97. Jael

The lab was bathed in a cold, sterile light, the glow bouncing off sleek metal surfaces and glass containers filled with swirling, iridescent liquids. The air carried a faint metallic tang mixed with a burnt chemical stench. A man in a white lab coat stood near a table cluttered with test tubes, syringes, and charts covered in incomprehensible formulas. His back was to the room's entrance, shoulders stiff as though he were waiting for something—or someone.

Jael Yilin stepped into the room, his every movement taut with restrained fury. His coat billowed behind him, and his usually composed face was a storm of anger and frustration. In his hand, a shattered test tube dripped viscous red fluid onto the white-tiled floor, leaving streaks that looked like trails of blood.