**
The heavy door slams shut behind Crowe and the two scientists, Dr. Briggs and Dr. Chen. The sound of the locking mechanism reverberates through hallway. Crowe's boots click against the floor, while Briggs and Chen shuffle behind him, their footsteps lighter.
Down the corridor, Emily sits hunched over a cluttered desk in the analyst room, her face illuminated by the soft glow of a solitary monitor. Papers are strewn across her workspace, crumpled and marked with hurried scribbles. She mutters to herself, her fingers absently tapping on a data pad. The faint sound of footsteps draws her attention, and she looks up just in time to see Crowe and the scientists passing rolling a cart at a distance.
Her eyes narrow. What are they doing back there? she wonders, her mind racing with possibilities. Another test? Maybe they've got a new subject… or an animal? Her gaze flickers to the monitor in front of her, then back to the corridor. She shakes her head, muttering under her breath, "Focus, Emily. This fallout won't contain itself." She turns back to her work, her hands moving swiftly over the keyboard, though the unanswered question lingers in her mind.
**
The trio walks in silence down the stark, fluorescent-lit hallway.
Finally, they arrive at the lab. Crowe presses his thumb against the scanner. The device hums softly, its green light flickering before the door clicks open. The reinforced door slides open with a mechanical hiss. The air is sharp with the sterile scent of disinfectant, and the quiet hum of machinery fills the space.
As they enter, Dr. Chen wastes no time, pulling up his digital tablet. "The regeneration rate we observed earlier was extraordinary," he begins, his voice charged with excitement. He taps a few commands, bringing up a graph of Obinai's vitals. The lines spike and dip in ways that defy normal. "Look at these numbers. Cellular reconstruction occurred at an accelerated rate, but there's a distinct pattern—the regeneration is being guided by something external."
Dr. Briggs nods, setting down a tray of samples. "The foreign entity integrated into his cells is unlike anything we've seen before. It's enhancing his abilities."
Crowe crosses his arms, his gaze fixed on the tablet. If we can weaponize this…
"The key," Chen continues, swiping to another set of data, "is isolating that entity. If we can understand how it interacts with his body, we could synthesize it for broader applications—medical, military, even neurological enhancements."
"Good," Crowe says, his voice calm. "I want a comprehensive analysis ready by tomorrow morning. No delays."
As the scientists dive into preparations, Crowe's attention is drawn to a monitor displaying a live feed of Obinai's holding cell. The boy's still form is illuminated by the dim overhead light, the starkness of the room almost unnerving.
"Make sure he's secure tonight," Crowe instructs, not looking away from the screen. "I don't want any surprises."
"Understood," Briggs replies, adjusting the settings on a nearby console. "I'll ensure the sedatives maintain their effectiveness through the night."
Crowe's eyes narrow as something catches his attention. "Hold on," he says sharply, stepping closer to the monitor. "Why is the timestamp off? It's running slow."
Dr. Chen frowns, moving to the console. "That's odd. Let me pull up the logs." His fingers fly over the keyboard, and the footage rewinds to the specified time frame. The screen flickers briefly before stabilizing, replaying the last thirty minutes.
At first, the footage seems uneventful—Obinai lies motionless in the chair, his head slumped forward. Then, subtly, the change begins. His hair, dark and unkempt, starts to shift. One strand at a time, it fades to white, the transformation spreading like a creeping frost.
"Chen," Briggs breathes, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Are you seeing this?"
Chen nods, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "It's not a glitch," he confirms. "This is real."
Crowe steps closer, his eyes fixed on the screen. "That's not supposed to happen under sedation. He should be completely inert," he mutters, frowning.
Dr. Briggs quickly checks other data streams coming from the cell. "The rest of the systems seem normal. Vital signs are stable, no fluctuations in the environmental controls. It's just the video feed that's out of sync."
"Resync it and keep an eye on that anomaly," Crowe orders, his gaze still locked on the monitor. "I want a continuous live feed on him. Alert me immediately if there's any more unusual activity."
"Yes, sir," Dr. Briggs replies, already typing commands into the system to realign the time stamp and ensure the feed is running live without delays.
Crowe takes a step back, his mind racing. He watches the monitor, now corrected, showing Obinai still in his transformed state, the brilliant white of his hair stark against the dim lighting of the cell.
Dr. Briggs comments, "This is unprecedented. It's as if his body reacts to stress or other triggers by initiating a transformation. We need to analyze his bio-samples from right before and after this change occurred."
Crowe nods, his mind racing with the implications. "Get the lab prepped for an emergency analysis. Add this too the full report on my desk by morning. Keep monitoring him throughout the night," Crowe tells the scientists, his tone grave. "I have a feeling there's more to his abilities than we initially thought. We can't afford to miss anything."
The hum of the lab's machinery drones on, a low, steady rhythm that blends seamlessly with the faint tapping of Dr. Chen's fingers on the keyboard. His glasses sit low on his nose, reflecting the dim, flickering light of the monitor as he meticulously inputs data. The lab is quiet, almost too quiet, with most of the overhead lights dimmed for the night. Shadows stretch across the room, twisting and shifting as the occasional monitor flickers.
As the scientists nod, they continue their work with renewed urgency. Crowe remains at the monitor, watching Obinai's every subtle movement. After overseeing the activity for a while, he stands up. "Make sure you rest well tonight," he instructs the team. "We'll need all hands on deck, sharp and ready." With a final nod, he strides out of the lab, his steps echoing down the hallway until they fade into silence.
The lab settles into an eerie calm as the late hours creep on. The hum of machinery provides a faint backdrop to the rhythmic tapping of Dr. Chen's fingers on his keyboard. Most of the overhead lights are off, leaving the space bathed in muted, shadowy light. The few active screens cast a cold, bluish glow, illuminating Chen's focused expression as he adjusts settings and inputs data.
Across the room, Dr. Briggs stretches with a groan, the sound breaking the heavy silence. He glances at the digital clock on the wall, its red digits glaring 11:47 PM. "That's enough for me tonight," he announces, rolling his shoulders and reaching for his coat. "Make sure tomorrow's test setups are ready. I don't want any surprises."
Chen coughs lightly, waving him off without looking up. "Yeah, yeah," he says hoarsely, his voice thinner than usual. "I've got it covered."
Briggs pauses, raising an eyebrow. "You sound terrible," he remarks, shrugging on his coat. "Maybe you should wrap it up soon, too."
Chen gives a weak chuckle, his fingers still dancing over the keyboard. "I'll live. Just go."
With a parting shake of his head, Briggs exits the lab, the hiss of the automatic doors punctuating his departure.
Dr. Chen sighs, leaning back in his chair. He rubs his temples, his tired eyes blinking at the streams of data scrolling across the screen. He coughs again, this time more forcefully, muttering to himself, "Should've brought that tea." His voice is strained.
A soft tap on his shoulder snaps him out of his thoughts. Chen jerks upright, his heart lurching as he spins around, nearly sending a stack of petri dishes clattering to the floor. Standing behind him is Santos, his uniform slightly rumpled, his face marked by an unusual mix of unease and formality.
"Good grief, Santos!" Chen exclaims, clutching his chest dramatically. "You scared the hell out of me."
Santos shifts awkwardly, his boots squeaking faintly against the polished floor. "Sorry," he mutters, scratching the back of his neck. His tone is low, unsure, as he adds, "Just thought I'd see if you needed any help."
Chen lets out a soft laugh, though it's interrupted by another cough. "Help? Appreciate the gesture, but unless you've got a Ph.D. I don't know about, there's not much you can do in here."
Santos gives a small shrug, trying to mask his unease. His eyes flicker to Chen's face, noting the pale sheen to his skin and the dark circles under his eyes. "You alright, Doc?" he asks.
Chen waves him off, though the gesture is weak. "I'm fine," he croaks, coughing again into the crook of his arm. "Just a scratchy throat. Nothing some rest won't fix."
Santos isn't convinced. His gaze lingers for a moment before he finally nods. "Alright, if you're sure. Just… don't overdo it. You look like you've been through the wringer."
Chen smiles faintly, his usual sharp demeanor softened by fatigue. "Appreciate the concern, Santos. But I'll manage."
Satisfied, though still uneasy, Santos steps back, offering a small, respectful nod. "Alright then. Guess I'll leave you to it. Take care, Doc." He turns on his heel, his footsteps muffled as he heads toward the exit.
As the automatic door slides shut behind him, Chen lets out a long, weary sigh. He leans back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment as another cough racks his body. _I'll rest when it's done,_ he tells himself, his resolve hardening. There's too much at stake...when it happens and they it will all...
...the lab settles back into silence, the machines humming softly as Chen returns to his work...