09:00 PM 15 days before the start of Joseph's operation.
Anton opened his eyes, waking from a light and fragmented sleep in the companion chair. The pain in his neck reminded him of the hours he had spent in that bad posture, but he ignored it. The first thing he did, before even stretching or rubbing his eyes, was activate his Inmo.
The blue light of the hologram illuminated his tired face in the gloom. He checked the inbox as usual, waiting for that miraculous message from Agent 1.
And, as usual, there was nothing.
"Damn it..." he whispered, clenching his fist.
He had been waiting fourteen days. Fourteen days of administrative silence. Forty-eight hours had already passed since Georg signed the papers confirming the operation, and the clock in Anton's mind ticked louder and louder, like a time bomb.
Anton got up and walked around the room, unable to stay still.
He hadn't stopped thinking about other possibilities. His brain, the one Kovak had called "extraordinary," was working at a thousand revolutions looking for a way out.
He went so far as to think about stealing Compound T. He traced mental infiltration plans, escape routes, schedules. But reality always crushed him: security at the F.Y.D. was impenetrable. Everything was watched by armed guards. He remembered Pelt Thatch's words in the storehouse: "There are seven cameras in this room." Trying to steal it was not only suicidal, but it would leave Joseph alone and unprotected when they caught or killed him.
He also considered the possibility of recreating it. He knew the theoretical basis, he knew what the compound was supposed to do. But he lacked the infrastructure. He didn't have the industrial genetic sequencers nor the plasma centrifuges. Without the machines, it was just a formula on paper, useless to save his brother.
Anton stopped at the foot of the bed.
Joseph was still there, bandaged and motionless, plunged into that artificial sleep that kept him stable. Georg had already gone home to rest, leaving the empty chair beside him and the heavy silence of the night.
Anton refreshed the Inmo inbox again, as if persistence could bend reality and magically make the message appear.
Nothing. Only silence.
But despite the walls, despite the logic and the lack of resources... Anton still didn't give up. He knew that as long as the scalpel didn't touch Joseph's skin, there was still a move left. He just didn't know what it was.
Suddenly, a vibration in his temple snapped him out of his thoughts.
NEW MESSAGE - Sender: Jacob Hunt Text: "I'm behind the hospital. I finished my shift. I'm smoking, come over."
Anton let out a sigh, half disappointment, half relief. He needed air. He got up, stretched his creaking back, and left the room, leaving his brother immersed in the induced sleep.
The night air was fresh. Anton found Jacob Hunt sitting on the back curb of the hospital, away from the gaze of patients. Hunt was no longer wearing his white coat; he was dressed in civilians, with a simple black sweater and worn jeans. He held a half-consumed cigarette between his fingers.
"What happened, Doctor?" joked Anton upon approaching, trying to sound animated. "Where is Miss Manuela?"
Hunt let out a brief laugh, exhaling smoke toward the dark sky.
"She left a while ago."
Anton sat next to him on the concrete curb.
"How are you?" asked Hunt, looking at him sideways.
"Good, good... you know. Waiting for the start of the operation," replied Anton, staring blankly at the asphalt, avoiding going deeper.
Hunt nodded in silence. Part of him wanted to tell him that, honestly, he was glad they had made the decision quickly. As a doctor, he knew Joseph's life hung by a thread and that the implants were the only real guarantee of survival. But seeing his friend's tense jaw and expression, he knew Anton didn't see that as salvation, but as a defeat. Telling him "it's for the best" would only pour salt in the wound.
So, just for today, he decided not to be Doctor Hunt, but his friend Jacob. He tried to look for a topic that would pull Anton out of that loop of guilt.
"Hey, Anton," said Hunt, blowing smoke to the side. "I have a curiosity."
"Tell me."
"When you cure Joseph's genetic disease, you achieve the goal for which you became a bioengineer." Hunt looked at him sideways. "What do you plan to do with your life after? What is the next step for Anton Marsol when he no longer has anyone to save?"
Anton froze.
The question hit him with the force of an invisible wall. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. His mind tried to visualize a future where Joseph was healthy, and he met an absolute void.
For as long as he could remember, his purpose, his studies, his work, everything had revolved around his brother's illness. If he removed that from the equation, what was left of him?
"I..." stammered Anton, eyes wide, staring at nothing. The image of Agent 1 shaking his hand crossed his mind like a chill. The deal. Anton lowered his gaze, feeling a sudden emptiness in his stomach. "I never thought about it," he whispered, paler than before.
He remained silent, visibly impacted, as if he had just discovered he had no shadow.
Hunt saw how the question resonated with Anton. He had sunk him. Cursing internally, he desperately sought another topic. His gaze fell on Anton's empty hands.
"Why don't you bring your camera anymore? Before, you looked like a tourist, you didn't go anywhere without that thing."
Anton leaned back against the wall, looking at his own sneakers.
"It's just that I don't... what for?" he murmured. "There is nothing memorable that I should save now."
"What do you mean 'no'?"
"Well, I don't think this is something good to remember," said Anton, pointing to the hospital building with a vague gesture. "My brother bandaged, my grandfather aging from worry... It's not material for the family scrapbook."
Hunt remained silent for a moment, watching the ash fall to the ground.
"You're wrong, Anton."
"About what?"
"That only the 'good' deserves to be saved. Memorable moments are not just the parties or the awards. They are the ones that change us. And this process... for you, for Joseph, for Georg... is something that is going to change you all forever, whether for better or for worse."
Hunt turned his head to look directly at him.
"Don't get discouraged. Keep saving these moments. Every moment is important. Even boredom. All moments deserve to be saved and lived, because in those moments... is where you are alive. And being alive, even when it hurts, is the only miracle we have." Hunt continued with a trembling voice. "I have seen many people die, Anton, and I could swear to you that most die with regrets. Turn your life into an endless tale of memorable moments, since life is very fleeting."
Anton looked at him with slightly widened eyes, surprised by the depth of the words.
"Hey... I didn't know you were good at conversation," said Anton, letting out a nervous little laugh.
Hunt smiled half-sidedly.
"You're right. Maybe these moments should also be saved."
"Of course," affirmed Hunt. Then, he seemed to want to change the tone of the conversation to something less dense. "And speaking of memorable things... We have to go back to the bar, but this time with Joseph, when he recovers."
"Yes, we have to go, although Joseph isn't fascinated by drinking."
"Maybe, but surely he'll like the cute girls there," joked Hunt.
Anton nodded with a slight smile, allowing himself to imagine that future for a second.
"By the way, Anton... today I treated a police officer. A blonde girl, tall... very impressive."
Anton laughed, relaxing a bit.
"Yeah? Was she good-looking?"
"Yes, yes... very pretty," admitted Hunt, smiling. "Not more than Manuela, obviously, but she had presence."
Both laughed. It was a necessary moment of camaraderie amidst the chaos.
"What a pity I'm not here to see her, to see how pretty she really was," joked Anton.
Hunt's smile faded a little, becoming melancholic.
"Well... the story isn't that cheerful. I received her in emergency this afternoon. There was a brawl in Zone 3. A group of armed subjects tried to steal something big and wanted to plant a bomb, they didn't tell me what, but they clashed in a shootout."
Hunt took the last drag of the cigarette and crushed it against the ground.
"The girl received eight bullet impacts."
Anton opened his eyes wide.
"Eight? Is she alive?"
"She survived miraculously," said Hunt, watching the smoke dissipate. "Two in the legs, two in the arms, one in the clavicle, another in the hand... and one in the lumbar spine."
Anton made a grimace of empathic pain.
"The spine..."
"Yes. It shattered vertebrae L4 and L5. She won't be able to walk anymore. And her career as a police officer ended today."
"What a tragedy..." murmured Anton.
"But there is another side," continued Hunt. "Her partner didn't survive. He died in transport. But thanks to the fact that they confronted the thieves, they prevented them from entering a residential building to plant the bomb. They saved the families living there and the aggressors fled."
Hunt stared into the void, pensive.
"I wonder... is it fair?"
"What?" asked Anton.
"That some pay for what others do. Is it fair that that girl loses her legs and her partner loses his life to save people they don't even know? Is it really worth sacrificing a few for the good of a larger group? Is there no other way where no one gets hurt?"
Anton stayed quiet, processing the question.
"For me," continued Hunt, "every life counts, so I understand, I am a Doctor, but I don't put my life on the line. It hurt to see her like that. I wonder if that sacrifice is... fair, and even more so if the criminals managed to escape."
Anton looked at the dark horizon of San Cristov.
"I don't know much about justice, Jacob. But those police officers did what they had to do. They were heroes. And under that logic... if their sacrifice allowed many more people to stay alive... then yes. It was worth it. More people remained alive thanks to them."
Hunt looked at him, not entirely convinced, but nodded.
"I understand that, what I don't understand is why someone has to get hurt, and the responsible ones didn't pay." Hunt sighed. "I suppose that for the majority to live, someone has to bleed. I don't like it, but I understand your point."
"Although I don't know if that is what is 'fair'," added Anton. "It is just... logical. For me, the majority coming out alive is the best."
They remained in silence for a few seconds, sharing the weight of that uncomfortable truth.
Suddenly, Anton's Inmo vibrated.
INCOMING CALL - ID: PRIVATE NUMBER
Anton was surprised. A hidden number had never called him.
"Hello?" he answered mentally.
"Hello," said a voice on the other side. It was a familiar voice, but distorted by static or technology.
Anton tensed.
"Ah... hello, Doctor," he replied instinctively, recognizing the timbre.
"Don't say my name," interrupted the voice, dry and fast.
"Okay..." Anton looked at Hunt sideways, who was looking at the ground. "Why are you calling me? Did something happen?"
"I have something to talk to you about. I can't mention it on this line, but it is regarding what you can come to imagine. It is about what I mentioned to you in the storehouse."
Anton's heart accelerated. The storehouse. Compound T.
"I understand."
"I am two blocks from the hospital. At the corner of 4th Street and Central Avenue. Come alone."
The call cut off abruptly.
Anton stood motionless for a second. Hunt noticed the change in his posture.
"Everything okay?" asked Hunt.
Anton got up, brushing dust off his trousers.
"Yes, yes... everything's fine. Just... I'll be right back. I'm going to get a little more air walking."
Hunt didn't ask questions. He simply nodded.
"Alright. I'm going home to sleep a bit too. Take care, Anton."
"You too."
Anton walked away with a quick step, leaving the hospital behind. He walked the two blocks with his heart in his throat, looking everywhere, feeling watched.
Upon reaching the indicated corner, he saw it.
A luxury sports car, metallic blue, parked discreetly under the shade of a tree. The windows were pitch black, tinted to the maximum.
Anton approached cautiously. Upon reaching the passenger door, he tapped twice gently on the glass.
The window lowered with a soft electric hum.
The air conditioning from the interior escaped into the street. Sitting at the wheel was a red-headed man, with his black leather gloves gripping the steering wheel and an enigmatic smile on his face; it was Doctor Pelt Thatch.
"Get in, Anton," said Thatch. "We have to talk."
The interior of the car was a luxury bunker. The silence was absolute, isolated from the city noise by the armored glass. The air conditioning maintained a cool, almost clinical temperature.
Anton mentally began to record the conversation with his inmo and sat in the passenger seat, feeling out of place in that sports vehicle.
"What happened, Pelt?" asked Anton, breaking the silence. "In the call, you sounded very mysterious. Why did you want to contact me like this?"
Pelt Thatch, relaxed at the wheel, drummed his gloved fingers on the leather.
"How are you, Anton?" he asked, ignoring the other's haste. "You look tired."
"I am... as one can be." Anton shifted uncomfortably. "Pelt, please. I'm in a hurry. You said you had to tell me something."
"That is correct. I have a proposal that could change your situation." Thatch turned his head and looked him straight in the eyes; his expression no longer had the warmth of the office, but a disquieting seriousness. "But before that, I need to know something."
"What?"
"Whose side are you on?"
Anton frowned, confused.
"Whose side am I on? I don't understand you."
"Yes. Whose side are you on?" insisted Thatch. "Do you believe the F.Y.D. works? Do you really believe they keep us safe, or that they simply control the board?"
Anton felt a chill. Those kinds of questions were dangerous in San Cristov.
"Excuse me, Doctor..." Anton tried to sound firm, though his voice wavered. "The truth is I am not interested in those kinds of situations or politics. That you are asking me this is very strange. I am a scientist, not an activist."
"Relax," said Thatch softly. "They are just questions. You see, lately fear, terror... many things have happened in Sarac. Rumors of war, internal conflicts, insecurity are heard." Thatch looked toward the windshield. "The F.Y.D. has technology that sooner or later will blow up in its face, we are more advanced than anyone, and even so... everything always ends in conflict. For me, the F.Y.D. is no longer useful. It is a dog that sooner or later will bite its master."
Anton swallowed hard. Thatch was speaking openly of dissent. That was treason.
"The F.Y.D. is a danger, it created a terrifying technology capable of destroying many countries, technological advancement is always used for..." Thatch was saying while unconsciously squeezing the steering wheel, he took a deep breath and continued. "Well, to win an invisible war."
"I understand..." said Anton, lowering his voice. "So you are against the F.Y.D."
Thatch didn't deny it. He just smiled slightly.
"Look, Pelt..." Anton searched for the door handle with his right hand. "Excuse me, but I am not interested in any of your proposal. I don't want to get involved in this. I have my brother in the hospital and enough problems."
Anton pulled the handle. The door clicked, but before he could push it, a large and heavy hand came out from the back seat and grabbed his shoulder with the force of a hydraulic press.
"Ah!" screamed Anton from the fright.
The hand pulled him back violently, pinning him against the seat.
Anton turned, terrified. He hadn't noticed anyone in the back due to the tinted windows and the darkness of the interior.
A burly figure was in the shadows.
"Relax, Doctor," said a deep voice from behind. "You cannot leave here until you hear our proposal."
Anton looked at Thatch, seeking help, but the redhead remained calm, as if this were part of the routine.
"Let him go, please," ordered Thatch without looking back. The hand released Anton's shoulder, but the threat remained in the air.
Anton rubbed his shoulder, breathing heavily.
"What proposal?" asked Anton, now with fear. "I already told you I don't want problems."
"I repeat it to you: I need to know whose side you are on," said Thatch. "And for you to choose a side, you need the truth. Tell me, has Agent 1 given you an answer about Compound T for your brother yet?"
Anton hesitated.
"No... not yet. I imagine they haven't held the committee meeting yet."
Thatch let out a dry laugh.
"You think that? The committee meeting was held ten days ago, Anton."
Anton's world stopped for an instant.
"Ten days?" he murmured. "No... surely Agent 1 is waiting to tell me properly. He is a busy man."
"Busy?" mocked Thatch. "To tell a man if his brother will live or die?"
"Surely he forgot," defended Anton weakly. "He is old now... he has many things on his mind."
"No one forgets something like that, Anton." Thatch shrugged. "I know that you know, Agent 1 was never interested in giving you the compound."
Anton knew it, but his heart still didn't want to accept reality. He stood looking at the dark sky hoping it was a joke, but it wasn't. His face fell with shame, sadness, and a dull rage. He had handed over the project of his life. He had betrayed his principles. And in exchange... nothing.
I sacrificed everything, I tried, he told himself.
Anton gritted his teeth. His eyes moistened, not from crying, but from helplessness; Anton felt betrayed again.
"I imagine you already have your answer," said Thatch softly, but with lethal precision.
Anton didn't answer. He only looked at the car's dashboard, feeling how the hatred toward the lie grew in his chest while he tensed his knuckles.
"Then, now indeed, Doctor Marsol," said Thatch, leaning toward him. "I need you to listen to my proposal. Do you want to save your brother?"
Anton neither affirmed nor denied, only took a deep breath expecting Thatch to continue.
" The Animal Compound will sooner or later destroy Sarac, our goal is to obtain it before that happens and we will facilitate Compound T for you."
Anton was confused. A part of him understood the horror of Compound A, he wanted to ask: "And what will you do with that after?" But the question drowned in his throat, converted into a bitter taste he swallowed without protest. At that point, it no longer mattered. In his mind, he scrutinized every alternative to reach Compound T, this could be the only one.
"What do you want from me?" whispered Anton.