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Rain tapped insistently against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Evelyn's office, the city outside blurred into silver streaks and shadow. Inside, the storm was contained, silent, measured — a storm of steel and ambition. Evelyn sat motionless behind her massive obsidian desk, fingers lightly steepled, eyes fixed on the skyline. Every raindrop, every flicker of light from the neon signs across the streets below, felt like it existed for her alone.
The soft click of the office door broke the stillness. Evelyn didn't flinch; her eyes never left the glass.
A man entered — tall, angular, precise. Lab coat crisply pressed, glasses catching the dim light, hair just messy enough to signal a mind too preoccupied to care about appearances. The subtle hum of electricity seemed to trail him like a faint aura.
> "Dr. Calloway," Evelyn's voice rang clear and cold.
She didn't turn. Every word was measured. "I trust this isn't a social call."
Calloway bowed slightly, his eyes flicking to the floor before returning to her gaze. His hands flexed at his sides.
> "Not social, ma'am," he said. "I come bearing… progress."
Evelyn finally turned, every movement deliberate, a predator acknowledging the presence of something useful.
> "Progress that doesn't leave me with casualties," she replied, voice even but sharp. "I won't allow another mistake."
Calloway's gaze held a mix of awe and unease, his trembling fingers betraying excitement he tried to contain.
> "The protocols are ready," he began cautiously. "The system… it can bring someone back from death. Not fully — their body will remain synthetic, tethered, dependent, but their mind, consciousness, personality… intact. They will remember, they will feel, they will know."
Evelyn leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing. A faint shadow of a smile ghosted across her lips. "And this… applies to whom?"
> "Your husband," Calloway said, voice low, almost reverent. "We could initiate the procedure eventually. And later… your son Derrick."
Evelyn's breath caught. The office suddenly felt colder, as if the air itself had pulled back in anticipation. Her mind reeled, imagining the potential, the power, the control.
> "Eventually?" she asked, calm but razor-sharp. "Not now?"
> "Not yet," Calloway confirmed. "The system requires calibration, precise timing. The subject's physiology must align with the protocol. Acting prematurely risks catastrophic failure. The mind could fracture, the body resist. That's why we must wait, stage by stage."
Evelyn rose, the subtle click of her heels against the polished floor echoing like a countdown. She circled her desk slowly, eyes fixed on Calloway. She could almost feel the hum of possibility vibrating through the air, cold and electric.
> "And the risks?" she asked, quiet, controlled. "What do I face… what will they face?"
Calloway adjusted his glasses, anxiety threading his expression. "The longer they remain tethered, the more unpredictable. Pain, confusion, rebellion of the mind. Physical degradation. The experiment demands patience — and control. But it can be done, flawlessly, if executed at the precise moment."
Evelyn let the silence stretch. Every heartbeat, every breath, she measured, calculating. The storm outside mirrored the one inside: gray, relentless, full of promise and danger.
> "Prepare everything," she said finally, voice steel beneath silk.
"When the time comes, it will be perfect. No shortcuts. No errors. Do you understand?"
Calloway nodded, swallowing hard. "Understood. The system is ready when you are. But discretion is imperative."
Evelyn's eyes glimmered, reflecting the city lights like twin blades of ice.
> "Discretion is my specialty," she murmured, almost to herself.
Calloway lingered, as if weighing whether to speak further, then nodded again and departed. The office door clicked shut behind him, the sound sharp, definitive. Silence returned, heavier than before.
Evelyn stood alone, hands resting on the obsidian surface. Her mind was already racing, mapping possibilities, contingencies, sequences, and failsafes. The storm outside had shifted — the rain no longer soft, now drumming in persistent, urgent rhythms. Each drop seemed to echo the pulse of her plan.
She imagined her husband: the contours of his face, the hollow spaces left by absence, the phantom warmth she'd longed for. Later, Derrick — her son, too young, too innocent, yet a piece of her empire, a piece of her life stolen too soon. And the thought of holding them again, tethered to her will, ignited something primal: control, vengeance, obsession.
Her fingers traced the edge of the desk, tightening into fists. A single thought crystallized: the world could not touch them again. Not now, not ever.
She turned to the window, watching the storm reflect in the glass. Lightning traced the skyline, jagged and fleeting. Soon, very soon, she would begin the reclamation. The resurrection. And no one — not the system, not the world, not even death itself — would stand in her way.
Evelyn allowed herself the faintest, sharp smile. Patience, timing, and control — all in perfect alignment. The storm outside would soon be matched by the storm she unleashed within.
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