The presidential palace was slowly waking up, wrapped in a warm light that pierced through the heavy garnet curtains. The guards, lined up in the main corridor, gave a discreet salute to the early employees. Everything seemed calm, almost too much so.
In the private lounge, the place where only the president's family members set foot, the scent of freshly ground coffee floated in the air. The room was spacious but decorated simply: an old leather armchair, a handwoven rug, a grand bookshelf, and a solid wooden desk marked with fine scratches.
President Ifera Mankolo — a bald, stocky man, solid as a rock — sat in the armchair, his eyes squinting behind round-framed glasses. His thick black mustache vibrated slightly with each breath. His wife, Elima, stepped forward and placed a warm cup in his hands.
"You hardly slept last night," she said softly.
"Hard to sleep when a scientist calls you at 2 a.m. to say: 'Mr. President, we need you immediately tomorrow. It's urgent.'" He sighed, shook his head. That never meant anything good.
Elima smiled gently and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"It's your duty. And besides... they say this girl's body survived something unimaginable. It's natural that you want to understand."
He nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes... but that lab... the more I think about it, the more I wonder what justifies so many secrets."
Elima moved her chair closer to her husband's armchair.
"It's the government. They always make things more complicated than necessary. What matters is that you stay strong. You're the only one who can go in today."
"The only one...," he murmured, watching the steam rise from the coffee. "That's what worries me. If they need me, it means no one else has enough authority. That means something's going on... something big."
Trying to coax a smile from him, Elima leaned in again and gave him a small kiss on the cheek.
"Stop worrying about everything. You'll just go in, listen, sign papers, ask two questions, and come back out. And when you get home tonight, I'll have made your favorite meal."
He finally laughed, that deep laugh that made his mustache vibrate.
"You know exactly how to calm me down. Thanks."
He put the cup down, grabbed his jacket neatly folded over the armrest, and stood up.
"All right. I'm going. They're probably already waiting for me to sign their damn protocol."
Elima stood as well, crossing her arms with an amused smile:
"And don't forget: no anger today. You intimidate half the scientists just by breathing."
"Me? I'm a lamb," he replied, feigning innocence.
He turned toward the lounge entrance.
A silence.
A strange silence.
A silence too dense.
Elima frowned.
"Ifera... did you hear that?"
He opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly the air in the room grew cold. A chilly breeze, coming from nowhere, made the curtains shiver. The president froze. The light seemed to dim, as if swallowed by an invisible presence.
Then, behind them, against the wall...
a shadow detached itself.
Not cast by a body.
Not tied to a light source.
It was born there, as if reality itself had peeled away.
Elima brought a hand to her mouth.
"My... God..."
The president, hands trembling, slowly turned around.
The silhouette was tall, distorted, without fixed contours. A mass of black, moving, liquid yet solid. Two white, cold eyes, without eyelids, opened within the darkness, like the slits of an animal that should not exist.
"Wh... who is it?!" stammered Ifera, his voice strangled.
The shadow stretched, and a voice was heard.
Not a human voice.
A voice too deep, too calm, too... detached.
"That doesn't matter."
Elima stumbled backward, wide-eyed.
The president wanted to run toward her, but the figure simply raised a black hand, and the room froze. The air froze. Even the dust suspended in the light seemed stopped.
Two fingers raised.
Then a sharp snap.
A simple sound.
Enough to undo entire existences.
The president's body instantly lost all substance. His skin cracked in gray curls, his silhouette faded, dissipating like smoke sucked into an invisible void. His glasses fell to the floor with a dry clink. His clothes, suddenly empty, collapsed onto the rug like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Elima wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
The shadow barely turned its head toward her.
Another snap.
Her body evaporated in the same way, breaking down into dark dust. Her hands reaching out toward her husband disappeared first.
The clothes fell down.
And the lounge became silent again, as if nothing had happened.
Zar'Khan, alone amid the empty clothes, murmured:
"Now... let's open the doors."
----
The black presidential car stopped with a controlled screech in front of the immense concrete facade of the scientific complex. Blue rotating lights blinked silently around the perimeter: the place was at maximum tension.
No sooner had the door opened than four bodyguards immediately positioned themselves around Zar'Khan — perfectly transformed into President Ifera, with the same build, mustache, and stern expression.
The crowd erupted.
Dozens of journalists surged like a wave, cameras raised, microphones extended, notebooks open, shouting all at once:
"Mr. President, is it true the body doesn't rot?!"
"Did you authorize the opening of the corpse?!"
"Is it a mutation? A virus? A supernatural phenomenon?!"
"Will the government issue a statement?!"
Flashes succeeded without pausing, crackling against his borrowed face. The guards moved to contain the human tide, pushing back the most insistent.
Zar'Khan did not give the crowd a single glance.
He walked forward, calm, mechanical.
Each step echoed against the floor as if drawing a line between him and chaos.
The reinforced doors of the complex opened immediately and he entered without slowing. Inside, a deputy director, so nervous he was shaking, bowed slightly.
"Mr. President... please follow me. The team is already waiting for you."
Zar'Khan simply replied:
"All right."
They walked down a narrow corridor, lit by an almost sickly white light. At the end, a metallic door opened to reveal a circular elevator entirely made of transparent walls.
The director slid a magnetic card into the security slot. Immediately, the elevator activated, descending at dizzying speed. The complex's walls ran past them, revealing other levels, other laboratories, other secrets.
Finally, they reached the deepest area:
Dome X-02, a gigantic circular room, white, aseptic, cold, lit by neon lights suspended high above.
Several scientists were already waiting in front of a large steel table in the center of the dome. Screens displayed incomprehensible biometric data, cellular diagrams, impossible analyses.
And in the middle...
Mayohi's body.
Half of her body was covered with a white sheet. Her skin, pale but intact, looked almost fresh. No sign of decomposition. No tissue slackening. Nothing.
The lead scientist, a man with graying hair and thick glasses, spoke standing just in front of her, his gaze shining with an almost abnormal fascination.
"Acid... saw... axe... nothing can destroy this body."
He adjusted his glasses.
"And yet, when she was brought here, her side was crushed, her bones pulverized by the impact of the car. Now?"
He leaned slightly.
"The body has... regenerated. On its own."
Around him, the other scientists murmured in stunned disbelief.
The chief put on a pair of gloves.
"This is totally unprecedented. Have we discovered a new form of human biology? A cellular anomaly? An extreme mutation?"
He bit his lip as he moved a little closer.
"Imagine... a being whose cells, after death, stop rotting... and become indestructible."
His voice trembled.
"This could revolutionize science.
Medicine.
Our entire understanding of life."
He brushed the cold shoulder of Mayohi.
"If only... if only we could open her and analyze what changed at the cellular level..."
Zar'Khan, behind him, smiled faintly — a smile the real president would never have had.