Knot All It Seems

The facility's security logs confirmed her arrival at 04:17 in the morning on December 5th.

No alarms sounded, there was no resistance on her part, just the woman in white—unarmed, bruised, and silent. She was being escorted by guards, six in total, each with a C7A2 rifle. They moved through the lowest levels of the underground base and into one of the medical wings that hadn't been touched in years. Her wrists had been zip-tied at first, until someone thought better of it. By then, she was already sitting at the stainless-steel table, her hands folded neatly in front of her, waiting.

They didn't even know her name.

Not until a forced DNA sample spit out a name none of them wanted to believe.

Elias Korkmaz, Director of Scientific Intelligence, Deputy Head of Country N's Biohazard Division, and the medic assigned to the KAS team, stood silently at the glass-paneled display, his gloved hand tapping against the interface.

His dark hair, much longer than was allowed by the military, was tied back in a low knot at the nape of his neck, and a lab coat hung over his lean frame like armor. Most people assumed he was just another cold-eyed scientist in a lab coat. They rarely remembered that before he headed one of the country's most covert biochemical task forces, he'd spent ten years in the Navy—five of them in wet work in Country T.

In fact, he was so dangerous that when it was proposed to have a multi-national military team based in Country N, Country T handed him off with both hands. The fact that the team, KAS, was now so effective and unstable that no one wanted to claim them was besides the point.

The point is that Elias was not easily rattled. But this? This was different.

"Dr. Leyla Orhan," Elias muttered, staring at the profile file flickering across the glass wall. "Turkish national, currently employed by Hydra Bioweapons and Evolutionary Sciences. Formerly listed three years ago as deceased."

"Clearly the reports are wrong," muttered Commander Jules from behind him as he waved his hand toward the two-way mirror. "She's been hiding in Country M, pretending to be a civilian virologist working on flu treatments."

"Country M wouldn't do something like that," Elias said quietly. "They are known for using everyone. No, she wouldn't be a simple civilian virologist. That is just a disguise for something else."

He tapped the glass screen in front of him, magnifying the redacted portion of her employment history. Access-level warnings blinked for three seconds before clearing. A single title loaded in white font on a black background.

Project Larkspur – Weaponized Respiratory Mutagen (WRM-7).

Commander Jules stepped closer, his eyes scanning the information in front of him. "Tell me she wasn't one of the architects."

"She was THE architect," Elias confirmed grimly. "This file names her as lead designer on the original delivery system. The aerosol-based dispersal model that kicked off the first wave."

Jules exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. "Then why the hell wasn't she underground? Why leave her exposed?"

"She was never exposed," Elias muttered as he continued to flick through the information in front of him. "She was bait."

He expanded another section—an intercepted Hydra memo buried beneath seven proxy servers and false intel trails. It was marked only with a stylized seven-headed silver dragon with its claw coiled around a red apple. Hydra's seal.

Jules scanned it quickly. "She was authorized to operate independently. Provided she stayed in contact with three handlers."

"Country M allowed her to surface," Elias said. "Because they knew we'd eventually find her. The idea wasn't to hide her, it was to lure us into contact."

Jules' voice was low and rough. "So this whole thing—"

"Is an invitation," Elias finished. "She's not just here by accident. She's here to see how far we'll go. And if we're desperate enough to play their game."

A silence fell between them.

Behind the glass, two stories below, Leyla Orhan sat at the table with her legs crossed, calm and unreadable. The bruises along her cheek had darkened since intake, but her posture was perfect. She looked more like a woman waiting for a board meeting rather than a prisoner of war.

"She's been treated," Jules said at last, narrowing his eyes. "Medical scanned her. There are no implants, no bugs. Nothing in her bloodwork we didn't expect. But I still don't like it. People don't walk into enemy territory unless they know they're walking out again."

"She has requested a liaison," Elias said, scrolling through the intake notes. "Said she'd only speak to someone with a scientific background. Preferably, someone familiar with current respiratory virology models. And then—"

"She named Dr. Davis," Jules finished.

Elias nodded. "Dr. Alaric Davis. Age 45, married with two daughters, one is adopted, but there is nothing in her background that sets off any alarms. Even the wife is 'normal'. She works at the passport office, but even then, there is nothing in her background that would set off alarm bells. In fact, the only thing that would even tie him to Country M is his oldest daughter. She is living in Region C with her husband. He is military. Even more importantly, Dr. Davis is one of ours. But that's the part that bothers me. How did Orhan know he was here? That he's been working off-books for our biochemistry division?"

"Maybe she knew him before," Jules said. "He used to lecture in Istanbul, didn't he?"

"Only for one year. And that was over a decade ago."

"Then it's not a coincidence."

"No," Elias agreed. "None of this is."

He flicked open another dossier—a sealed personnel log tied to WRM-7. At the bottom, under the project leads, was another line:

"Suggested Contact: Dr. Alaric Davis. Country N. Originally rejected due to ethical objections."

Jules straightened. "She wanted him on the project?"

"She asked for him by name."

"So what now?" Jules asked. "We give her a lab and see what she does?"

"She's already made her offer. She claims to know how to stall the virus. Not to cure it, but simply stall it. It might buy us six months while she works on the rest. She wants a full facility, oversight rights, and security limited to outside the lab. No listening devices. No handlers in the room."

"She wants freedom."

"She wants control," Elias scoffed, his face blank as he looked up at where the woman sat on the other side of the glass.

Jules turned to the glass again. "And we're seriously considering it?"

"We don't have a choice," Elias admitted. "Country M designed WRM-7. We can't keep pretending it's just another strain of flu. It mutates too fast. It adapts. And the only reason why we've even held it off this long is because of the quarantine methods we used early on. But even those are no longer in use. It's only a matter of time before it goes through the entire population."

Commander Jules scoffed, but he didn't disagree with Elias' statement. Everyone knew that they were fighting the clock when it came to the infection spreading around the world.

"She knows what it's evolving into. And if even half of her report is real, we're screwed without her," sighed Elias, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Jules looked down again at the woman seated calmly at the table. "She could be lying."

"She probably is. But if she's only lying about half, then the other half might still save us."

A pause stretched between them, heavy with the weight of politics and war.

"Authorize a provisional lab," Jules said finally. "No external networks. Two guards posted. And give Alaric Davis a quiet escort down to Level Five. No records. No announcements."

"I'll notify the Director."

"No," Jules said, stepping back. "I'll do it myself. If this backfires, I want it on my head, not yours."

Elias said nothing. He only nodded, fingers still ghosting the edge of the glass.

Below, Dr. Leyla Orhan uncrossed her legs and folded her hands again, staring directly at the window above her, as if she knew exactly where they were standing.