The DNA dose

That name came up again. Kyle had heard it briefly when Mr. Leione mentioned staff. Now it was threaded with tension.

"Who's Dr. Curb?" he asked.

"You'll meet him shortly," the butler said. "Come."

They moved past another secure door, this one requiring a fingerprint and voice scan from Garrison. The hallway beyond was colder—more sterile. Steel replaced wood. Fluorescent lights buzzed gently overhead. The deeper they went, the more Kyle felt the hum of machines beneath the floors.

Finally, they reached a steel sliding door marked with only one word: LABORATORY.

It opened with a hiss.

Inside, the lab looked like something between a hospital and a spaceship. There were examination tables. Screens flickering with data Kyle didn't recognize. Test tubes, centrifuges, wires. On one side, there were rows of cryo chambers, all empty but humming quietly.

A man stood near one of the consoles, scribbling furiously on a digital pad.

"Dr. Curb," Garrison announced. "Your guest."

The man turned.

He was old—mid-sixties, Kyle guessed—but he didn't look fragile. His white-gray hair was swept back, and his eyes were sharp behind rectangular glasses. He wore a lab coat over a navy turtleneck, and there were smudges of grease or ink on his gloves.

"So," the doctor said, not even offering a hand. "You're the one who knocked out seven of my men."

Kyle blinked. "Wait, those were your guys?"

"Don't take offense," Dr. Curb said, waving a hand. "It was a test. Not my idea, but I provided the equipment. Non-lethal ammo. Tracking gloves. Your technique was... efficient. A little messy. But efficient."

Kyle didn't answer. He was too busy scanning the lab.

"Come," Dr. Curb said. "There's much to discuss. You're not just a guest here, Mr. Leione. You're part of the research now."

Kyle didn't know what Dr. Crub meant, but he still followed the old man.

Dr. Crub enthusiastically explained his inventions as they passed sealed doors, humming equipment, and blinking monitors. Strange devices lined the hallway—some with needles, others with screens looping endless biometric data. One of them caught Kyle's eye. It looked like a brainwashing device.

Kyle froze for a moment.

It reminded him of Agent Maris.

He hadn't thought about her in a while. What was she doing now? Had she fully forgotten about him? Had she been reassigned? Or was she still watching from the shadows, investigating things she couldn't explain? There was always something off about her presence. Something unreadable. Something dangerous.

He pushed the thought aside.

They reached a new lab, tucked behind thick glass doors. Inside, rows of glowing equipment cast soft blue lights across the room. And in the center, carefully placed on a pedestal, was a strange vial.

"This," Dr. Crub said with pride, "is my latest project. Genetic extraction."

Kyle watched as Crub motioned him forward, speaking faster now. The old man's eyes sparkled behind his glasses. He began showing Kyle more of his work—slides, charts, samples of odd creatures floating in tubes. Projects that even Kyle didn't believe existed until he saw them.

Again, he saw the brainwashing machine in the corner. The sight brought back that same sharp thought of Agent Maris.

Had she given up on him?

Was she still trying to unravel the mystery around him?

What was the real reason she had tracked him to begin with?

The questions stabbed at his mind, but he buried them again as Dr. Crub cleared his throat and stepped up to the pedestal.

"This," Crub said, gesturing to the vial, "is where the future begins."

He picked it up carefully. Inside the container was a swirling liquid—shifting, shimmering, constantly changing. It had color, but also didn't. Sometimes silver. Sometimes green. Sometimes a ghostly clear.

Cockroach DNA.

"I extracted it myself," Crub said proudly. "Do you understand what this means, Kyle? The resilience of a cockroach. Radiation resistance. Limb regeneration. Respiratory adaptation. Practically unkillable. Imagine mutating other creatures with this—no, better yet—humans."

He went on about procedures, benefits, and possibilities. His words blurred together in Kyle's ears.

Because something else was happening.

Kyle's body... itched.

Not on the surface, but underneath—like a buzz in his nerves. A low, strange pull. He was being drawn toward the vial. Not out of curiosity. Not even interested. Something more primal.

Attraction.

His feet moved slightly. Then his hand.

Dr. Crub turned away to grab a chart, still talking.

Kyle stepped closer.

The vial pulsed faintly. The liquid inside shimmered like a living thing.

He placed his hand on the table—only to steady himself.

The vial tipped.

It didn't fall. It spilled—elegantly, as if on purpose.

The liquid flowed over the edge and onto Kyle's palm.

It absorbed instantly.

He gasped. Not from pain. From shock.

He was sure he hadn't moved it. The table was steady. His hand hadn't nudged it. The glass hadn't trembled. It was as if the vial had leapt from its holder—onto him.

And then the pain hit.

A sharp, unbearable headache exploded behind his eyes. It felt like something was digging through his brain, rearranging thoughts, unspooling DNA, setting fire to every nerve.

He staggered back, clutching his head.

His vision blurred. The room tilted.

Dr. Crub shouted something, but the words were distant, underwater.

Kyle dropped to his knees.

And still, the pain spread.

It wasn't just pain—it was transformation.

Something inside him had changed.

And there was no turning back.

Here's your scene rewritten in the same direct, cinematic format as before, with vivid emotional beats, clean phrasing, and consistent naming. This version smooths out repetition while retaining all the story points and questions Kyle is meant to wrestle with.

The world went dark.

Kyle's body felt strange—light, unmoored, like he was floating through something thick and soundless.

Then, suddenly, he opened his eyes.

A blurry ceiling. A soft bed beneath him. The sharp scent of antiseptic.

And four faces staring right down at him.

Mr. Leone. Anvil. Dr. Crub. Vera.

They were sitting around him, tense, as if they'd been waiting for hours.