Michiel's pace quickened as he wove through the compound's twisting corridors, a strange and long-forgotten sensation rising in his chest—hope. It was subtle at first, like the warm ember of a fire thought extinguished, but the further he walked, the stronger it grew, tugging at the corners of memories he'd buried deep. Memories of a time before everything had crumbled.

  Before the lies. Before the fear.

  Before Albert became something else.

  His thoughts drifted back to the beginning-his beginning-with the compound. Back when Albert Wren wasn't a tyrant cloaked in power, but a name whispered through the static of a half-broken radio. It was two years into the apocalypse when Michiel first heard of him. At the time, Albert had been written off by most as a lunatic with a lab coat, playing scientist in the ruins of the old world.

  Rumors said he'd claimed a small section of land and was clearing the surrounding area of the infected. A noble story, but unbelievable.

  Yet every day, Albert broadcasted updates over open frequencies—clear, determined, fearless. He spoke of survivors coming together, of a plan to reclaim a mountain and fortify the land around it.

  Each broadcast brought news of progress, each word delivered with such conviction that even cynics began to listen.

  Then, a month later, everything changed.

  Albert's voice came through again—-but this time, it was triumphant.

  "We've done it. The mountain is clear. We've raised the barrier. This... is Center Point City. A new beginning. A line in the sand for humanity."

  Michiel had listened with wide eyes and shaking hands, still reeling from the collapse of everything he knew. He had been far from home when the outbreak began, studying computer science and engineering abroad—his mind consumed by algorithms and machines, never imagining the world would unravel so quickly.

  The virus had moved like wildfire. Airborne.

  Invisible. Relentless. Within a day, it had blanketed the globe. One moment, he was attending lectures and designing prototypes. The next, the sky was filled with screams, and the cities turned to graves.

  Separated from his family, helpless and stranded, Michiel had clung to Albert's broadcasts like a lifeline. Center Point wasn't just a location—it was a promise. Proof that someone, somewhere, was still fighting.

  Driven by desperation and belief, Michiel began his journey west. The distance wasn't great on a map

  —just fifty miles. But in a world swallowed by ruin, it may as well have been an odyssey. It took him two months to cross those miles. Two months of hiding from the infected, scavenging what little food remained, sleeping beneath collapsed roofs with a knife clutched in shaking hands.

  But when he arrived-bloodied, exhausted, half-starved—he saw it: the towering wall, the fortified gates, the impossible made real.

  In the distance, silhouetted against a gray and broken sky, a rough makeshift wall rose like a scar across the land—a jagged barrier of welded scrap and rusted steel. Michiel's breath hitched at the sight. This was it. The edge of salvation. The gates of Center Point City.

  As he approached, he slowed his steps, raising both hands in the air to show he meant no harm.

  His clothes were torn, his skin smeared with grime and travel-worn fatigue, but his eyes—sharp, unwavering—burned with purpose.

  A shout rang out from the ramparts.

  "Stop right there! You here to join us?"

  Michiel squinted up toward the voice, shielding his eyes from the sun's pale glare. "Yes!" he called back. "I heard the broadcast. I believe I can help."

  There was a pause, followed by a more guarded voice. "What did you do before all this?"

  "Engineering. Computer sciences. I was in university when it started."

  Another pause. Then, the clatter of boots on metal as a few figures began their descent. "Stay put," the first voice barked. "We're sending a team to examine you."

  Michiel obeyed, standing motionless as armed guards approached with clinical precision. They checked for bite marks, scanned his vitals, questioned him with sharp eyes and clipped words. His heart thundered in his chest, but he passed-clean, uninfected, and, most importantly, useful.

  They let him through.

  As the gate creaked open and he stepped inside, he half expected to be welcomed into the labs right away. But that hope was quickly dashed. He was assigned to maintenance crews first—menial tasks, long hours, grueling work. No access to labs. No computers. No innovation.

  Just sweat and silence.

  Still, he endured.

  Michiel knew recognition had to be earned in a place like this. He made sure every job he touched was perfect. Every system repaired, every wire soldered clean. Quietly, he left trails of competence wherever he went.

  And then it finally happened.

  Three years later, the message came down: he was to report to the laboratory sector.

  His hands trembled as he buttoned his cleanest shirt. It was happening. After all the blood and ash, after months of backbreaking labor, his real journey was about to begin.

  He entered the facility with wide, astonished eyes.

  This was the place he had dreamed of during those dark nights on the road—the hum of machines, the sterile glow of artificial light, the promise of invention pulsing in the air like static.

  He expected a tour. Maybe introductions. A team briefing, at most.

  But instead, he was led straight to an imposing door at the far end of the First Level, its steel surface etched with the insignia of the ruling council. It opened with a hiss, revealing a spacious, cold office—walls lined with screens and data streams— and in its center, a man stood with his back turned, gazing out the balcony that overlooked the inner city.

  The figure turned.

  Councilor Albert.

  "I never thought this day would come," Michiel had said, his voice trembling with excitement, eyes bright with youthful wonder. He stood at attention before the man he'd idolized for years, a salute held with crisp precision and a heart pounding with pride.

  Councilor Albert regarded him with the calculated calm of a man who'd seen too much of the world to share in anyone's excitement. Still, a ghost of a smile touched his lips as he leaned back in his chair, his piercing gaze scanning Michiel from head to toe—sharp and assessing, like a scalpel poised over delicate tissue.

  "So," Albert said slowly, "you're the one who passed this year's test."

  Michiel's breath caught in his throat. He nodded.

  Albert's fingers steepled beneath his chin as he continued. "First place. On your first attempt. And barely old enough to qualify. Impressive." His tone was smooth, but there was something beneath it— something unreadable.

  "I studied hard before the apocalypse," Michiel replied, his voice filled with earnest pride. "And even harder after. Your broadcasts, Councilor... your words inspired me to keep going. To become something more than a survivor. I want to follow in your footsteps. I want to be your personal lab assistant. Like you once said, back then-'Let's band together and eliminate our greatest threat since the Black Plague!"

  For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

  Then Albert leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, the dim light casting sharp shadows across his angular features. His eyes gleamed—not with warmth, but with a predatory glare.

  "Ambition," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the silence.

  "It's a rare commodity these days, Michiel. Most people are too broken... too tired to dream of anything beyond their next ration or a safe night's sleep."

  He let the words linger, then slowly tilted his head, studying Michiel with unnerving intensity—like a scientist observing a new specimen, unsure if it would change the world or self-destruct trying.

  "But you," Albert continued, "you want more?"

  Michiel held his gaze, a flicker of pride rising in his chest. "Yes. I want to be part of the solution. Not just another survivor."

  Albert's lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer, then, surprisingly, softened. He reached across the desk, palm open.

  "Indeed. Let's band together."

  As their hands met, Michiel felt it—that electricity, that sense of stepping into something vast and powerful.

  Michiel shook himself free from the memory, his jaw tightening as the echo of the past faded. That boy—the one who had once looked up to Albert with starry eyes and trembling hands—was gone.

  In his place stood a man carved by disappointment, sharpened by betrayal.

  He smirked, a quiet fire behind his eyes. "Time to see what my ambition can really accomplish."

  With that, he slipped into the shadows, silent and sure, the corridors swallowing him as he moved like a phantom with purpose. The weight of his plan surged behind his steps, heavy with years of resentment and sharpened resolve. It pressed against the walls of the compound like a coming storm, ready to crack the foundation of everything Albert had so meticulously built.

  Overhead, the corridor lights flickered—then dimmed—washing the hall in a pulsing red hue. A low blare echoed through the compound, the emergency alarm roaring to life like a beast awakened. It rattled the metal vents and shivered through the walls.

  Michiel didn't flinch.

  He moved fast, ducking into an alternate passage that would lead him back to the elevator. As the alarm howled behind him, his mind drifted again— back to the true beginning. The day that led him down the path of realizing what Albert's world really entailed.

  It had been only a week since his induction into the compound. The awe had barely worn off, but already disappointment had crept in like frost beneath a locked door. Despite his test results, despite Albert's promise, he hadn't been assigned to the cure development team. The lab he'd dreamed of entering—the place where the fate of humanity was being rewritten—remained behind security doors and clearance codes far above his rank.

  Instead, he was sent to the lower labs, tasked with restructuring MidFallen's outdated phone lines.

  Important, yes. Necessary, of course. But it wasn't the kind of work that would change the world—prove him worthy of the future he'd envisioned.

  Michiel sat alone that afternoon, slouched in a squeaky chair behind a cluttered desk. Paper maps curled at the corners beside tangled wires and half-erased schematics. His two colleagues had stepped out for coffee, leaving the lab eerily silent

  —just the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the hum of machines powering systems he didn't care about.

  He leaned back, exhaling slowly, frustration creeping into his chest like smoke. His fingers drummed against the desk as his eyes scanned the notes.

  "This isn't enough," he muttered. "I need more than this. I am more than this."

  The gears of his mind began to turn, slowly.

  "Before the apocalypse, Al was all the rage," Michiel murmured, leaning back in his chair as his eyes traced the dusty ceiling tiles. "Maybe I could develop something with that... but no—that's too broad. Too slow. I need something that will bring immediate results."

  His gaze drifted down to the cluttered desk before him, but his mind was already racing. The weight of rejection still clung to him, but it was rapidly being replaced by a spark he hadn't felt in years.

  Coding had always been his first love—an escape from the world and an ever changing challenge. In his early teens, he'd found joy in building tools and programs to solve small, everyday problems.

  Programs that made life easier.

  Now, in a world that had fallen into chaos, that same passion surged to the surface again.

  A flicker of excitement touched his lips. "A program..." he whispered. "A localized network.

  Something clean. Direct. A document-sharing platform that links every lab in real-time. If we could share findings without delay, we'd work faster. Smarter. Better."

  His eyes lit up. This wasn't just an idea— it was his opportunity to prove himself.

  Michiel's fingers moved before he even realized it, dancing across the keyboard in a rhythm only he could hear. Code spilled onto the screen in tight, precise lines, each string a brick in the foundation of something bigger. He didn't stop to breathe—his vision was crystal clear, like a long-forgotten dream snapping back into focus.

  He was building something that mattered.

  Then came the footsteps—laughter echoing down the hallway. The door creaked open, flooding the room with noise and casual energy. Michiel didn't look up, his fingers still moving with urgency.

  Daniel stepped in first, his ever—relaxed posture unchanged, a second cup of coffee in hand. "Hey, genius," he said with a crooked grin. "You looked like you could use the extra caffeine."

  Michiel paused just long enough to glance up, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  "Thanks, man. This might be the start of something big."

  Daniel raised a brow. "Bigger than rerouting static lines and chasing phone signals?"

  Michiel chuckled, already returning to his work.

  "Much bigger.

  "What're you up to?" Daniel asked, his voice light with curiosity as he set the coffee down on Michiel's cluttered desk. Steam curled lazily from the cup, rising like a question mark.

  Michiel didn't look up. His fingers danced across the keyboard, eyes locked on the cascading lines of code. "I'm building a program," he said, his voice clipped with focus. "One that'll change the way we share data across the compound."

  Daniel leaned in, peering over Michiel's shoulder with a skeptical grin. "So... you're rebuilding the internet in a bunker?"

  Michiel smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Not quite. It's a localized system. No outside access. No clutter. Just pure, clean sharing across every lab, every department."

  Eric, who had just walked in with a half-eaten protein bar, perked up. "Finally! I've been trying to send schematics to Sector 3 for a week. Count me in for beta testing."

  Michiel turned slightly in his chair, his expression sharpening. His voice dropped, low and resolute.

  "This isn't just about convenience. If we can get vital research from Point A to Point B without delay, it could mean faster defenses. Faster cures. Fewer mistakes. Fewer body bags."

  A brief silence hung between them, broken only by the soft whirring of lab equipment in the background.

  Daniel crossed his arms, glancing from the screen to Michiel's face. The smirk was gone—-replaced by the look of someone who had found purpose in a world bent on erasing it.

  "If you can really pull this off," Daniel said, his tone now serious, "it'll be a game-changer."

  Michiel's fingers didn't slow, but his eyes flicked upward, burning with ambition. "I will."

  Weeks bled into months. The corridors of the compound buzzed with new energy, driven by a tool that had become the backbone of its operations. By the sixth month, Michiel’s program had evolved from a modest file-sharing system into a sophisticated digital ecosystem—complete with real-time messaging, centralized storage, encrypted data channels, and collaborative interfaces. What had begun as a simple solution had become the nervous system of Center Point City.

  Power grid repairs that once took weeks now progressed in days. Inter-department communication moved with a speed that mirrored the compound’s heartbeat. Michiel’s code was no longer just lines on a screen—it was the pulse of progress.

  And it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  On AA3, 6-12, under the sterile glow of the compound’s largest auditorium, Michiel stood stiffly on stage, his name echoing across rows of applauding staff. The thunder of clapping hands filled the chamber, but Michiel barely heard it—his heart pounded too loudly in his chest.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Beside him stood Albert, stoic and sharp in a dark high-collared coat, the symbol of his authority gleaming on his chest. His presence radiated like a force field. Michiel felt the weight of that gaze, the pressure of sharing a stage with a man who had become equal parts hero and legend.

  As the applause faded, Albert stepped forward, one hand raised for silence. “Without further ado,” he began, his voice calm yet commanding, “it is time to announce his reward.”

  Michiel stood taller, chest expanding with anticipation. His eyes flicked toward the rows of familiar faces—scientists, engineers, doctors—many of whom had once overlooked him. Now, they watched with respect.

  “You will receive two weeks of fully paid vacation,” Albert said, pausing just long enough for the murmurs of surprise to ripple through the crowd. “Bring your family. Rest well.”

  Michiel blinked, processing the unexpected generosity and weight. He had no family here.

  Albert turned to him, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. His voice dropped just slightly, loud enough only for those on stage to hear. “Because upon your return… I’d like you to join me in a trial. For the cure.”

  The words struck Michiel like an electric current. His breath caught. The cure. The cure. The very core of everything this compound fought to create, to protect. A seat beside Albert on the most vital project of their generation.

  Flushed with pride, and trembling with a resolve years in the making, Michiel straightened. He saluted, voice steady despite the roar inside him.

  “I will do everything in my power to aid you and your research, Councilor.”

  Albert’s eyes narrowed—not unkindly, but sharply, as though measuring the weight of the words and the man who spoke them. He gave a slight nod.

  “Good.”

  The ovation thundered around him, but to Michiel, it felt like a distant hum beneath the roar in his chest. The air was thick with celebration—clapping hands, exchanged glances of admiration, and murmurs of praise weaving together into a symphony of triumph. A heady rush surged through him, hotter than adrenaline and deeper than pride.

  The feeling of accomplishment was intoxicating. It wrapped around him like armor, solidifying the belief that this was only the beginning. A first step

  —not just toward recognition, but toward legacy.

  But even in the glow of triumph, shadows lingered.

  Among the sea of cheering faces, one group remained still—silent as statues. A small cluster near the edge of the crowd, arms folded, eyes unblinking. They neither smiled nor applauded.

  Their stillness carved through the jubilation. A deathly aura emanating from them.

  Michiel's eyes flicked toward them, drawn by an instinct he didn't yet understand. One man stood at the center of that silent pocket, his presence was immensely heavy. His face was expressionless, but his eyes... they were locked not on Michiel, but on Albert—studying him with a quiet intensity that felt less like admiration and more like scrutiny.

  A cold prickle danced up the back of Michiel's neck. Something in that gaze unsettled him. But before he could linger on the feeling, Albert's voice rang out, smooth and commanding.

  "Thank you all for celebrating this grand achievement today." Albert raised his hand, and the room instinctively fell quiet. "Now, let's return to our mission. Let's get back to constructing our Fallen City."

  A final wave of applause swept through the chamber as Albert offered Michiel a firm handshake, his grip steady and strong. Cameras flashed. Eyes followed their every move.

  Then, as the crowd began to break apart, Albert leaned in and guided Michiel toward the back of the stage, away from the lights and noise. The moment they stepped behind the curtain, the energy shifted—heavier.

  "Good work, Michiel," Albert said, his voice still warm, but layered now with something more grounded. "Not even a full year, and you've done something men twice your age failed to accomplish."

  Michiel felt the praise like a tide pulling him forward, but Albert wasn't finished.

  "I'm genuinely excited to have you join the work on the cure," he continued, pausing briefly as if

  choosing his next words with care. "But I want you to understand something."

  Albert stopped walking, turning to face him fully.

  His expression had lost all traces of celebration.

  What remained was steel-cold.

  "It's not easy for me to trust people, Michiel.

  Especially with something like this."

  Michiel straightened, his earlier pride giving way to a sober focus.

  Albert's eyes narrowed slightly, and his next words carried the weight of a solemn vow.

  "I'm stepping out of my comfort zone by sharing my goals—and my progress—with you. Don't make me regret that."

  The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was loaded with expectations, responsibility, and an unspoken threat that trust, once broken, would not be restored.

  Michiel met his gaze, the gravity of the moment sinking into his bones. "You won't have to, Councilor. I won't let you down."

  And though the applause still echoed faintly through the walls, Michiel no longer heard it.

  Michiel stiffened, his posture rigid with purpose. "1 would never even think of it, sir," he said firmly, the words laced with conviction.

  Albert gave a faint nod, his expression unreadable.

  "Then I have nothing to worry about."

  The air between them hung heavy with that unspoken contract—one sealed not with ink, but with expectation and threat.

  Before either could speak again, the sound of boots on metal cut through the moment. A figure stepped into view from the far side of the stage, his movements precise and deliberate.

  "Ah-James," Albert said, his tone shifting with familiarity and command. "Perfect timing."

  The man—tall, lean, with the unmistakable bearing of a seasoned soldier—approached with a measured stride. His expression was unreadable beneath sharp features and calculating eyes. The very same man that was in the center of the group that didn’t cheer with the rest.

  "I need you to escort my son to the lab," Albert continued. "I'll meet you there shortly with Michiel.

  Also—station someone inside. I want a guard watching from within the room this time."

  James gave a crisp, practiced salute. "Understood, sir." Without waiting for further instruction, he pivoted and disappeared around the corner, boots echoing as he moved out of sight.

  “For now, follow me. I want you to know just what to expect when you return.”

  Michiel's eyes lingered on his retreating figure, curiosity sparking in his chest. There was something….. off about the man. The way he was staring at Albert earlier and how he moved. The way he obeyed without question, as though Albert’s orders weren't just followed—they were absolute.

  Michiel turned back to Albert, brow furrowed. "Who is he?" he asked, the question slipping out almost involuntarily.

  Albert paused. A brief flicker of something passed through his eyes—pride? Hesitation? Michiel couldn't tell.

  "A ghost," Albert said at last, his voice distant.

  "One who's served me for quite a while now."

  That was all he gave.

  And somehow, it told Michiel more than any explanation ever could.

  "I suppose you should know more, his name is James," Albert said at last, his voice cool and composed. "You'll be working with him closely as you assist me from here on out. It would be wise to understand the kind of man he is... though I wouldn't expect much conversation. He's a blade, not a book."

  Michiel gave a slight nod, masking the pulse of unease that flickered beneath his calm expression.

  "I'll do my best, sir."

  Albert didn't respond with words—only a slight incline of his head as he turned and continued leading the way.

  Together, they crossed the polished floor toward the elevator. Each step echoed with purpose, the air around them growing denser, heavier, as if the compound itself sensed what they were descending into.

  Ding!

  The elevator doors hissed open, and they stepped inside.

  A mechanical hum filled the silence as the platform began its slow descent.

  1st Level.

  2nd Level.

  The glowing numbers ticked by like a countdown to something inevitable.

  When the doors finally parted on the 2nd Level, the air that greeted them was colder—thicker. They stepped into a hallway lined with reinforced steel and dim overhead lighting, far removed from the clinical brightness of the upper floors. This part of the compound felt older, untouched, as though it belonged to a different time. The temperature dropped with every step, and the silence pressed in like a weight against Michiel's chest.

  Albert said nothing as they walked. His stride was even, composed, but there was a gravity in his silence—a sense that they were leaving behind the world Michiel had known and stepping into one far more volatile.

  Michiel's thoughts spun—questions clawing at the edges of his mind. What am I about to witness? And what role does Albert's son play in it all?

  They reached a door unlike the others—taller, thicker, its steel frame embedded with multiple locking mechanisms and a badge scanner. A low, almost imperceptible hum vibrated through the air around it, as if whatever was behind it wasn't just secured—it was contained.

  Albert turned to him, his gaze sharp and unflinching. "Are you prepared?"

  Michiel swallowed the lump in his throat and gave a firm nod. "Yes, sir."

  Albert studied him a moment longer, then spoke with quiet intensity. "Good. Keep your mind open and your mouth shut. From this point forward, you follow my commands without question. And what you're about to see.." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near—whisper."...never leaves this

  corridor. Speak of it, and there will be consequences. Do you understand?"

  Michiel met his gaze, spine straight. "I understand."

  Albert turned back to the door

  "I understand completely," Michiel said, his voice steady despite the faint tremor threading through his spine. "I would never breach your trust."

  Albert's gaze lingered on him a moment longer— unblinking, as if trying to read something buried deep behind his eyes. Then, at last, he gave a faint nod.

  "I’ll hold you to it."

  With a swift motion, Albert raised his wrist to the access panel. A low chime sounded, followed by the soft hiss of depressurization. The heavy steel door eased open with a mechanical groan, and a sterile, artificial brightness spilled into the corridor, forcing Michiel to squint against the sudden light.

  As he stepped inside, the chill that had clung to the hallway was replaced by a deeper, more clinical cold—like the breath of a morgue. The walls were pristine, white and blinding, scrubbed of every imperfection. Every surface gleamed with surgical precision, and for a fleeting moment, Michiel felt as though he had stepped into a dream—one born not of hope, but of precision and dread.

  But then he saw it.

  The sight at the center of the lab struck him like a physical blow. His breath caught, lodged in his throat. The faint hum of fluorescent lights became deafening in his ears.

  On a raised steel table lay a boy—no older than ten—his small body frighteningly still, draped in a thin hospital gown. His skin was ghostly pale, veins visible beneath the translucent flesh. His eyelids fluttered slightly, but he remained unconscious.

  Surrounding him was an arsenal of instruments— scalpels, clamps, sterile syringes filled with unidentifiable fluids, a half-full bag of blood suspended above. The tools were arranged with disturbing meticulousness, not a single item out of place, as though some unspoken ritual was about to begin.

  The air reeked of antiseptic-sharp, chemical, and acrid—but underneath it was another smell, fainter yet far more disturbing: something burnt, something raw. Michiel couldn't name it, but it curled in his lungs and twisted in his stomach.

  He instinctively took a step back.

  The lights above cast cold, surgical beams across the room, throwing long, distorted shadows from the boy's body and the instruments beside him.

  Everything felt too clean, too quiet, like the world was holding its breath.

  Michiel's earlier ambition, the rush of pride and recognition, drained from him in an instant, replaced by a slow, sinking dread.

  What the hell is this place?

  And why is Albert's child on that table lifeless?

  Every detail in the room seemed meticulously crafted to unsettle him—like a performance staged for an audience of one.

  Michiel's breath caught as his gaze returned to the child on the table. The boy's chest rose and fell in a shallow, mechanical rhythm, a cruel reassurance that he was still alive. But everything about him— his stillness, his pallor, the IVs snaking into his arms—spoke of suffering. A sick knot coiled in Michiel's gut, bile rising into his throat.

  "Sir..." he managed, his voice raw and unsteady,

  "What is this?"

  The words barely escaped his lips, but they sharply cut through the sterile silence.

  Albert's answer came without hesitation, his voice level and composed, devoid of apology. "Exactly what it appears to be." He didn't even glance at Michiel. "Now listen carefully. We'll wait for the guard James summoned. His name is Robert. He will assist with the next phase."

  Albert stepped closer to the table, his shadow falling over the unconscious boy. His expression shifted—tightening around the eyes, jaw clenched with barely contained intensity. He looked not like a father, but like a man standing at the altar of a necessary evil, about to make a sacrifice no one else would dare commit.

  Michiel remained by the doorway, the sterile chill seeping into his bones. The rhythmic beeping of the monitors behind him became deafening, matching the erratic pounding of his own heart.

  Sweat gathered along his hairline and trailed down the curve of his spine.

  This wasn't the dream he had followed through wastelands and ruin. This wasn't the future he had imagined when he'd stood beside Albert on the stage.

  "I... l apologize, Councilor," Michiel said, voice cracking under the weight of dread. "But I-I don't feel well. Perhaps I can begin assisting... once I return from my vacation."

  He swallowed, the lie brittle on his tongue, hoping the tremor in his voice didn't betray the horror spiraling inside him.

  Albert finally turned his head, slowly. His expression was unreadable. Calm. Measured. But behind those calculating eyes, Michiel could sense it—disappointment... or perhaps something far more dangerous.

  And yet, Albert only nodded once.

  "For now," he said.

  The silence that followed was heavier than any threat.

  "Your vacation doesn't begin until Friday," Albert said, his voice cool and controlled. "In the meantime, I need to bring you up to speed."

  Michiel's mouth went dry. His eyes darted back to the boy lying motionless on the table, to the polished steel of the tools, to Albert's unreadable face. "I-I still don't feel comfortable with this," he said, each word forced out through the tightening grip of his chest.

  Albert turned to him slowly, gaze sharp as broken glass. "That's because you don't understand what's at stake." He took a single step forward.

  "Not yet. But you will."

  The air between them thickened, tension crackling like static. Michiel's breath hitched. The words held weight, not just as an explanation—but a warning.

  Albert pivoted toward the operating table with unnerving calm. His fingers curled around a scalpel, the blade catching the sterile light and flaring like a promise. He inhaled once, deeply, as though steadying himself for something irreversible. Michiel's stomach twisted.

  The door opened behind them with a soft hiss that seemed impossibly loud in the suffocating silence.

  A tall figure entered in full guard uniform—Robert.

  He moved with practiced precision, but Michiel noticed the tightness in his jaw, the flicker in his gaze as it deliberately avoided the table.

  "Robert reporting, sir," he said, tone flat. "I'll be on standby."

  Albert didn't look away from the child. "Good. I need you here."

  Robert nodded once and moved to a corner of the room like a statue settling into place—present, but removed. Michiel glanced at him, hoping for some trace of emotion, some shared discomfort. But Robert's face was a mask. If he felt anything at all, he buried it too deep to see.

  And now, Michiel was trapped in a room with three people—one unconscious, one unreadable, and one preparing to do the unthinkable.

  "Good," Albert murmured, eyes fixed on the boy as though Michiel's reaction was irrelevant. His hands moved with clinical purpose, unwavering as he made the first incision—a long, deliberate cut down the center of Edwin's chest.

  Michiel flinched at the sound alone. A sickening, wet slice echoed through the sterile lab, followed by the slow bloom of blood welling up in the open wound. His breath hitched, the coppery scent thickening in his nose.

  Albert made two more cuts, sharp and precise, forming an 'H' over the boy's torso. Then, with practiced detachment, he peeled back the flaps of skin. The sound—wet, sticky—ripped through Michiel's composure.

  He stumbled backward as the reality of what he was seeing sank in. His knees buckled. He doubled over just outside the circle of light, vomiting violently onto the cold floor.

  When he dared to look up, the world felt wrong.

  Twisted and deformed. Unreal.

  In the center of Edwin's chest, where a human heart should have been, pulsed something utterly alien. A crystalline structure, jagged and translucent, its facets glowing with a soft, eerie light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with some unseen force. Almost as if it spoke a language only it knew.

  "This," Albert said quietly, as though revealing a sacred relic, "is what I wanted you to see."

  Michiel pushed himself upright, trembling, the glow casting a ghostly hue over his sweat-slicked face. His eyes were wide, wild. "What... what the hell is that?"

  Albert didn't answer immediately. He stood over the boy's opened chest like a priest at the altar of a dark god, his voice low and reverent.

  "We know so little about this virus," he said, barely above a whisper. "But this... this is the anomaly.

  The mutation. The answer. We are looking at the key, Michiel. The origin of a cure, and perhaps... something more."

  Michiel's breath caught in his throat as the crystal pulsed again, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Whatever this was, it wasn't just science anymore. It was something far beyond him— something dangerous, beautiful, and utterly terrifying.

  Albert's hands moved with the same precision as before, but now there was a quiet urgency in his motions. He pressed the flaps of skin back into place, and as if responding to an unseen command, Edwin's flesh began to knit itself together. No stitches. No sutures. Just seamless regeneration.

  A faint bluish glow leaked through the closing incision like moonlight through a cracked window, then faded as the last of the wound vanished. In seconds, there was no sign that the boy's chest had ever been opened.

  Michiel stared, paralyzed.

  The silence in the room was heavier now—thick, suffocating. He could still feel the pulse of the crystal echoing inside his skull, even though it was no longer visible. It had imprinted itself on him, burned into the backs of his eyes like an afterimage of something he wasn't supposed to see. Something no one should ever see.

  His mind reeled. What have I just witnessed?

  Is this really a child? No, that’s not the right question, what the hell has Albert done to him?

  He swallowed hard, throat dry as ash. "I'll do my best," Michiel said at last, the words slipping from his mouth like brittle leaves in the wind.

  But the weight of them was wrong—empty. Forced.

  Albert didn't look at him. He simply nodded once, as though that quiet submission was all he needed.

  All he expected.

  Michiel stood rigid, fighting to contain the storm building behind his eyes. Doubt churned with dread. The man he had idolized now felt like a stranger—a man cloaked in secrets, commanding powers he didn't understand.

  He said nothing more.

  Because the rebellion clawing at his chest... he couldn't afford to let it out.

  Not yet.

  ———///////———

  Ding!

  The elevator chimed softly, its doors parting with a sterile hiss. Michiel stepped out into the cafeteria level, but the moment his foot hit the floor, he felt the wrongness in the air.

  Laughter echoed off the walls, trays clattered, and the aroma of reheated food lingered—but there were no alarms. No red emergency lights. No tremor of panic. It was as if the rest of the compound lived in blissful ignorance, untouched by the horror festering beneath their feet.

  Michiel moved like a live wire, his gaze darting from face to face as he threaded through the crowd. Every laugh felt like static in his ears, every conversation a roar he couldn't filter. He was one breath away from unraveling.

  A hand clamped down on his shoulder.

  He spun on instinct, breath catching, fists clenched—but it was Robert.

  "Hey-whoa. You alright there, man?" Robert's voice was steady, but there was a thread of unease in it, the sharp edge of someone trained to notice when something was off.

  Michiel's eyes were wild. He leaned in, his voice low and strained. "Fucking hell, Robert... I need to talk. Now. Somewhere private."

  Robert blinked, caught off guard by the intensity.

  But then he gave a slow nod, his face hardening into something more serious. "Alright. Let's go."

  They slipped away from the cafeteria noise, down the quieter corridors that led to a disused lab. The lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a pale glow on the polished counters and idle equipment. The door hissed shut behind them, cutting off the world.

  Michiel didn't speak at first. He paced like a caged animal, the words clawing at his throat but refusing to form.

  Robert crossed his arms and watched him carefully. "Whatever happened down there... it shook you bad."

  Michiel stopped, turning to face him with eyes that held too much. Anger. Fear. Betrayal. Confusion.

  "I saw something," he said finally, voice hoarse.

  "Something I wasn't supposed to."

  And with that, the weight of what he'd witnessed began to spill from his lips.

  "Did you see Edwin?" Robert asked, stepping forward. His voice was low but urgent, taut with restrained fear.

  Michiel nodded slowly, the words catching in his throat before he could speak them. "No," he murmured. "I'm sure I found him... and I think I know how you can reach him."

  Robert leaned in immediately, his body tense, eyes narrowed with focus. "Where is he? Tell me. Now."

  Michiel swallowed hard, the gravity of what he was about to say anchoring every breath. His hand trembled as he rubbed it over his face, trying to will away the nausea still clinging to him. Then— finally—he spoke.

  "The Fourth Level," he said. "There's a corridor... it looks like a dead end. Just a blank wall. But if you're wearing the belt, it activates something. A portal, maybe. You don't walk through it—you vanish. Just like that." He snapped his fingers softly, the sound lost in the silence between them. "I think it's teleportation."

  Robert's expression darkened, jaw set with steel resolve. "Then I know exactly where to go." He started toward the door, urgency propelling him forward.

  But before he could reach it, Michiel's hand shot out, gripping his arm. "Wait."

  Robert turned, surprised. "What is it?"

  Michiel stared at him, something desperate flickering in his eyes—fear, doubt, or maybe the last shred of conscience clinging to a crumbling world. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words hesitated on the edge of his tongue, caught between warning and hope.

  "I need to say this," Michiel began, his voice strained and unsteady, thick with the weight of everything he'd buried until now. "Thank you... for everything. From the first day we met in that lab, you've had my back. Through all the silence, the shadows, the things we weren't supposed to question... I don't think l'd still be standing if it weren't for you."

  Robert's jaw tensed, but the hardness in his expression cracked, revealing a quiet compassion beneath. He looked at Michiel for a long moment, then nodded, his voice low. "You didn't deserve any of this. I knew that the moment I saw you after the first procedure. You looked like a man torn in half but still trying to walk. That's why I stepped in.

  No one should have to survive this place alone."

  Michiel exhaled shakily, his eyes shimmering. "It takes a toll on you, doesn't it?" he whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer.

  Robert's gaze darkened, his voice steady but laced with quiet exhaustion. "It does. Every damn day.

  But it won't break us. Not this time. We're going to make this right—we're going to free him. No matter what it takes."

  A flicker of something stirred in Michiel's chest.

  Not relief. Not yet. But hope—fragile and trembling

  —dared to rise. "There are others," he said, stepping closer. "Others who feel the same. Not everyone here agrees with what Albert's doing.

  They're just too scared to speak."

  Robert’s eyes narrowed, determination flashing like steel. “What are you thinking?”

  "You go after Edwin," Michiel said, his voice firming like cooling steel. "I'll stay behind, cover what I can from this end. But listen carefully—Albert's logs mention the Fourth Level again and again. Make sure you aren’t seen there.”

  Robert narrowed his eyes. "Why about the belt?"

  Michiel nodded. "It's the key. But I don't think it's just the belt. There's something else—something deeper. I've been digging into the data, and the patterns suggest it may also be connected to Albert himself. Maybe his DNA. Or his blood."

  Robert blinked, brow furrowed. "His blood? You think it's some kind of bio-lock?"

  "Not just a lock," Michiel said, lowering his voice as if afraid the walls might hear. "A trigger. He tried to use it on Edwin two years ago. The logs said it was a failed synchronization. But the result? A blast so strong it took out half the medical wing. That zombie outbreak everyone thought was a containment breach? It wasn't. That was the aftermath."

  Robert's breath caught mid-inhale, a chill washing over his features. "That was the belt? I remember the screams... the evacuation. We lost good people that day. I thought it was just another security lapse."

  Michiel shook his head slowly, the weight of truth thick in his voice. "No. That day wasn't a containment breach. It was the day Albert tested the belt... on Edwin. It's all there in his encrypted logs. He never admits it outright, but the timestamps, the sensor data—he knew exactly what he was doing."

  Robert's expression darkened, fists curling at his sides. "So he used his own son as a lab rat. And now he locks him away, continuing to research what he caused?"

  "Exactly," Michiel said, his voice a grim whisper.

  "Albert will paint it as protection—as if he's saving us from a danger he created. But this isn't about public safety. It's about control. Edwin's been locked up for years, isolated, kept docile. He hasn't spoken to anyone but Albert since the incident. No friends. No visitors. No outside voice to tell him he's not a monster."

  Robert turned away, pacing like a caged wolf. "You think Albert planned all this?"

  Michiel hesitated, his eyes shadowed by doubt and dread. "No... not the escape. That caught him off guard. But he was ready for it. He headed straight for the East Gate after the outbreak—the same place Edwin ended up. You really think that's a coincidence?" He shook his head. "Albert doesn't believe in chance. Every move he makes is calculated."

  Robert stopped cold, his voice a low growl. "Then it's time someone started calculating against him."

  Robert's eyes flared with conviction, steady and unshakable. "Then I'll stay sharp. I won't trust anyone I haven't already bled beside."

  Michiel exhaled slowly, the tension draining from his posture as he met Robert's gaze. "I'll help however I can—quietly, from the sidelines. But if I get caught directly helping you..." He trailed off, the weight of unspoken consequences hanging in the air. "I hope you understand."

  Robert placed a firm hand on his shoulder, grounding him. His voice was quiet, but full of warmth. "You've already done more than enough.

  You've given me the map and the know-how. Now I just have to follow it."

  A flicker of reluctant humor touched Michiel's lips.

  "Just... let me know what you find. For scientific purposes, of course."

  Robert gave him a wry grin and turned toward the door, the belt tucked under his arm like a promise.

  As he disappeared into the corridor, the heavy door clicked shut behind him.

  Silence reclaimed the lab.

  Michiel stood rooted in place, staring at the doorway as if hoping it might offer him clarity—or redemption. But there was only the soft hum of equipment and the lingering echo of everything unspoken.

  He closed his eyes.

  "I hope l've made the right choices," he whispered to no one but the cold, sterile air.