The air in the Antarctic facility was so cold it felt like a physical presence, a sharp, sterile knife in the lungs. It was a cold Victoria Kane had grown accustomed to, even fond of. It mirrored the cold certainty settling in her own heart. She stood on a gantry, her hands resting on the chilled railing, looking down at the beating heart of her life's work.
Below, stretching the length of a football field, were row upon row of gleaming stainless-steel bioreactors. They hummed with a low, purposeful energy, filled with a viscous, pearlescent liquid that shimmered under the harsh industrial lights. Conveyor belts carried endless streams of small, innocuous-looking canisters, each being filled with a measured dose of that same liquid. This was her symphony. This was her vengeance, made tangible.
"Report," she said, her voice calm and clear, cutting through the mechanical drone.
