"We need the formula."
Ethan stopped typing, then slowly turned to face them. "It's not available."
The tall man stepped forward. "You do understand what that means, yes? You're sitting on a compound that could potentially save hundreds—if not more—and you're withholding it. That alone can be prosecuted under obstruction of medical access."
Ethan met his eyes, calm and unreadable. "I've told you—I'm not releasing anything."
"You don't have the authority to make that decision," the shorter man snapped.
"I made the formula to save just two lives. It was its purpose."
Mercer held up the folder. "You're now officially noncompliant. If you continue to obstruct our investigation, we'll escalate. Court orders. Property seizure. Forced retrieval of materials you've worked on here—including logs and samples."
Ethan remained steady. His tone didn't rise "I've complied with hospital regulations. I've registered my subject's vitals. I've kept her under full observation. You're not going to scare me with policy threats."
"This isn't a threat, Mr. Davis," Mercer said tightly. "It's a reality."
Ethan paused, choosing his next words carefully. He knew the wrong word could light a fire too big to put out. "I have reasons for not sharing the formula, and I don't owe you an explanation."
The tall man scoffed. "So you're just what? A gatekeeper now? You decide who lives and who doesn't?"
Ethan's eyes narrowed, but his voice didn't shift. "No. I'm someone who understands what happens when the wrong hands get a hold of something powerful."
Mercer stepped forward, her voice lower now. "You may think you're protecting your family, Mr. Davis. But by hiding this—by hoarding it—you may have just made them the target. The longer this stays secret, the more people will want to take it from you. Not just us."
That part hit harder than the rest. He knew she wasn't wrong. But sharing it with them wouldn't make him safer. It would just add new enemies to the old ones.
"I'm not authorizing release," Ethan said finally. "And I don't suggest you try to take it without my cooperation."
The room was silent.
Mercer's gaze lingered on Ethan's face. Her voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of every unspoken threat in the room.
"This won't end here."
Ethan met her stare. For a heartbeat, the air between them crackled. "I know," he replied, his tone flat—calm, but carrying an undercurrent of steel.
Mercer gave a curt nod and turned on her heel. The two men in suits followed, their footsteps soft yet ominous as they crossed the lab floor. The door swung shut behind them with a muted click, as if sealing their warning into the walls.
Silence settled immediately—thick, nearly suffocating.
Ethan exhaled slowly, as though he had been holding his breath for the last hour. He sank into the swivel chair, still spun around to face the closed door. His fingers dug into the armrests, knuckles whitening, but his breathing was eerily controlled.
They know nothing of its full potential. They don't understand how fragile—or how dangerous—this secret truly is.
He thought of the folder Mercer carried: credentials, mandates, legal power distilled into ink and paper. He thought of their words—obstruction of medical access, civil injunction, forced seizure—and realized they could break into his life at any moment.
He turned from the door to the cluttered bench:
– The prototype vials, locked away.
– The encrypted flash drives hidden beneath the floorboard.
– His handwritten equations, scrawled in exhausted script.
Each item was a lifeline—and a target.
A low ache settled into his chest.
If they ever learn the real scope of this formula… If they realize it's not just a stabilizer but a catalyst for accelerated growth, for rewriting biology…
The fallout would be catastrophic.
Not just for the prototype—But for her, For their son.
He pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to banish the thought. When he let his hands fall, his gaze hardened.
No. I won't let them touch my family.
He rose from the chair and moved to the bench. With deliberate calm, he began to stow away his work: vials and notebooks into the case, flash drives into his pocket. Every motion was precise, practiced—no wasted gesture.
There would be no showdown here. Not yet.
He would leave. Quietly. Completely.
And only then would he decide the next move.