The main console screen sprang to life, displaying a single, stark project title:
PROJECT ECHELON, HEAD RESEARCHER: DR. SELENE MARROW
A frozen unease crawled upward through her spine, each vertebra awakening with cautious anticipation.
Her hands, suddenly leaden, trembled so violently she could barely control the cursor. The name reverberated in the silence, a phantom echo that stirred something ancient and unsettling deep within her.
It was a blank slate, utterly meaningless, yet it radiated the undeniable weight of forbidden knowledge, the key to unlocking a world shrouded in secrets. Her finger hovered over the most recent entry, each pulse a frantic drumbeat against the abyss of the unknown.
She hesitated, a whisper of self-preservation urging her to flee, but the irresistible pull of the mystery held her captive, a moth drawn to a deadly flame. With a sharp inhale, she braced herself, the click of the mouse a gunshot in the expectant air.
Video Log 641-B
A video feed flickered into existence on the main monitor. A woman appeared, with sharp features, immaculate blond hair in a ponytail, penetrating green eyes, a crisp white lab coat, silver-rimmed glasses that reflected the harsh light, and a voice like stainless steel, precise and utterly devoid of warmth.
"Batch 7-Alpha successfully initiated bonding simulation," the woman, Dr. Marrow, stated clinically, looking directly into the camera as if reporting to an unseen superior.
"Behavioral patterns suggest full imprinting is successful. Alpha Number 8 exhibits adaptive memory reformation under duress, proving resilience to external psychological stressors and environmental variables."
Gene's breath hitched. Igor. So that was who Jack meant.
Marrow continued, her voice utterly detached. "Subject 3, Maisie Lennox, remains unaware of her proximity role within the framework. Psychological seeding is progressing on schedule. Infiltration protocols of key elite networks nearing completion, utilising Subject 3 as the primary vector."
Maisie. Unaware? A vector?
"Field agents report no deviation from established operational mandates," Dr. Marrow concluded, her gaze unwavering. "Director Smack continues to serve effectively as the designated figurehead. Operational decisions remain centralized under my direct supervision. Any breach protocols will be handled with… surgical efficiency."
Gene recoiled from the console as if burned. The video log flickered on, a phantom voice she could no longer register. Her blood wasn't just hammering now, it was a full-blown rebellion, a thunderous stampede against the walls of her skull.
The sound threatened to shatter her eardrums, a deafening roar that not only drowned out the log but threatened to swallow her whole, leaving her adrift in a terrifying ocean of internal noise. Each pulse was a hammer blow, each breath a desperate gasp for air in the face of the encroaching storm.
Jack might wear the White Angels' colors, but he was no leader. He was a puppet, a hollow facade. The real power didn't reside in his brute strength or carefully rehearsed speeches. He was a mask, expertly crafted, concealing the chilling truth: he was being played. He danced, oh so convincingly, but the strings weren't tied to ambition or loyalty.
They were thin, invisible threads, controlled by something far more clinical, more terrifying than any gangland boss. The hand wielding those threads, the mind orchestrating the chaos, belonged to one person: Dr. Selene Marrow. And beneath her cool, precise gaze, Jack wasn't a man, but a disposable tool, a screaming void filled with her terrifying will.
She was the architect. The true power behind the facade.
The truth about Igor wasn't a whisper of rebellion on the wind, but a scream echoing from the depths of a twisted creation. He wasn't a runaway, a shadow flitting to freedom. No. He had been unleashed.
The locks hadn't given way; they had dissolved at a touch, revealing the meticulously crafted purpose that lay beneath. Igor wasn't escaping being an Alucard; he was the most lethal extension.
Forged in the crucible of bonding simulations, hammered into shape by the relentless pressure of memory reformation, he was a weaponized empathy, a Trojan horse of the soul.
He wasn't just a player in a game; he was the carefully manufactured element in a grander, horrifying design, a key turning in a lock that would unleash something unspeakable. And the implications? They clawed at the mind, chilling it to the bone.
Maisie was nothing but a pawn, her strings pulled without mercy, stripped of fury, strategy, or any spark of life beyond obedience. No, Maisie was a mere anomaly, a glitch deliberately injected into the system.
She had been meticulously crafted and groomed for a single, devastating infiltration. And the cruelest twist? Even her desires, her deepest motivations, were likely nothing more than phantom limbs, manufactured yearnings planted within her mind like insidious seeds.
She thought she was acting, but she was only ever being acted upon.
And they didn't know.
Igor didn't know he was a product. Maisie didn't know she was a vector. They didn't know any of it. They were walking blindly through a world manufactured around them, their struggles and triumphs merely data points for Dr. Marrow.
A jolt of cold fury, keener than any static burst, cleared Gene's head. Action. Now.
A clammy sweat coated her palms as her fingers fumbled at the belt buckle.
Her fingers, clumsy and traitorous with fear, scrabbled for the encrypted drive – the one Jack himself had entrusted her with. A lifeline. She slammed the drive into the console port, the plastic clicking into place with a sound that echoed in the oppressive silence of the server room.
The screen flickered to life, displaying the labyrinthine directory structure of the lab's main server. Everything. She needed everything. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging her onward.
Logs, surveillance footage, personnel dossiers riddled with secrets, the dark underbelly of their projects… Names, fail-safes, the chilling blueprints of this insidious place, research notes overflowing with twisted ambition… it all poured into the tiny chip, a volatile torrent of damning evidence against them.
The progress bar, a cruel mockery of her desperation, inched forward with agonizing slowness. Each percentage point felt like a lifetime, a gamble against the rising tide of discovery.
Every second stretched, taut and dangerous, threatening to snap. Any moment now, alarms could erupt, doors could slam shut, and the hunters would become the hunted. This wasn't just downloading files; it was stealing their future, and the price of failure was etched in the fear clawing at her throat.