A barefoot boy walked into Manhattan’s most exclusive charity gala, placed his bruised hands on my paralyzed legs, and did what the best doctors money could buy had failed to do. The wealthy guests laughed at him until I stood from my wheelchair, but the real shock came when I saw the antique watch clutched in his hand.

The interior of Blackwood Facility felt less like a medical building and more like a high-tech slaughterhouse. Cold white LED lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows down narrow, stainless-steel corridors lined with heavy glass observation windows.

As we moved deeper into the lower levels, the air grew thick with the smell of ozone, antiseptic, and something metallic—the faint scent of blood.

"Clear!" Marcus shouted, sweeping a side corridor with his rifle as two more mercenaries fell to the floor, disarmed and neutralized.

We reached a heavy, circular vault door at the bottom of the third subterranean level labeled LABORATORY 01 - RESTRICTED ACCESS.

I walked up to the control panel, pulling out the flash drive containing my father's old master administrative override key, which I had retrieved from the vault at the manor. I jammed it into the port.

The screen flashed red, then green.

OVERRIDE ACCEPTED: WELCOME, DIRECTOR WHITMORE.

The massive hydraulic locks turned with a deep, reverberating thud, and the door slid open.

The room inside was a massive, two-story surgical theater. In the center stood a massive glass cylinder filled with clear, bubbling fluid. Dozens of thick cables and plastic tubes ran from the cylinder into a complex array of monitors, centrifuge machines, and blood filtration units.

Suspended inside the fluid, her hands bound by leather straps, was a woman.

Her long blonde hair floated around her face like fine gold threads. Though her skin was pale, dangerously translucent, and covered in IV marks, I recognized those features instantly.

It was Eleanor.

"Eleanor!" I screamed, rushing toward the glass cylinder.

"I wouldn't touch that control panel if I were you, Charles," a slick, familiar voice echoed from the elevated observation balcony above us.

I stopped, racking the shotgun, and aimed it directly upward.

Arthur Vance stood behind a panel of bulletproof glass, wearing a pristine white lab coat over his tuxedo from the gala. Standing beside him were four heavily armed men with tactical rifles aimed at my head.

"Look at you," Arthur chuckled softly, leaning against the railing, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying, manic ambition. "Standing tall! Robust! Full of vigor! Isn't her blood incredible, Charles? A single milliliter of her cellular extract can repair dead tissue, reverse degenerative diseases, and double the human lifespan!"

"You sick, twisted bastard," I snarled, my knuckles turning white against the shotgun. "You locked my sister in a tube for twenty years?!"

"I saved her!" Arthur snapped, his voice turning shrill. "She was dying when she was eighteen, Charles! Her genetic mutation was consuming her organs! I built this containment unit to stabilize her, to harvest the cellular anomalies so we could change the world! Do you have any idea how many billions of dollars this research is worth?!"

"Where is the release valve, Arthur?" I demanded, taking a step toward the stairs.

"If you take another step, I press this button," Arthur held up a small black remote control. "It will dump fifty liters of concentrated potassium chloride directly into her life-support line. Her heart will stop in three seconds."