The Lare Bio Genetics department existed in a state of perpetual controlled perfection.
Inside, everything was precise and quiet. The air carried the faint scent of sterile citrus and ionized oxygen, the kind used to keep microbe levels close to zero. Rows of automated arms moved within sealed chambers, testing compounds that glowed faintly under ultraviolet light—blues and greens that pulsed like bioluminescent sea creatures trapped behind glass.
Staff members in crisp white coats spoke in low tones, their voices nearly lost under the soft hum of cooling systems that maintained the exact temperature and humidity required for their delicate work. Digital panels mounted on every wall tracked chemical stability, energy output, and neural compatibility in steady streams of data that scrolled past like electronic waterfalls.
At the building's heart, dominating the wide atrium like some technological altar, stood the Core.
It was a cylindrical glass unit, roughly eight feet tall and three feet in diameter, filled with what could only be described as fluid light. The substance inside pulsed gently, rhythmically, like the beating of some crystalline heart. What made it truly mesmerizing were the reddish-black whips that coiled through the luminescent medium—tendrils of concentrated energy that moved with an organic quality that seemed at odds with their contained environment. They writhed and twisted, never quite touching the glass walls, creating patterns that shifted and reformed in endless variation.
Visitors often paused there, transfixed. Even at rest, the energy shimmered in colors that defied easy description—hues that shifted like oil under sunlight, or like the aurora borealis compressed into a single vertical column. It was beautiful in a way that made the primitive parts of the brain slightly uneasy, the same instinctive wariness humans felt when confronted with deep ocean trenches or the vastness of space.
The institute's motto gleamed on a silver plaque near the entrance: "To Restore, To Reinvent, To Renew."
From the outside, Lare Bio Genetics was a monument to human progress—clean, hopeful, and absolutely in control of what it created.
Or so it appeared.
Today the atrium was busier than usual. A cluster of researchers stood at various distances from the Core, notepads in hand, scribbling observations with the intense focus of scholars studying sacred text. Their faces held that particular expression of scientific attentiveness—eyes slightly narrowed, brows furrowed in concentration, the rest of the world forgotten in the pursuit of understanding.
One woman stood close enough that the pulsing light painted her face in alternating shades of crimson and shadow. She was making rapid sketches, trying to capture the movement patterns of the energy whips. A man nearby held some kind of specialized scanner, taking readings and muttering numbers under his breath. Another researcher was recording video on a tablet, her thumb adjusting settings every few seconds to compensate for the Core's fluctuating luminosity.
The atmosphere was one of reverent industry—people engaged in work they considered vital, perhaps world-changing.
I walked in, my footsteps echoing softly on the polished floor despite my best efforts at silence.
The effect was immediate. Heads turned. Work paused. And then, like some bizarre corporate choreography, people began acknowledging my presence with slight bows—not the deep, formal kind you'd see in some cultures, but the abbreviated Western version that suggested respect without subservience.
"Mr. Isley."
"Good morning, Mr. Isley."
"Sir."
I nodded back, uncomfortable as always with the deference. I'd built some impressive robotics, sure, but the reverence people showed sometimes felt wildly disproportionate to the actual accomplishment. We were all just people trying to solve problems. The hierarchy felt artificial.
But then I saw who else was in the atrium, and my discomfort crystallized into something sharper.
Five people stood in a loose formation near the Core, positioned slightly apart from the other researchers. Two women and three men, all dressed in the standard white coats of the department. But they weren't the focus. They were the entourage.
The woman standing in front of them commanded attention without effort.
She was in her late forties, though considerable money had been spent ensuring she didn't look it. Her attire alone marked her as different—a tailored designer suit in dove gray that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary, worn over a silk blouse in pale lavender. Subtle jewelry glinted at her throat and wrists, the kind of understated pieces that somehow screamed wealth louder than anything ostentatious ever could.
Her face was a study in surgical intervention done by expensive hands. The skin was too smooth, too tight across her cheekbones, with that peculiar quality that came from fillers and lifts and treatments whose names I probably couldn't pronounce. Her lips had that enhanced fullness that never quite looked natural in motion, and her eyes, while sharp and intelligent, were surrounded by skin that simply didn't match the expression lines that should have been there.
Her body followed the same expensive pattern—maintained through personal trainers and nutritionists and whatever other specialists the wealthy employed to hold back time. She stood with the posture of someone who'd had deportment drilled into them from childhood, spine straight, shoulders back, chin at that exact angle that conveyed confidence bordering on superiority.
Everything about her screamed money and privilege and the kind of power that came from being born into the right family.
Mrs. Rebecca Mallory. Theodore Halvern's daughter. Augustine's sister. And by all accounts, a woman who'd spent her entire life leveraging those connections into personal empire-building within the family corporation.
She was looking at me with an expression I could only describe as amused, like a cat that had just cornered a particularly interesting mouse.
"Mr. Isley," she said, her voice carrying that particular upper-class accent that suggested boarding schools and country clubs and summers in the Hamptons. "You always have such a knack for surprising me. Every single day brings some new revelation about your capabilities."
She took a few steps closer, her heels clicking on the floor, the five people behind her moving in synchronized formation like well-trained ducklings.
"If I had known you possessed this much talent back then, I would have welcomed you with open arms into our little enterprise." Her smile widened, revealing teeth too white and too perfect to be anything but expensive dental work. "But you know, I did have my doubts initially. Your well-renowned family background gave me certain... expectations. Certain judgments about your character."
The way she said it, with that particular curl of her lips and glint in her eyes, left no doubt about the nature of those judgments.
"I rather imagined you'd be nothing more than a hotheaded, spoiled brat coasting on daddy's money and family connections. The sort of boy who's never had to work for anything in his privileged little life."
Her tone was condescending wrapped in sarcasm, delivered with the kind of cruel smile that suggested she was enjoying every word. The facial expression that accompanied it was masterful—eyebrows slightly raised in mock surprise, lips pursed in exaggerated contemplation, head tilted just so to convey that she was being generous even acknowledging my existence.
The five people behind her chuckled, right on cue. It was the practiced laugh of subordinates who knew when their superior expected amusement, regardless of whether anything funny had actually been said.
Something hot flared in my chest. The presumption, the casual dismissal, the way she'd managed to insult both me and my family while maintaining that veneer of professional courtesy—it triggered every defensive instinct I had.
"Well, Mrs. Mallory," I said, keeping my voice level and polite, "just as when I first saw you, I immediately imagined you were one of those perpetually pampered types who've spent so long being catered to that they've lost all concept of what real work actually entails. The kind who mistakes sitting in meetings and signing papers for genuine contribution."
The effect was electric.
Mallory's smile froze, her face going rigid in a way that suggested whatever cosmetic work she'd had done was limiting her range of expressions. The pleasant mask slipped, revealing something colder underneath.
The five people behind her reacted instantly. Two of them actually took a half-step forward, fingers pointing at me in accusatory gestures, mouths opening to voice objections. The other three's faces contorted with shock and outrage, like I'd just committed some unforgivable breach of protocol.
The rest of the atrium had gone completely silent. Researchers who'd been absorbed in their work moments ago now stood frozen, staring at the scene unfolding near the Core. Notepads forgotten. Scanners lowered. Every eye locked on the confrontation.
Someone in the crowd whispered, probably thinking they were being discrete but audible in the sudden quiet: "There was a rumor this Elijah fellow is a rather arrogant type, but I didn't know he was *this* arrogant."
Another voice, male, responded in an equally failed attempt at subtlety: "Tell me about it. To dare talk back to the mother of the current CEO of Halvern Consortium? The guy sure has balls of steel."
A third person, a woman based on the pitch, chimed in: "If I was this Elijah guy, I would be incredibly careful not to get into unnecessary trouble within the company. His fiancée Chloe Halvern is apparently currently in some psychiatrist facility getting treatment. And while she's gone, her aunt Mallory—who's rumored to have always disliked her—is currently managing multiple departments with her son, the CEO. That's a dangerous position to be in."
"I heard Elijah and Sir Augustine have a good relationship though," another voice offered. "Maybe that'll protect him?"
I heard all of it, every whispered assessment and speculation about my prospects. But I kept my eyes on Mallory, refusing to be the first to look away.
She stared back at me for long moments, her expression unreadable behind the surgical perfection of her face. The silence stretched, becoming uncomfortable, tension building in the space between us like static electricity before a storm.
And then, slowly, impossibly, her lips curled into a grin.
It was wrong. That was the only word for it. The expression didn't match the moment, didn't fit the context of what had just happened. It was too wide, too knowing, too satisfied in a way that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I felt my skin crawl, an involuntary physical response to whatever I was seeing in that grin. It reminded me uncomfortably of the Azaqor—that same sense of something wearing a human expression without fully understanding what it meant, like a mask that didn't quite fit right.
"You know, boy," Mallory said, still wearing that unsettling grin, "you have the bearing of my late father, Theodore. The way you carry yourself, the way you speak, that stubborn refusal to back down even when it would be wiser to do so."
She took another step closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something expensive and floral that was probably supposed to be pleasant but felt cloying.
"You and him are more alike than you could possibly know. In fact, if the two of you were together in the same room, it could even give someone the idea that you two are related. Father and son, perhaps."
The words hit me like ice water down my spine.
My face must have changed—I felt it happen, felt the mask of professional composure crack as something cold and anxious flooded through me. Theodore Halvern. My biological father. The man whose DNA I carried but who I'd never known, never met, who'd been dead for years before I even learned of his existence.
And she'd just casually referenced the resemblance like it was nothing, like she was commenting on the weather.
Did she know?
Mallory's grin widened further as she watched my reaction, her eyes glittering with something that might have been satisfaction or malice or both. She'd seen it—that momentary loss of control, that flash of genuine emotion before I could lock it down.
I forced my expression back to neutral, calling on every ounce of composure I'd developed over years of professional presentations and high-stakes meetings. When I spoke, I made sure my voice was steady, casual, wrapped in just enough sarcasm to sell the deflection.
"Well, your compliment certainly hits the mark. After all, the late Theodore's child should have an established sense of grounding and principle—not the opportunistic nature of certain other family members who seem more interested in political maneuvering than actual achievement."
The implication hung in the air like cordite after a gunshot.
Gasps rippled through the atrium. Actual, audible gasps from multiple researchers who clearly couldn't believe what they were hearing. Someone muttered "Oh my god" under their breath. Another person made a strangled sound that might have been suppressed laughter or shock, impossible to tell.
The two women among Mallory's entourage were staring at me with expressions of such pure, concentrated hostility that if looks could kill, I would have been vaporized on the spot, scattered into component atoms by the sheer force of their disapproval. Their eyes burned with fury, mouths pressed into thin lines, entire bodies rigid with outrage that their superior had been insulted twice in as many minutes.
The three men looked little better—jaws clenched, faces flushed, hands balled into fists at their sides like they were seriously considering whether attacking me would be worth the consequences.
But Mallory herself remained weirdly calm. That wrong grin stayed fixed on her face, unchanging, like it had been painted there. She just kept looking at me with those surgically enhanced eyes, studying me the way an entomologist might study a particularly interesting specimen pinned to a board.
What did she mean by that?
The question blazed through my mind, drowning out everything else. That specific phrasing—"it could even give someone the idea that you two are related. Father and son, perhaps." The way she'd watched my reaction, measuring it, clearly expecting something. That knowing grin when she'd seen my composure slip.
Does she know something?
About my parentage. About Theodore. About the secret that Augustine and Chloe and I had been carefully guarding—that I wasn't just some outsider brought into the family through engagement to Chloe, but actual blood. Theodore's illegitimate son, born from an affair, carrying the Halvern genes even if I didn't carry the name.
Did Mallory know?
And if she did, what was she planning to do with that information?
I realized I'd gone still, lost in the spiral of implications and possibilities. My face must have shown it, some hint of the mental calculation happening behind my eyes, because Mallory's grin somehow managed to widen even further.
She'd noticed. Of course she'd noticed. And she was pleased about it.
We stood there in the heart of the Lare Bio Genetics department, surrounded by the hum of machinery and the glow of the Core and the shocked silence of dozens of witnesses, locked in a silent battle of wills and unspoken accusations.
Her eyes met mine across the polished floor, and I met them right back, refusing to look away, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
But inside, my mind was racing, pulling at threads, trying to understand what game was being played and what role I'd just been cast in without my knowledge or consent.
The Core pulsed behind us, its reddish-black whips writhing through luminescent fluid, and I couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow appropriate—all of us standing around a contained source of barely-understood power, pretending we knew exactly what we were dealing with.
Mallory's grin never wavered.
And I stared back, trapped in the moment, wondering what the hell I'd just walked into.
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