Silence pressed in inside West's luxury car—an aftershock to the scream of Seattle rain and Reid's raspy breaths.
The partition enveloped him with Dante West; the posh leather seat beneath him feeling suddenly charged. The cabin smelled what it looked: expensive. A faint, fresh scent seeped from the new electronics, with a disinfected, metallic note suggestive of a surgical theater.
West didn't move. Thin, feral smile hovered on his lips, and his dark eyes mirrored the streaked city lights like polished glass.
"Disappointment is a luxury for those without options, Mr. Brecken," West intoned, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated in Reid's bones. "As of three minutes ago, you had none."
He tapped a control on the armrest. The tinted window facing them flickered, transforming into a transparent display. News feeds scrolled: market fluctuations, political scandals, a fleeting image of Marcus Vaughn accepting an award.
West's finger traced a line on the screen, freezing the feed on a headline: STERLING DYNAMICS TUMBLES: CEO MAX STERLING'S SABBATICAL' SPARKS INVESTOR PANIC.
"Max Sterling," West said, the name dropping like a stone. "Visionary. Ruthless. Unstable—and currently unavailable."
He leveled his gaze fully on Reid. "Three weeks ago, he vanished—midway through the final negotiations for Synapse, his company's crown jewel, a neural-interface technology that makes your stolen CipherCore look like child's play. Consequently, a lot is at stake. Billions hang in the balance, and markets are jittery.
Our consortium"—West gestured vaguely, encompassing the unseen power behind Celia Sterling—"has significant interests in Sterling Dynamics. We need stability. We need Mr. Sterling back at the helm as soon as possible."
Reid's mind raced, hunting for the angle, the trap. "So hire a good double. Get a good actor."
West laughed—a dry, mirthless sound. "Actors can't comprehend quantum-entanglement protocols or debate neural-latency thresholds with Shanghai's best engineers; they lack the genius."
He leaned in with ferocious intensity. "But you, Mr. Brecken, have the technical arrogance we need. Besides"—he tapped the frozen image of Max Sterling on the window—"you bear an uncanny resemblance: the hollow of the cheeks, the angles of the jaw, the set of the eyes. A genetic fluke, perhaps—a gift from fate."
A chill fear crept into Reid's gut, colder than the Seattle rain that drenched the pavements. "Impersonate him? That's insane!"
"Necessity breeds audacity." West countered smoothly. "Max, overwhelmed by Synapse's pressure, suffered a minor breakdown. He's recovering at an undisclosed private retreat. You." West paused, eyes locking onto Reid. "Will serve as his chosen proxy—his public face for essential functions. Eccentric? Yes. Unprecedented? Hardly. Plausible? Absolutely."
Reid stared at the photo of Max Sterling in his mid-40s, sharp-featured, with an intensity etched into every line of his face and eyes that held a chilling, concentrated power. The likeness, now that West had mentioned it, was deeply disturbing. It felt like a twisted genetic joke.
"And what's in it for me?" Reid asked.
"The reward is twofold," West said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. His eyes locked onto Reid's, cold and unblinking.
First, ten thousand dollars per day, payable upon successful completion of the assignment—estimated to take thirty to sixty days.
Second, everything you need to destroy Chloe Vaughn and Marcus Vaughn: emails, financial trails, original forged documents, recordings—enough proof to bury them and reclaim whatever shreds of your reputation remain salvageable. All of it will be delivered upon your final performance.
The name Chloe was a live wire. The image of her taunting face on his tablet, Marcus's smug grin… The rage, suppressed temporarily by shock, roared back.
Ten thousand a day. Vengeance served cold and absolute. It was a sweet song, too good to be true "And what if I refuse?" Reid asked, already knowing the answer.
West's smile evaporated. The air in the car seemed to freeze. He didn't gesture, neither raise his voice. His gaze locked on Reid, and the effect was utterly ruthless. "Your current existence holds no value, Mr. Brecken. This assignment imbues ascribed it with temporary worth. Choose wisely, but choose quickly. We are approaching the facility."
The car swung off the main freeway and dropped into a maze of industrial backstreets along the waterfront. Reid's heart raced with nervous excitement. They drove through an unmarked gate in a tall, plain wall, then down a steep slope into an underground parking garage bathed in soft LED lights.
As the garage doors rolled open, a massive figure filled the threshold: Bricks. His presence seemed to create tension, radiating silent threat. Without a word, he raised a broad hand and beckoned Reid toward a thick, reinforced steel door.
Inside, the air was filtered and cool, and the low hum of giant servers mingled with the antiseptic smell of a laboratory. The room was spacious and without windows—a bunker carved out of concrete and steel. Banks of screens displayed intricate data streams, security feeds, and rotating 3D models of neural pathways—Synapse.
A thin, pale man in a spotless white lab coat darted forward, wringing his hands. Through his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes—wide with constant worry—seemed even larger.
"S-sir, I'm the bio-interface and behavioral design lead," he stuttered, glancing between West and Bricks.
"Proceed," West ordered, settling into the chair before the central console while Bricks positioned behind him like a giant stone guard.
Zain recoiled. "Y-yes, Mr. West," he said, voice trembling. "Mr. Brecken, would you please step into the scan chamber?" He nodded toward the cylindrical pod humming quietly.
The next hours were a blur of violation and wonder. Reid stood naked in the pod as lasers mapped every contour of his body, down to its microscopic imperfections. Sensors recorded his gait, his posture, and every micro-expression that flickered across his face.
Voice-modulation software analyzed his speech patterns and then began warping his voice—deepening it slightly and adding a flatter, more authoritative cadence to match the recordings of Max Sterling that Zain had played.
"Channel his edginess," Zain instructed, trembling. "The dismissive wave. The way he holds eye contact just a fraction too long."
Worse of all were the injections. Zain approached with a pneumatic injector, his hands trembling. "T—temporary bio-modulators," he stammered, avoiding Reid's eyes. "Subdermal… they'll subtly encourage your muscles and fascia to adopt his posture and expressions, with minor facial restructuring—reversible, in theory."
The injections burned like liquid fire under Reid's skin, a creeping sensation as if insects were rearranging his bones. He clenched his teeth, holding the vow of revenge as his only anchor.