The iron gates of Warehouse Twelve in New York Harbor groaned under the biting winter wind, guarding the secrets within.
Reinhardt Krause adjusted the Zeiss lens on the experimental bench, his fingers trembling slightly. Over ten days of relentless research had left his eyes bloodshot, and prolonged contact with chemical reagents had turned his fingertips an unhealthy bluish-white.
The latest Technicolor color analyzer, valued at twenty thousand dollars, stood silently under the tungsten lamp, its metal casing gleaming coldly.
Two weeks earlier, when Shane Cassidy brought him to this lab, Krause could hardly believe his eyes. Instruments he had only dreamed of in a Brooklyn basement were now reality.
"Increase the silver nitrate solution by 0.3%," Krause instructed his assistant, voice steadier than his first days in the lab, still tinged with a German accent.
The Swiss-made wall clock read 1:17 AM. Apart from the hum of the instruments, only the rustle of a steel pen across paper filled the laboratory.
Krause's leather notebook lay open to Farbkorrektur 1922, margins crowded with dense annotations. Through round-rimmed glasses, he watched a test segment of Hell's Angels gradually develop, colors forming with precision.
"Mr. Krause, you should rest," the assistant offered black coffee and Swiss chocolates. Krause shook his head, but tore open a chocolate wrapper nonetheless. The rich sweetness briefly transported him to cedar-lined streets of Zurich, where his professor insisted perfect color should feel as real as memory.
Outside, a freighter on the East River sounded its horn, but Krause barely noticed. His focus remained on the image clarifying in the developer. A biplane fighter cut through clouds, red and blue stripes vibrant enough to leap from the frame—surpassing even last week's results.
"My God…" the assistant whispered. "Three times clearer than Technicolor's current effect!"
Krause's lips curved in a rare smile. For the first time in four years, he felt he was approaching his mentor's dying wish.
Suddenly, the warehouse door opened, and cold wind mixed with drizzle swept in. Shane shook off droplets from his black trench coat, carrying a bulging kraft paper bag.
The warm aroma of beef sandwiches and Swiss chocolates filled the lab. "I heard you haven't left the lab in five days," Shane said, calm yet alert, his gaze scanning the room before resting on the developing tank.
Krause didn't look up. "Give me another forty-eight hours. I can resolve the final eight percent of the color deviation."
Shane approached the tank, a small, knowing smile on his lips. He had seen this image in 21st-century film history documentaries. "Better than I imagined," he murmured. "This will drive Howard Hughes mad."
"Why help me?" Krause finally asked, eyes sharp behind bloodshot glasses. "You could monopolize this technology yourself."
Shane placed the kraft paper bag on the desk. "Because history should remember true geniuses," he said, unusually emotional. "Not bury them…"
A phone rang. Shane answered, expression sharpening. "The demonstration proceeds as planned. No early viewings."
He hung up and turned to Krause. "United Artists is growing impatient. MGM and Warner have commercial spies in the harbor. I'll increase security—this lab is now top-secret."
Krause's fingers brushed the brass key Shane handed him, feeling the warmth of its metal. He realized something astonishing: in the past days, this young man—claiming to be a financial consultant—had twice solved the most intractable problems in his research.
Krause remembered the stormy night three days ago. Stuck on the last variable of the color matrix for seventeen hours, he had been about to give up when Shane appeared with two cans of hot coffee.
"Try a refractive index of 1.5168," Shane suggested casually. "Born-Oppenheimer approximation. Considering Kodak film's base material, this should be precise."
Krause substituted the number, and the final calculation clicked into place. "Impossible… This data isn't even in Technicolor's manuals," he murmured.
Shane adjusted his cuff, revealing a subtle hint of youth beneath his composed exterior. "MIT library," he replied when asked about his optical physics knowledge. "Some out-of-print materials there."
Krause didn't press further. He inserted the brass key into the lab's control panel, the click echoing in the silent warehouse.
"Someday," Shane said, tracing the color analyzer's metal casing, "color film will be the standard. And people will remember who started it all."
Evening fell on Tuesday, December 13th. Warehouse Twelve had been converted into a screening room. Leather chairs formed a semicircle facing a suspended silver screen.
Krause and Lena Voight fine-tuned the modified developing machine, his thin fingers deftly inserting the film while Lena recorded the light changes.
United Artists executives took their seats. Mary Pickford's perfume filled the enclosed space; her film-reel brooch glittered under the projector's beam. Joseph Schenck sat in the back row, toying with a Havana cigar. Charlie Chaplin's eyes, hidden beneath his bowler hat, never left Shane Cassidy.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Shane said, voice steady, "this is why Hell's Angels will be a milestone in film history."
The screen lit. A fighter jet with blood-red stripes tore through clouds, three dark blue enemy planes tracing elegant arcs behind. Colors were vivid, details razor-sharp.
An explosion followed: a plane plunged into the ocean, flames contrasting with deep blue water. A gasp rippled through the audience. Even seasoned moguls were awestruck.
"How much extra cost?" Schenck asked, gripping his unlit cigar, excitement barely contained.
"Less than you think," Shane replied. "Our algorithm optimizes existing film—no new cameras needed."
He pressed a hidden button; the screen split. Left: traditional two-strip Technicolor, distorted and muddy. Right: optimized by Krause's algorithm, vibrant and lifelike.
Mary Pickford leaned forward, fingers to her lips. Even Charlie slightly parted his mouth, nearly dropping his cigar.
Tapping his cane on the floor, Charlie's gaze shifted between Krause and Shane. "Mr. Cassidy… how did you foresee and resolve all these technical bottlenecks before Hollywood even encountered them?"
He removed his bowler hat, revealing his signature smile, "It's as if... you foresaw these problems long ago?"