Glass enclosure, center of the lab.
The second subject sat strapped to a chair.
Thin shirt. Hollow chest rising and falling.
A bead of clear liquid trembled on the syringe tip,
catching the fluorescent light.
Luca checked his watch.
"Administer."
Elena didn't hesitate.
The needle slid in.
The piston sank.
The only sound—skin parting under steel.
Ten minutes—
The subject's eyes began to flicker.
Heart rate steadied, then climbed.
Sweat dotted his forehead, darkening the hairline.
"Focus test."
A tech brought up a word-memorization chart.
Sixty seconds later, he recited it flawlessly.
Then backwards.
Elena's mouth almost curved.
Luca raised a hand.
"Twenty-four hours. It can still fail."
Two days later—
The subject was still clear-eyed.
Memory, focus—twice baseline.
Side effects, negligible.
Luca closed the file.
"…White Seal."
One name. Decision made.
Prototype Three cleared for final approval.
That night, a quiet toast in the lab.
Refinement
A week later, in the restricted sublevel.
Compressors hummed. Grinders spun.
Silver powder spread evenly over the tray.
He scooped a pinch into a gloved palm.
Almost no scent—just a trace of metal in the air.
He looked at Elena.
"Size eight capsule. Easy to swallow. White coat. Thin layer."
She swapped the mold.
Capsules dropped in steady rhythm—
tap, tap, tap—onto the steel tray.
To Luca, the sound was the click of bullets loading.
Final stage:
Each bottle labeled WS-02.
Date stamped.
His signature—fast, controlled strokes.
He held one bottle to the light.
"Now… the game begins."
His voice carried no joy.
Only the cold certainty of a man who'd been ready for years.
New Report
The phone rang.
Luca checked the number.
Picked up.
"…Talk."
A dry, low voice on the line.
"…George Langley. Your uncle. Took in a new kid."
Luca spun the silver lighter in his hand.
Flick—flame flared, then died under his breath.
"…And?"
"Doctor Nam's boy. Daniel."
The lighter froze in his fingers.
The room seemed to cool a degree.
The voice paused, then went on.
"You don't have a score to settle with the kid.
Under George's roof… he might even be safe."
Luca smiled without showing teeth.
"…The girl?"
"Who? Celeste?"
Celeste.
The name echoed in him.
Those calm gray eyes.
Too calm for a child.
Holding his gaze far too long.
"That legendary George…"
The voice was flat.
"Guess he's opening an orphanage now."
Click—call ended.
He stayed with the receiver in his hand for a long beat.
Moved to the window.
Florence's night streets, swallowed in thick fog.
He lit a cigarette.
Breathed out smoke with a single word.
"…Celeste ."