The metallic doors of the meeting chamber slid shut with a crisp hiss behind Dr. Nathan. The overhead lights flickered once—an irritating habit of the old lab's wiring—and cast sharp angles over the spotless corridor. His polished shoes echoed with clinical sharpness, each step measured, unhurried, as though the heated debate from moments before had meant nothing to him.
But as he reached the midpoint of the hallway, a shadow detached itself from the wall.
Dr. Feil.
He stood with his arms folded, face blank but eyes burning with something heavy—disappointment, anger, disbelief all woven into one tightening thread.
"No wonder you were so calm," Feil said, voice low, almost too controlled. "Even when I threatened your entire career in that room. It makes sense now." His gaze dragged across Nathan like a scalpel. "You dangled what all those old men can't resist—profit and recognition."
Nathan paused mid-step, his coat swaying slightly. He turned slowly, adjusting his glasses with calm precision.
"Feil," he said, amusement coloring his tone, "your words are meaningless at this point, don't you think?"
Feil's jaw tightened.
Nathan continued, smooth and unbothered, "We will create a weapon that not only rivals the Seven Pillars but has the potential to stand against them in battle… and not lose."
His voice lowered. A glint—dangerous, ambitious, almost feverish—flashed in his eyes. He used a hand to push back a few loose strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead.
Silence expanded between them.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
Finally, Feil exhaled, a weary, almost broken sound. When he spoke, his voice was softer—sad, restrained, heavy.
"I thought…" he began slowly, "that we were fighting aberrants. Not the very Pillars protecting humanity from them."
Nathan said nothing, only watched him, the faintest smirk resting on the edge of his lips.
Feil stepped closer, until the cold overhead lights carved hollow shadows beneath his tired eyes.
"Nathan," he asked, voice trembling with disappointment, "do you even see those with mythical beast genes as human?"
There was a long, suffocating pause.
Then Nathan laughed.
Soft at first. A low, dark chuckle that echoed through the metallic corridor like something unnatural. Feil stiffened as the sound grew louder, edged with madness he had only suspected but never witnessed so clearly.
"Humans?" Nathan repeated, amusement dripping from the word like venom. "No. They are not humans." His tone sharpened, deadly. "They are tools. Constructs. Born—or engineered—for a purpose."
He stepped forward, eyes gleaming with conviction.
"To eliminate aberrants. That is their role. Their existence. Their design. They are to be kept under leash and—"
Feil raised a hand sharply.
"Enough."
Nathan's voice cut off, but the smirk remained.
Feil held his ground, staring directly into Nathan's eyes with a mixture of disgust and heartbreak—because once, long ago, they were simply colleagues with dreams of saving lives. Now they stood on opposite sides of something far greater than a scientific disagreement.
"You will explain that," Feil said, voice firm again, "to the family of this child. To the people whose daughter—whose sister—was used as an experiment she never consented to. She was treated like a disposable lab rat."
He swallowed, the pain in his chest visible.
"And then discarded like one."
Feil took a step back, breath shaking.
"You'll tell them why their baby is now labeled as Organization Property… and not a person."
Nathan remained still, expression unreadable.
Feil turned away, but before he took more than two steps, Nathan spoke.
"It was necessary."
Feil stopped.
Nathan continued, almost gently, "Sacrifices build the foundation of progress. History has proven this countless times. You know that."
Feil didn't turn around.
"And if the experiment works," Nathan said, "if this child becomes what we expect—humanity will be saved."
Feil finally looked over his shoulder, eyes sharp, voice cold.
"At what cost?"
Nathan blinked once, slow and indifferent. "At any cost necessary."
The words struck Feil harder than any physical blow.
He inhaled sharply, then turned fully away and began walking down the corridor. His steps were quicker now, each one fueled by frustration, sorrow, and something darker—fear.
Nathan watched him leave.
As Feil's silhouette grew smaller, the lights flickered again. This time the shadows stretched longer, darker, like the world itself was reacting to the words spoken.
At the end of the hallway, Feil whispered to himself, barely audible over the hum of the ventilation systems:
"For every cause… there is an effect."
He paused.
"And this one is coming."
His voice trembled—not with weakness, but with certainty.
Behind him, Nathan stood motionless, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as though calculating not just the consequences Feil feared… but the ones he planned.
The corridor's lights dimmed once more, leaving Nathan half-shrouded in shadow.
And somewhere far below the lab—in the sealed lower levels—an unborn heartbeat echoed faintly through the fluid-filled chamber of an incubation pod.
Steady.
Strong.
Unnatural.
A cause had already been set in motion.
And the effect?
Was inevitable.