Agent Carter walked down the access corridor to the F.Y.D. offices beside Yadson Coytt, his most recent partner. Yadson, a thirty-one-year-old man, maintained an impeccable appearance with his tailored suit and thin-framed glasses. His jet-black hair, straight and dense, neatly parted on both sides, gave him an air of strict control. Their footsteps echoed across the polished floor. Morning sunlight still struck the glass walls; Carter carried the folder under his arm as if it were an uncomfortable piece of evidence he would rather not look at.
—You could've killed him right there —Yadson said without lifting his gaze, adjusting his glasses—. Why didn't you shoot him? The doctor got defiant and threatened us.
Carter didn't respond immediately. He stared ahead, weighing something, then sighed.
—I didn't want to kill him —he finally said, his tone cold—. Killing a doctor is a waste.
Yadson snorted, skeptical.
—If Agent One had been the one to deal with him while he was acting like that, Hunt wouldn't still be breathing. The Old Man gets irritated easily and doesn't let himself be intimidated by a doctor.
—And what would he do about the threat?
—He'd handle it. Like he always does.
Yadson swallowed.
—Agent One is extreme. But I prefer options. We might be able to use Hunt later. He's reasonable.
—And if he tried again? —Yadson asked.
—He won't —Carter replied sharply.
—How can you be so sure?
—I saw it in his eyes. The desperation of someone who realizes he can't do anything. Hunt understands the situation Sarac is going through right now.
Without another word, they headed toward Agent One's office. When they reached it, they noticed the door was slightly ajar. Carter slowed mid-step and heard voices through the gap. Peering inside, he saw Agent One and one of the doctors who had attended the meeting days earlier.
—It's one of the scientists —Carter whispered—. They'll take their time. I'm going to the bathroom. Wait here—we need to talk to the Old Man —he murmured to Yadson, who nodded.
Yadson leaned his back against the doorframe, listening to the voices inside. He immediately understood what was happening. He activated his Inmo and typed a quick message:
"An opportunity has arisen."
He sent it with an expressionless face.
This might interest the boss, he thought.
Minutes Earlier
Antón felt his stomach tighten as the F.Y.D. elevator ascended. He rarely set foot in the central offices. The walls of glass and steel made him feel as if he were climbing into a hawks' nest.
The polished titanium doors of the federal floor slid open with a mechanical sound.
—Doctor Marsol —said a woman in a dark blue suit.
Antón nodded. He was led into an office where the only occupant was Agent One, with his trademark slicked-back hair and gray suit, no tie. His gaze was severe. He didn't rise from his seat.
—Agent —Antón said the moment he crossed the threshold—. I need a small portion of Compound T. It's for my brother. We don't have time.
Agent One, a man of imposing presence, studied him calmly.
—I've already been informed of your brother's accident —he said—. But first, take a seat, Doctor.
Antón took a deep breath and sat.
—We can't give it to you —Agent One replied dryly—. Handing that compound to a civilian—especially one registered as a hospital patient—would be catastrophic. If he recovered overnight, there would be questions. Rumors.
—We could transfer him to the laboratories here. I know the F.Y.D. can arrange that.
—Doctor, it's not that simple —Agent One said, rubbing his face.
—Please, the situation is critical —Antón said, his voice cracking—. It's the only way he'll live. I'll do any genetic work you ask. Anything. Just save him.
Agent One sighed, glancing toward the far end of the office. His foot began tapping rhythmically as he fell silent, processing the information.
Antón lowered his gaze, clenching his knuckles. Without realizing it, he raised his voice.
—My brother has very little chance of survival! —His voice broke with rage—. I want him to live well! I'll do any other genetic work you need—anything!
Agent One leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands.
—Please! —Antón begged—. It's the only way he can have a normal life!
Agent One sighed again, an annoyed sound.
—This isn't a decision I make alone. A committee would have to approve it. However… I will present your case at the next meeting. I can't promise they'll accept it. But please, Doctor, lower your voice. I understand desperation. I understand the pain of wanting to save someone you love. I understand it very well.
Antón swallowed. He didn't fully grasp the situation, but he nodded.
—In exchange, I have two conditions. First, you will be immediately available to work on any biological compound we assign you. Second, the Genetic Cleaner project becomes exclusive property of the F.Y.D. as of this moment.
—As of now? —Antón asked—. And if the committee rejects the request?
Agent One's gaze turned icy.
—Doctor, my influence has a price. Simply by risking my reputation and taking this request to the committee, I will negotiate by offering them the Cleaner. If they say yes, we save your brother. If they say no… at least you'll know we tried everything. Do we have a deal, or would you rather leave?
—I created the Genetic Cleaner to heal Joseph's condition… —Antón whispered—. Will he at least be able to use it?
—No. With this deal, the Cleaner never leaves the F.Y.D.
Antón understood everything. Agent One was using him—but at this point, it no longer mattered. What mattered was Joseph.
—I accept —he whispered.
Agent One nodded and shook his hand formally.
—Sometimes, Doctor, the comfort of knowing we tried is all we have left. I know that.
As Antón exited, he passed a door left ajar. He didn't notice the figures standing by the frame: Yadson and Carter, who had already returned from the bathroom. Antón walked on with his gaze lowered, unaware of them, as if the floor itself were swallowing him.
Back to the Present
After watching Antón leave, Carter entered the office alone. Yadson followed a few seconds later.
—Any trouble, Twenty-One? —Agent One asked.
—Sir. I've brought the DNA analysis results from the incident in Zone Seven —Carter said, handing him the folder.
—Damn it —Agent One muttered, standing up for the first time. The air in the room grew heavy.
—Good. I want you and your team back in the forest. Sweep the area again. Turn over every rock. Enter every cave. Check the sewers. Interview the locals.
Carter nodded.
—And you'll be taking Thirty-Nine with you.
—Agent Thirty-Nine? —Carter protested.
—Yes. He's ready for field missions.
—Sir, with all due respect, he's a convict —Carter said, clenching his fist.
—I don't care. He's a weapon—just like you—and we're going to use his strength. No complaints. Is that clear?
—Yes, sir —Carter replied through clenched teeth.
—Any questions, Twenty-One?
—No… well, yes. About the scientist who was just here.
—Doctor Marsol? Go on.
—Are you really going to ask the committee about using Compound T on a civilian?
—Even if I pity Dr. Marsol's situation, no. I won't. I only wanted to calm him down.
—Besides, the council would never approve that —Yadson added.
—Exactly —Agent One said—. The doctor is intelligent, but naïve when it comes to how the world works.
—Understood, sir. I'll take my leave —Carter said firmly.
Once Carter and Yadson left, Agent One remained at his desk, staring at a photograph of four smiling young people.
—This will guarantee Sarac's peace, won't it, boys? —he murmured to himself.
Antón descended in the elevator. With each passing floor, he left behind the intimidating opulence of the federal offices and entered the world he knew: the sterile, white, cold underground of the F.Y.D. laboratories.
He stepped into the corridor and walked mechanically toward the lockers. He removed his jacket and put on his white lab coat. As he buttoned it, he tried to convince himself everything was fine—that the deal with Agent One was an opportunity.
Entering the main laboratory, he was greeted by the hum of machines and the smell of ozone. The place was so brightly lit that shadows didn't exist. Workstations floated on central islands, surrounded by refrigerator-sized genetic sequencers humming hypnotically as they processed terabytes of human and animal code.
At the far end, behind a thick plastic curtain, lay the Wet Zone. Containment cages housed test subjects. The soundscape was constant chaos: heart monitors beeping, claws scraping metal, and ventilation systems roaring as they struggled to filter biological particles.
—Doctor Marsol?
A familiar voice stopped him.
It was Dr. Marcos Baruj, head of research, with his distinctive curly hair.
—What are you doing here, Antón? I gave you the week off because of your brother. You should be with your family.
Antón forced a tired smile, picking up a notebook from a nearby table.
—Don't worry, doctor. I needed to clear my head. I'll go to the hospital later to relieve my grandfather. And I know the workload ahead is heavy. I'd rather get a head start.
Baruj sighed and nodded.
—I appreciate the commitment, but don't overdo it. By the way, to ease the load, we're hiring an additional bioengineer. And I've scheduled a consultation with a specialist—Doctor Elías Kovak. He's a leading expert in neurology and brain mapping. We'll need fresh minds for the upcoming protocol changes.
—Understood. Thank you.
Antón walked away before Baruj could ask more questions. He wandered the corridors, scribbling notes in his notebook just to keep his hands busy, until he reached the Secure Storage Sector.
The massive iron door stood open, as it usually did during operating hours. Antón stepped inside. The air was colder.
The walls were lined with reinforced containment cylinders—but his eyes went straight to the central row.
There they were.
Armored glass containers filled with a dense, slightly viscous red liquid that seemed to pulse under the white neon lights. The label on the metal read:
COMPOUND T – CT/N721
Antón froze. His reflection merged with the red liquid. He was so close. Just one vial. A single sample could change Joseph's life. His hand involuntarily dropped the notebook onto a table as he stepped closer. The laboratory noise faded away. Only Compound T existed.
—Don't do it now. There are seven cameras in this room.
The voice sounded right behind his ear.
Antón jumped, his heart nearly bursting from his chest. He spun around.
It was Doctor Pelt Thach.
Thach stared at him with an unreadable expression. His distinctive red hair was messy now, and he wore the strange black leather gloves he'd started using since the last executive meeting, clashing violently with the pristine white of his lab coat.
—I—I wasn't… —Antón stammered, pale—. I was just checking inventory notes.
Thach let out a dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes.
—Relax, Doctor Marsol. I was joking.
Antón exhaled, trying to steady himself, but noticed Thach was still watching him, barely blinking. Something about him had felt off since the meeting—an electric, unsettling presence.
—I heard you had a family accident —Thach said, moving closer to the containers without looking at the liquid—. How's your brother?
—He survived —Antón replied tensely—. But he's critical.
—I see… —Thach slowly turned his head toward Compound T—. That explains the way you were looking at it.
—No—no, not at all —Antón rushed—. Just scientific curiosity.
—Don't worry, Antón. I won't tell anyone —Thach whispered, stepping closer. His voice dropped, conspiratorial—. It's normal to worry about those we love. It's torture to see the solution so close, within reach, yet forbidden because of something "greater," isn't it?
The precision of Thach's words disarmed Antón. He felt exposed. Vulnerable.
—I spoke with Agent One —Antón confessed quietly.
Thach raised an eyebrow.
—So you spoke with the Devil.
—Yes… I asked for access to the compound for my brother. Apparently, there's a possibility. He's going to present my case to the committee.
Thach was silent for a few seconds. Then his expression shifted into a strange smile.
—Ah… that's good —he said, though caution laced his tone—. I hope they approve it. But be careful, Antón. Very careful with any deal you make on that upper floor.
Antón nodded, a chill running through him. Before leaving, he paused and turned back.
—Pelt… how did you know there are seven cameras here?
Thach turned, adjusting his black gloves with a slow, confident motion overflowing with arrogance. A sharp smile spread across his face.
—I'm very observant, Doctor Marsol.
He held Antón's gaze a second too long, then brushed past him and exited the room, leaving Antón alone with the hum of machines and the red glow of Compound T.
Night had fallen heavily over the city when Antón left the F.Y.D. facilities. After endless hours of work—his mind hiding from reality behind formulas and microscopes—he finally headed to the General Hospital.
He walked through the white corridors, ignoring the smell of disinfectant and illness. Reaching the intensive care room, he paused for a second before gently pushing the door open.
The room was bathed in dim, bluish artificial light from the monitors.
The sight stole his breath, as if seeing it for the first time.
There lay Joseph.
His body rested motionless on the bed, transformed into a sculpture of pain and medical technology. He was wrapped head to toe in bandages—a white mummy on white sheets. Thick external fixation screws pierced the bandages and flesh of his arms and legs, anchored into bone to stabilize multiple fractures; the metal gleamed coldly under the lights.
Cables connected to bio-gel patches on his chest, and a thick tube emerged from his throat to help him breathe. His head was fully wrapped, leaving only his right eye exposed—closed and swollen. His legs were suspended by a motorized pulley system that hummed softly.
Antón stepped closer and noticed the cruel details: small blooms of fresh blood seeping through the bandages on Joseph's forearm and thigh—proof that his body was still fighting not to collapse.
Beside the bed, in a worn vinyl recliner, sat Georg. The grandfather slept awkwardly, head slumped, hands clasped in his lap, exhausted by the vigil.
A painful knot formed in Antón's throat. He approached slowly and gently touched the only part of Joseph's cheek free of screws and wires.
The skin was feverish.
Then he turned to Georg and softly shook his shoulder.
—Grandpa…
Georg jolted awake, eyes wide.
—What? What happened? Is he okay? —he asked, frantically checking the monitors.
—Easy, easy —Antón whispered, forcing a calming smile—. It's me. It's okay.
Georg exhaled, rubbing his trembling face.
—Oh… it's you, son. I must've fallen asleep.
—I'm here now, Grandpa. Go home and sleep in a real bed. I'll take the night shift.
Georg tried to protest, but exhaustion was etched into his deep wrinkles.
—But you worked all day…
—It doesn't matter. I need to be here. Please.
Georg didn't argue further. He stood with difficulty, his knees cracking, and hugged Antón tightly—an embrace smelling of old coffee and worry.
—Did the doctors say anything? —Antón asked.
—He's stable. His body is strong; it'll hold. But, Antón… we have to make a decision.
Antón took a deep breath.
—Yes, Grandpa. We'll talk about it later. Although… —he stopped short.
—Yes? Tell me.
—Nothing. Rest, Grandpa. Bless you.
—Alright, son. Thank you. —Georg glanced once more at Joseph—. God bless you both.
—Rest, Grandpa.
Georg left the room, dragging his feet. The door closed softly, leaving Antón alone with the rhythmic hum of machines and the hiss of the ventilator.
Antón pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. He stared at his brother's closed eye, at the metal screws piercing his skin. His life hung on a decision.
The meeting with Agent One, the sacrifice of his project—it all weighed heavily on his shoulders. But seeing Joseph like this, he knew there was no other choice.
He leaned forward, bringing his mouth close to his brother's bandaged ear, and whispered:
—Joseph… there's an opportunity.
The heart monitor was the only reply.
Beep… beep… beep…
—I've found a chance for your body to recover. For you to walk again. Forgive me—I won't be able to cure your condition, Jos —Antón's voice trembled with desperate hope—. But you won't be trapped in a chair or inside metal. I promise.
He gently squeezed his brother's inert hand, careful not to disturb the IV lines.
—Just one thing… please, hold on. You have to live, Joseph. You have to live.
Antón rested his forehead against the edge of the bed, closed his eyes, and let the machines be the only answer in the darkness of the room.