After spending the entire day with Mr. Xian, my mind feels like it's been tossed into a blender. Every formula, every failed serum trial, every miserable report about those two subjects—it's all burned into my brain. I've analyzed their data so many times I could probably recite their genetic mutations in my sleep.
And Mr. Xian? He seemed thrilled.
The man leaned over my shoulder all day, watching as I adjusted enzyme levels, rearranged reaction pathways, and pointed out which serums would kill a subject faster than heal them. By the end of the day, he looked at me like I was some miracle-working machine sent from heaven.
What he doesn't know is that I'm not fixing his disgusting experiments for him.
I'm doing it for those two poor souls locked in this hellhole.
