Gene had been a White Angel for just three months, and the brand-new white of her uniform still felt like borrowed skin. Just when she had started to decipher the frantic ballet of tactical data and whispered jargon, a summons arrived.
She wasn't buzzed to the cathedral room, where there was a distinct scent of ozone and desperation, and strategies were birthed in a frenzy of light and sound. Nor pinned to the briefing decks, where holographic maps shimmered with impending doom.
No. This was a summons to the Quiet Room. The words tasted like ash in her mouth. The Quiet Room. A rumoured place where careers, and sometimes lives, went to die. The name sounded like a joke, but it was meant to be taken seriously.
Its silence was legendary, its purpose unspoken. A knot tightened in her stomach, cold and hard. Why her? What had she done wrong? Every mistake, every hesitation, every flicker of doubt she'd ever experienced during training clawed its way to the surface, a cacophony of inadequacy echoing in her skull.
The crisp white of her uniform now felt blinding, accusatory. It was a mark, she realized, not of pride, but of potential failure. The summons was a single datapad message, devoid of explanation and concise.
Simply: 'Attend Immediately.'
And Gene knew, with a certainty that resonated bone-deep, that her fleeting glimpse of angelhood was about to be irrevocably, perhaps fatally, redefined.
The whisper of it slithered through her like ice-coated wire, coiling tight around her heart, choking each beat with rising panic.
The Quiet Room. Whispers surrounded it, if anyone dared speak at all. A black hole at the heart of the facility, its soundproof door a gateway to oblivion. Inside, secrets howled in quiet, buried, irretrievable. The cost clung to survivors like a shadow, etched into hollowed eyes and trembling hands.
The survivor's eyes, once bright, now shone with a vacant light, reflecting nothing. As if their empathy, their spirit, the essence of who they were, had been ground down into something smooth, featureless, and blank.
But those were the lucky ones.
There were others... the transformed. Eyes sharpened with a dark, calculating edge, an intelligence promising danger beneath calm. Where Movements carried a ruthless, unsettling grace, calculated and unyielding.
Something had stirred, dormant brutality rising fast. A kill switch flipped, survival instincts locked in. The transformation was permanent. The former self, lost. Darkness was now an endless resident.
Boots soundless on sterile panels. No tremor betrayed. Palms clenched against brushed steel, desperate for an anchor. Corridor chill masked a simmering dread barely contained.
Seamless matte walls, cold, accusing, engineered to reflect nothing but control. No art. No color. Expression purged as sedition. Silence was not sacred but weaponized, a calculated pressure meant to crush rebellion before it forms.
Even the ventilation, once a dull comfort, betrayed its phantom hum, amplifying the silence. Not muffled, but suppressed by design. A reminder of unseen forces pressing down, choking every impulse that dared defy conformity.
Encounters with Jack Smack remained brief, distant glimpses through guards and glowing data walls. Height imposing, power coiled beneath a tailored suit. Broad shoulders, lean waist, a face of sharp angles and control, framed by a disciplined goatee.
Undeniably handsome, but not soft. A beauty forged in fire, sharpening with time into something thrilling, dangerous. Storm-colored eyes, unsmiling, unflinching, even as lips curved in practiced charm.
A noticeable tension vibrated around him, a predator's stillness, the presence of a man who commanded without words, whose hush resonated with absolute authority.
They called it charisma. The word was whispered in briefings, uttered with a reverence bordering on awe by his followers. But charisma felt inadequate, a pale imitation of the magnetic force he exuded.
A kind of gravity, silent, immense, inescapable. A force that warped perception and bent reality in proximity. Not mere charm, but a primal power, pulling like a moth to a burning flame.
Without warning, the metal door slid open, automatically, exhaling as air shifted around its frame.
The voice came first, a velvet rasp sliding across skin like a warning, a dark promise uttered before visibility.
The single word, drawn out, caressed the air, tightening a knot in the stomach. A voice that could coax confessions from stone, crafted to slip past armor and nestle in the mind.
No chase was required; waiting, poised, and certain, that voice served as lure in his silent snare.
The words lingered with twisted intent. A sharp shiver traced Gene's spine, a conflicted pulse of fear tangled with a dark, compelling urge she couldn't deny.
She stepped through the threshold, her uniform now feeling too stiff and bright. The room was not what she expected.
There was no cold steel, no harsh lighting. It was warm, bathed in a gentle, amber glow emanating from hidden sources.
The light made the air itself seem soft, almost cozy, like stepping into a private study.
There was a leather couch, deep and inviting, positioned opposite a short polished table. A single glass, already filled with something red that looked like wine, sat waiting on the table's surface. And there was Jack.
Not standing or pacing with the nervous energy of power, he sat in a matching armchair, relaxed yet alert. No rise upon her entrance, a subtle assertion of dominance, but a gesture toward the couch across with an open hand.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, the silent command hanging in the air.
His voice was calm, almost courteous, but the faint curl of his lips carried a stony warning. His eyes locked onto hers, unblinking, calculating, and unnerving.
She moved to the spot, fingers brushing soft couch fabric as cushions yielded with expensive ease. The unexpected comfort didn't relax, only sharpened the edge.
This wasn't how commands came here. Familiar with crisp protocols and direct orders in echoing halls or tactical feeds, this was something else. He said, leaning his chair back, observing her with that unnervingly steady gaze. His voice was conversational, almost casual.
She didn't respond, unsure what was expected. Her training dictated silence unless questioned, but the atmosphere felt too intimate for her to adhere to standard procedure.
He continued, his voice syrupy and unsettling.
He paused, letting the words settle.
Gene swallowed, her throat feeling parched. She managed, the words feeling inadequate and stiff.
Fire crackled, flames casting dancing shadows across Jack's face, sharp cheekbones, and a predatory gleam in his eyes. A subtle lean forward, nearly imperceptible, tightened the atmosphere like a noose. Controlled stillness radiated, a coiled spring of energy that made neck hairs prickle.
Jack's voice, laced with easy charm, dropped to a deep resonant hum vibrating in the chest.
He paused, letting the weighty implication linger. The room's warmth, once a haven, was now a flimsy stage facade masking cruelty. Jack's affable mask slipped, revealing merciless ambition beneath.
A cruel smile flickered, a glimpse of sadism savoring power. Watching Gene squirm, noting the flicker of apprehension in her eyes, pleased him.
The last words were delivered with a chillingly soft cadence, each syllable dripping with a veiled threat.
Not blind to harsh realities, official hierarchy charts masked a complex web of power. Beneath the veneer of service lay hard pragmatism and ruthless choices.
Selective rule enforcement and whispered tales of disappearances revealed a power that didn't rise in neat pyramids but thrived like a wild grapevine, its tendrils weaving through shadowed corridors, binding secrets in a tangled web.
Alliances were formed and dissolved based on individual ambition. Jack, she suspected, was an influential player in this game, capable of both extraordinary support and ruthless manipulation.
Gene met Jack's gaze, expression neutral, likely a blank slate to him, perhaps naive in her calm.
She wouldn't flinch or reveal her hand, she said steadily. She let the words hang, offering nothing more, watching Jack's reaction.
In this world, ambiguity was both a weapon and a shield. Her belief that she could mask inexperience was naïve; to Jack, it was obvious. She refused to give him the satisfaction of intimidation or eagerness.
Instead, she would observe, analyze, and wait for the right moment to align or strike. The game had begun, and despite her poker face, innocence might already cost her.
He asked, his tone shifting again, becoming sharper, testing.
She replied that second, the standard response ingrained deep in her training.
His tone clipped, and the casual pretense dropped.
From beneath the table, he produced a small, thin tablet, used for encrypted data and sensitive communications. At his touch, it flickered to life, casting a faint blue-white glow into the amber room. A video began playing, and the device's hum was barely audible over the room's manufactured quiet.
The footage was grainy and unstable, likely from a hidden camera. It showed a familiar corridor deep within the facility. A boy ran through it, quick, desperate.
A hybrid, missing overt vampiric traits but marked by subtle genetic alterations: faintly glowing eyes, unnatural speed.
Two White Angels pursued, uniforms stark against the muted backdrop. A brief scuffle erupted; white uniforms converged. The boy collapsed, limbs not twisted but prone, stunned or tranquilized, not dead.
The screen froze on the boy's still form. He seemed young. Frightened. Confused.
Jack tapped the screen again, the image holding steady. His voice became cool and devoid of emotion.
Gene blinked, and the image of the boy seared into her vision. She asked, her voice a whisper, clinging to standard protocol.
Jack's expression remained unchanged. He paused, letting the term linger.
Leaning forward, his voice dropped to a secretive tone. His unsmiling eyes locked onto hers, holding her captive.
She shook her head, her mind reeling. Hybrids were supposed to be biological weapons and tools, not beings capable of subjective experience. Dreaming... was a definite human trait.
He said, his voice soft but carrying the weight of absolute finality.
Gene peered at the tablet again, at the frozen image of the boy. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, perhaps seventeen at most. His face was pale, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.
He seemed vulnerable. He seemed almost human. The thought struck her with the force of a physical blow.
She asked the question, escaping before she could stop it. Why choose her, three months in, for something so... unsanctioned?
Jack rose with smooth precision, deliberate, controlled, like a snake uncoiling from repose. Not just standing, but asserting presence.
He said, not an insult, but an assessment, maybe even a compliment in his twisted lexicon.
He walked toward her at a slow, smooth pace, gaze unwavering.
Stopping in front of her, looking down, he hardened his voice, losing the deceptive softness.
Gene stiffened, her back straightening on the plush couch. She stated, the words were tight, formal.
Her training was for combat, for defense against the recognized threats, for following clear chains of command and documented protocols.
Jack said, taking another step closer, invading her personal space. His hand lifted, slow and deliberate, reaching out to brush a stray strand of her hair behind her ear.
The touch was calculated, intimate, unnervingly gentle, yet devoid of warmth. It was a claim, not a caress.
He murmured, his face closer now than he felt comfortable, his breath a faint warmth against her temple that seemed to linger a moment too long.
He whispered, voice deep and rumbling, vibrating in his chest, a calculated invasion.
She flinched at his intensity, the unnerving combination of clinical command and predatory intimacy, but she didn't step back, couldn't. Her body felt paralyzed, caught in that gravitational pull he exerted.
This wasn't seduction, she realized clearly. Not desire, affection, or lust, this was conquest. An assertion of absolute power, proof that any line could be crossed, anything taken, anyone bent to will, even in the most personal ways.
Jack didn't seek connection; he sought proof, proof that he could.
He added, voice softening, a false reassurance that only deepened the threat.
His eyes locked onto hers, holding her captive.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. The words were lodged somewhere between her throat and her heart. But he seemed to take her silence, her frozen stillness, as agreement.
He stepped back, breaking the closeness and returning to relaxed control. A tap on the tablet erased the boy's image, replaced by a new file loading, a profile: picture, bio data, and known associations.
Number 8. Older, colder than remembered. Profile confirmed probable hybrid physiology via recent scans, with a complicated history tied to the Lennox estate, now under increased surveillance.
Jack said, voice detached and clinical.
Gene stared at Number 8's image, the stillness in his eyes familiar. Intelligence hid beneath layers of practiced obedience and quiet servitude. Memories surfaced from time with Maisie Lennox, her servant, her shadow. A quiet Alucard with an unnerving presence, poised yet carrying a protective, sorrowful weight.
She asked, the name escaping her lips before she could control it.
Jack paused. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, chilling her to the bone. He said, the word stripped of any warmth or value beyond utility.
His gaze hardened.
Gene felt the last vestige of warmth drain from the room, replaced by an icy, creeping dread that had nothing to do with the ventilation. The cozy facade was gone, replaced by a brutal reality.
Jack stepped back, folding his arms across his chest, his posture definitive.
She stood, her limbs feeling stiff, uncooperative, like a startled animal tethered to a stake.
He didn't touch her again, and didn't need to. The threat wasn't external anymore; it had already been spoken, delivered, and somehow, irrevocably shortened the leash she didn't even know she was on, leaving her with a terrifyingly small radius of freedom.
Leaving the Quiet Room, she stepped into the matte-steel corridor, something unseen pressing beneath her skin, tightening deep in her core.
The room's silence had given birth to a silence within, a void deeper than the hum of the ventilation. Not just absence of sound, but absence of something vital. Something fundamental.
A chilling sense of dissolution spread, a slow-motion implosion of identity. The internal compass spun out, no longer pointing to right or wrong, only disorientation. She'd entered as a White Angel, sure of purpose and purity.
Now, reflected in sterile steel, stood a stranger, a hollow shell, something altered beyond return. The corridor's emptiness mirrored the growing chasm in her chest, a blank canvas where an unknown self was beginning to take shape..