate" was busy gunning down the Brunette rebels. Gelius's security was busy with Gelius, who had cowered in panic behind the column.

Kael bolted for the service ladder leading to the broadcast tower. This was the control center, the "Voice of Order," broadcasting the festival to the entire city. The door was reinforced steel, but Varus's key – the Administrator's terminal-key – was universal.

The lock beeped and opened.

Kael found himself in the cold, humming heart of the system. Dozens of monitors showed the same things: Gelius on the tribune (a recording), the "Pure Color Day" logo, panicked footage from the square.

Kael found the main port. He didn't know what he was doing, but he trusted his instinct and plugged Varus's terminal into the port.

On the main monitor, and therefore on every screen in the city, the festival image was replaced... by dry lines of text.

"FLUX. RESOURCE MANAGEMENT SYSTEM. ADMINISTRATOR VARUS."

Kael wasn't sure the Brunettes below would understand the meaning of those words. He had to show them something they would understand.

Kael saw a service camera in the corner. He switched it on, aiming it at himself. His face appeared on all the screens. A frightened, hunted, "dull" Blond. He saw how the people in the square below – Brunettes, Browns, and even Inspectors – froze, looking up at the giant screens.

"Do you see me?" he croaked, his voice echoing across the city. "Do you see this color? This is the 'Color of Order'! This is 'Purity'!"

He scanned the room for a weapon. And found one. On the janitor's shelf sat a tin can with a red label: "SOLVENT. CLASS-A. CONTACT CLEANING."

He grabbed it.

"You've spent your whole lives fearing 'filth'!" he shouted into the camera, breaking the seal. "You've spent your whole lives fearing 'Fading'! You turned in your own fathers and mothers for 'write-off' over a single gray hair!"

He looked at his reflection in the dark screen. At his platinum hair, greasy with concealer at the roots. At the black strips that could no longer be hidden.

"But your whole system... All your 'purity'..." he brought the can to his head. "IT'S A LIE!"

Kael threw his head back and poured the cold, stinking liquid onto his hair.

It smelled of ozone and burnt chemicals. His scalp burned as if on fire. The infusion, the concealer, the powder – all the complex chemical lies that his status depended on – began to run.

Platinum mixed with black. Dirty, brownish-gray streams ran down his face, onto the white collar of his uniform.

He looked into the camera again, at the city, but no longer with Kaelen's eyes, but with Kael's. A Brunette. With a filthy, matted shock of hair as dark as earth.

"My name is Kael!" he shouted. "I am a Brunette! And I am not the only one!"

He switched the camera to the square. To Varus, his face distorted with an inhuman, cold fury. He understood that Kael hadn't just broken the dam – he had broken the myth. To Gelius, who peeked out from behind the column and whispered with childish horror and disgust: "He... he's filthy!"

He switched the camera to the wounded Silas, held by the Inspectors. The fanatic stared at the screen, shock in his eyes, not triumph. He understood what a betrayal his "victory" had been and what Kael had really done.

And Kael aimed the camera at the crowd of Brunettes. They were silent. Thousands of people looked at the screens, then at their own dark hands, then at each other. The silence was more terrifying than any scream.

The control room door exploded. "Color Inspectors" in combat armor stormed in. Kael dropped the can and raised his hands. He was smiling.

The broadcast cut out.

---

Chapter 13: The True Color

(The finale. The riot. The last conversation with Varus. The execution and the mother's gray hair)

The screen went dark.

A deafening silence fell over the square. Thousands of Brunettes and Reds stood motionless. The sirens died. The Inspector, his baton raised over Silas, froze. Everyone stared at the blank screens, which once again showed the "Pure Color Day" emblem. This silence lasted for three seconds.

And then came a sound the system hadn't heard in centuries. Laughter. One of the Reds in the crowd, a grimy worker from the docks, looked at his own filthy elbow, then at the stunned Inspectors, then at the trembling Gelius on the tribune. And he roared with laughter. A second joined him. A third. And then the laughter turned into a roar.

It wasn't panic. It was rage. The crowd of Brunettes surged not away from the Inspectors, but at them. They no longer saw the "Color of Order." They saw armed Browns protecting lying, dyed Blonds.

"He's a liar!" a cry came from the crowd, aimed at Gelius. "They're all liars!"

Varus watched it not as a riot, but as a glitch in the matrix.

"Protocol Alba!" he yelled into his communicator, ignoring Kael, whom the Inspectors were already dragging from the control room. "All reserves to 'Institute #1'! Seal the perimeter! Forget the city, save the 'Institute'!"

But it was too late. The system, which had run on faith, collapsed the moment Kael washed off the dye.

The Inspectors – themselves Browns and low-ranking Brunettes – hesitated. Their own brothers were charging them. They looked at their weeping Blond commanders and, for the first time, saw not a "master race," but just... dyed old men.

Gelius, seeing Kael – filthy, black-haired – being dragged past, shrieked and recoiled in horror as if from a leper.

"Kill him!" he screamed. "He... he touched me! He's filthy!"

But no one was looking at him anymore. Varus, realizing the "Flux" system was paralyzed and the "Institute" was in danger, abandoned his Blond and disappeared into an armored van.

---

Kael was sentenced to "decommissioning" at dawn. Not a secret one, but a public one, in that same square. It was the Browns' last, desperate attempt to restore "Order."

He was thrown into "Cell Zero" – a white, sterile box.

An hour before dawn, the door opened. Varus entered. He was without his perfect suit. He wore gray tactical gear. His chestnut hair was disheveled. For the first time, Kael saw not a flawless mechanism of the system, but a tired, angry man.

"You idiot," he said, his voice devoid of all emotion. "Are you happy?"

"I told them the truth," Kael replied calmly, sitting on the floor.

"Truth?" Varus laughed hysterically. "You broke the dam, Kael! You showed the fish that water is wet! And now what? Chaos!"

"Freedom," Kael said.

"Freedom doesn't exist!" Varus roared. "There are only systems! My system worked. It was a lie, but it was stable. It fed the Brunettes, entertained the Blonds, and kept... in a cage."

"The Albinos?"

"They're awake," Varus said, and Kael saw fear in the Brown's eyes for the first time. "The moment the 'Flux' network collapsed, they registered a system failure and realized we had been lying to them. They're not playing God anymore. They're taking direct control. Their 'Institute' is sealed, but they've already begun to release their drones. You didn't free the world, Kael. You just swapped one set of tyrants for another, far worse."

"You're wrong," Kael said. "You think people are just numbers in your system. But I think they..."

"I don't care what you think," Varus cut him off. "You'll be executed in ten minutes. It will be the last act of the old world."

The door opened. The Inspectors entered.

---

The square was unrecognizable: it was littered with the wreckage of overturned patrol vans, the remains of makeshift barricades, and the bodies of rebels. The city was burning.

Kael was led to the scaffold. This wasn't the sterile "decommissioning" Lars had received. This was a military execution.

But the crowd... the crowd was different. They weren't standing in fear. They were standing in defiant groups. Brunettes with Reds. Even some low-ranking Browns who had lost their Blond masters stood with them. They looked at Kael not as a criminal, but as a symbol.

He was tied to a post. An Inspector prepared an injector with "The Purifier" – a lethal dose of pigment solvent that simply erased a person from the inside out.

Kael scanned the square. He was looking for his mother, and he found her. She was standing in the front ranks.

Elina wasn't crying; she was just looking at him. And her hair... It was gray. Completely. Beautiful, silver hair that she was no longer hiding.

He looked at her. He thought of Lars. Of Silas, who had died believing a lie. Of Varus, who was doomed to fight the demons he himself had fed.

Kael looked at his mother. She nodded to him.

Kael closed his eyes. The Inspector pressed the injector to his neck.

The system, built on the fear of gray hair, was dead. The world he was leaving behind was on fire, in chaos. On the brink of a new, terrible war with the Albinos.

But this world, at least, was real.

The injector clicked.