Chapter Four

The door swung open, spilling neon light onto rain-slick pavement. Boots thud against the tiled floor. A brief pause—eyes scanned the room. The low murmur of voices, the clink of ice in glasses.

A figure slid onto a barstool, rainwater slipping from their coat. "Gin and tonic." Her voice was smooth, cool, detached. Ice rattled as the bartender poured, the glass sliding forward without a word.

She lifted it, taking a slow sip—crisp, cold, untouched by the warmth around them. Outside, thunder growled. Inside, the night was lively as ever.

"The mistress of stealth herself," the bartender cracked, smirking as he poured. "Never knew when you were gonna show up again—I missed ya." He slid the glass of gin across the counter.

Lydia caught it without looking. "You're aware you shouldn't be spouting that title in a pub."

Her eyes locked onto him—cold, precise. A glint of something sharp, something unreadable. The kind of gaze that made people forget how to breathe.

"I know, I know, secret organization stuff," he said, waving a hand before turning to grab another bottle. "But have you ever considered taking a break from all that duty and seriousness crap? Settle down?"

He glanced back at her, expecting a scoff, a smirk—something.

Lydia took a slow sip of her gin. No reaction. Just the quiet clink of ice against glass.

"All I'm saying is, maybe you need to find love, get married, and enjoy life—not…" He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Not taking it."

Lydia didn't flinch. She swirled the ice in her glass, watching the way the light fractured through it. "Like you're doing right now?" Her voice was quiet, but sharp.

She turned, scanning the room—the usual crowd, drinking, laughing, spouting nonsense. Then, back to him.

"I beg to differ."

Before the bartender could respond, the door swung open again, letting in a gust of cold air and the scent of rain.

A man in a dark trench coat stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on Lydia. His presence alone cut through the low hum of conversation. The bartender tensed.

"Lydia Ashwood," the captain said, his voice firm but measured. "Didn't think I'd find you here."

She didn't turn right away. Just rolled the empty glass between her fingers before finally looking up, unimpressed. "Captain," she said flatly. "Didn't think you'd be looking."

He stepped closer, pulling out a cigarette but not lighting it. "Embezzlement, bribery, and cronyism. Business as usual for the ruling elite. Something you may have an idea about."

The bartender shot Lydia a wary glance, but she didn't blink. Just exhaled slowly, like this was nothing more than a casual conversation.

"And who's gonna be prosecuted for that," she said, tone smooth as ever.

"But who could I prosecute? Tell me Lydia, who could?" He slipped the cigarette behind his ear and leaned in slightly. " Is it the president, the avaric-bound councilors, or…. Senator Reynolds, who you undoubtedly, blindly work for"

For the first time that night, a small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "I must say, I'm quite impressed by your level of research. However," she murmured. "I'm in no position to argue with the well renowned lap dog of Chief Thompson."

The captain's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. Barely.

The lap dog remark forced a chuckle out of the lips of the bartender, who was passively listening to their conversation.

Lydia dropped her glass on the counter with her tip below it. She stood up on her feet then turned to the captain, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

She stepped past him, pausing just long enough for her words to land, about to surrender the final blow.

The captain exhaled through his nose, reaching for the cigarette behind his ear. His fingers hovered over his lighter.

Well done, Captain. You've identified a symptom, not the disease. Don't expect a medal for stating the obvious. The real challenge lies in confronting the cancer that's consumed everything." Lydia was a few metres from the exit. "Good thing you're not a doctor."

The door slammed shut behind her. The captain let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as he lit his cigarette. He took a slow drag, blowing the smoke upward. "Smartass."

***.....***

Deep underground, the hum of machinery pulsed steadily—the artificial heartbeat of Murfield. Fluorescent lights bathed steel corridors in a sterile glow, their flickering reflection stretching across the reinforced glass of containment cells. Behind them, test subjects—some barely human anymore—lingered in uneasy stillness, their gazes hollow, their fates uncertain.

Deeper inside, past the observation chambers and genetic labs, lay the cryogenic storage vault. Frost clung to the reinforced glass pods, where incubated mutants floated in a frozen limbo, their bodies suspended in thick, oxygenated fluid. Tubes ran from their skin like lifelines, feeding them nutrients, suppressing their consciousness. Some were unfinished, their features still forming, while others were merely waiting—for activation, for orders, for war.

Scientists moved with purpose, their hushed voices drowned by the rhythmic hiss of pressurized containment units. Data scrolled across monitors, tracking vitals, mutation progress, and combat viability. Murfield wasn't just a laboratory; it was a factory, producing the next generation of weapons in the guise of evolution.

One of the scientists stepped forward, adjusting his glasses as he studied the rows of cryogenic pods. He turned to the system observer, his voice sharp and unwavering.

"Show me Project 4XIV and XLT"

The observer hesitated for a fraction of a second before inputting the command. A low chime echoed through the chamber as the screen flickered, pulling up a detailed file. The display revealed silhouettes locked within two of the frozen chambers—the figures were ready to be brought to life, to begin their journey.

"Reynolds would be pleased." the scientist muttered with certain confidence.

Right above the lab stood a mountain height skyscraper, Murfield corps where Senator Reynolds upheld his public image. Murfield Corps skyscraper pierces the sky like a shard of glass, its sleek, modern design exuding an aura of power and sophistication. The building's exterior is a mesmerizing lattice of silver and black, with intricate patterns that seem to shift and shimmer in the light. At the highest floor was Reynolds' office, which occupied a spacious corner suite with breathtaking views of the city skyline.

The air in his office is thick with the scent of old leather and the faint hint of cigar smoke, conveying a sense of tradition and authority.

Reynolds' desk, a stunning piece of polished mahogany, dominates the room, positioned in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that frames the cityscape like a work of art. The desk is immaculately organized, with a few carefully chosen papers and a sleek, silver pen holder the only hints of the senator's busy schedule.

Behind the desk, a towering bookshelf stretches towards the ceiling, lined with leather-bound volumes and adorned with a few, carefully selected artifacts that reflect Reynolds' interests and accomplishments. A framed photograph of the senator with a former president sits proudly on a nearby side table, a subtle reminder of Reynolds' influence and connections.

To one side of the room, a comfortable seating area invites visitors to relax. A discreetly placed bar, stocked with an impressive selection of fine wines and spirits, stands ready to facilitate high-stakes negotiations or celebratory toast.

It was a high class suite for the clueless but a facade for those in the game.

The office door slid open as Rachez, Reynolds' personal assistant walked in with a bunch of leather-bound files on her arm. The door chimed and closed automatically as she walked away from it advancing towards Reynolds who was seated in his office.

She made her stop a few metres away from Reynolds' power-imposing desk. "Sir, Mr. Reed reports a breakthrough on Project 4XIV and XLT. The defreeze process awaits your command."

Reynolds' aura was unreadable, cold as ever. Some claimed Lydia had learned from him. But while her presence was sharp and elusive, his was bitter and imposing, energy-draining and fear-striking. However, after seven years as Reynolds' assistant, Rachez wasn't easily caught in the web.

"And that's supposed to be good news?" Reynolds asked rhetorically with a calm tone. He got on his feet, walked to the bar, and poured vodka into a crystal glass.The clinking sound from the glass hitting the counter sliced a cut on the tense silence in the office.

"Tell Reed I'll be there tonight. Contact my girls—I want them here too."

"Yes, sir." Rachez left without another word, leaving Reynolds alone with his thoughts.