"These primitives—" she gestured toward the glass partition where the captives huddled, their eyes wide and wild, "—might hold the answers we've been bleeding for. A cure. A way to reverse the infertility plaguing the men." Her voice dropped, the words laced with something raw, something almost like desperation. "Without that, survival is just a slow march to extinction. We'll die out, one barren generation at a time."

The silence that followed was suffocating. I could hear the hum of the ventilation system, the distant drip of water from a leaky pipe. Angela's fingers twitched at her side, the only sign of the storm raging beneath her ironclad control.

"We don't have time for hesitation," Angela said, her voice slicing through the quiet like a scalpel. The finality in her tone left no room for argument. "We need that cure. Now."

I nodded, my throat tight. Around us, the lab buzzed with controlled chaos—scientists adjusting monitors, technicians prepping syringes, the ever-present hum of machines.

Angela didn't waste another second. She turned sharply toward her team, her commands crisp and precise. "Run the blood panels again. Cross-reference with the previous batch. And someone get me the toxicity reports on Subject 7—now."

Then, the commotion.

A nurse's voice cut through the murmur of the lab, sharp with panic. "Quick! The anesthesia dose—it's not working! Give him another—" The words dissolved into a flurry of movement as alarms blared.

My gaze snapped toward the source: one of the hospital beds, where a figure thrashed against the restraints. Tusk. His massive frame strained against the leather straps, veins bulging in his neck as he fought to break free.

Angela was already moving, her heels clicking against the tiled floor with lethal precision. She reached the bed in three strides, her expression unreadable. "Give me his report," she demanded, snapping her fingers at the nearest nurse.

The nurse fumbled with the tablet, her hands shaking as she handed it over. Angela's eyes scanned the screen, her brow furrowing. "Strange," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "His dose is correct. There's no reason he should be waking up."

For a heartbeat, the lab held its breath. Then Angela's voice cut through the silence, colder than ever. "Another dose. Now. And monitor him—every vital, every twitch. If anything changes, I want to know immediately."

She didn't wait for confirmation. With a final, dismissive glance at Tusk's struggling form, she turned on her heel and strode toward the exit. I fell into step behind her, the weight of what we'd just witnessed pressing down on me like a physical force.

The doors hissed shut behind us, sealing the chaos of the lab behind their cold metal barrier. Angela's voice dropped to a murmur, so low I had to lean in to catch it—"There's something we're missing."

The words hung between us, heavy with implication. Before I could respond, she straightened, her expression shifting as if flipping a switch. The intensity in her eyes softened, just slightly, replaced by something almost resembling normalcy.

"Well." She exhaled, a rare flicker of something human breaking through her armor. "For now, let's go to the cafeteria. It's lunch time." A pause. A ghost of a smile—if you could even call it that—tugged at the corner of her mouth. "And since this is your first time in the building, I'll show you around. Consider it a welcome tour."

I blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone. This was the same woman who had just ordered an extra dose of anesthesia like it was nothing, who had stared down a thrashing test subject without flinching.

Now she was talking about lunch? But I didn't argue. I simply nodded, falling into step beside her as we moved down the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridor.

The walk was silent at first, the only sounds the soft hum of the overhead lights and the distant echo of our footsteps. Angela led the way, her posture relaxed but still commanding, as if even in a cafeteria, she owned the space.

"You'll get used to it," Angela said suddenly, her voice low but carrying the weight of experience. She glanced at me sideways, her sharp eyes studying my reaction—or lack thereof.

"The dissonance. One minute, you're dealing with life and death. The next, you're eating a sandwich like it's just another Tuesday." There was no judgment in her tone, just the cold certainty of someone who had long since accepted the absurdity of it all.

I followed her into the cafeteria, the warm, savory scent of food wrapping around us like a fleeting comfort. Angela didn't hesitate. She moved straight toward the serving counter, where a plate—already prepared—waited for her.

The woman behind the counter, clad in a white apron, gave Angela a respectful nod. Without breaking stride, Angela gestured toward me. "Give him a plate as well. And make sure one is prepared for him daily. He'll be eating with me."

The woman didn't question it. She simply turned, grabbed a fresh plate, and began scooping food onto it with practiced efficiency. I watched, slightly stunned, as Angela took the plate meant for her and handed it to me instead. Before I could protest, she had already taken the newly prepared one and was walking toward a quiet corner of the cafeteria.

"Sit," she ordered, not unkindly, as she settled into a chair with the ease of someone who had claimed this spot as her own. The table was small, isolated from the rest of the chatter, offering a sliver of privacy in the otherwise bustling room.

I hesitated for only a second before sliding into the seat across from her. The food smelled good—better than I expected—but my mind was still caught between the lab and this strange, almost domestic moment.

Angela, however, seemed entirely at ease. She picked up her fork, her movements precise and deliberate, as if even the act of eating was a calculated decision. "Eat," she said, her voice firm but not unkind, as though she could sense my hesitation. "You'll need your strength. Especially if you're going to protect me."

I watched as she took small, measured bites, her focus momentarily shifting from the weight of our mission to the simple act of eating. There was something almost disarming about it—the way her posture relaxed just slightly, the way her sharp edges seemed to soften for a fleeting moment. My gaze flickered, catching the way her blouse draped just a little too loosely, the curve of her figure subtly pressing against the edge of the table.

I swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the tension coiling in my chest. This was Angela—ruthless, brilliant, untouchable—and yet, in this quiet moment, she seemed almost... human. The realization was jarring, and I forced my attention back to my plate, my fingers tightening around the fork.

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