1
ELENA
Iturn the microscope’s dial, adjusting the focus until the blood sample becomes crystal clear. The laboratory hums around me—centrifuges whirring, computers processing data, and air filtration systems maintaining the sterile environment. At 2 AM, Haven’s Heart’s genetic research division belongs to me alone.
Just how I prefer it.
I tap notes into my tablet, cataloging anomalies in the shifter blood samples collected from the newly emerged wild clans. The silence helps me think, allowing me to notice patterns others might miss. When everyone else retreats to their quarters, I find my rhythm in the quiet precision of scientific inquiry.
My fingers trace the edge of a vial labeled “Northern Forest - Alpha Class.” Inside swirls dark crimson liquid that could revolutionize our understanding of shifter genetics—if I can unlock its secrets. This particular sample, from an emerging wolf clan, contains genetic markers I’ve never seen before. Ancient sequences that, according to our database, shouldn’t exist anymore.
I push another slide under the microscope and lean forward. The nucleotide patterns form familiar sequences, then branch into something unprecedented. Something beautiful in its complexity.
“What are you hiding?” I whisper to the sample, as if it might answer.
My research station stands isolated in the corner of the lab, surrounded by gleaming equipment that represents the pinnacle of Haven’s Heart technology. The contrast isn’t lost on me—primitive blood samples analyzed by cutting-edge machines, wild clan genetics dissected in a sterile lab environment. Like examining a hurricane through a perfectly clean window.
The screen beside me flashes with preliminary results. The computer has finished sequencing the first batch of samples, revealing a genetic structure so complex it defies our current classification system. These aren’t just ordinary shifters. The markers indicate lineages dating back to pre-barrier times, bloodlines we thought had disappeared centuries ago.
My heart beats faster as I scroll through the data. This could be the breakthrough I’ve been working toward for years—concrete evidence that the wild clans aren’t devolving as commonly believed, but perhaps evolving along different paths. The implications for shifter biology are staggering.
The phone on my desk lights up, vibrating against the metal surface. The caller ID displays “Council Office - Priority.” I hesitate before answering. Council calls at this hour never bring good news.
“Dr.Ashford speaking,” I say, keeping my voice level.
“Doctor.” The crisp, authoritative voice of Representative Caldwell fills the line. “The Council requires a progress report on your research into exploitable weaknesses in wild clan genetics.”
I straighten in my chair, careful to keep my expression neutral despite being alone. The Council chambers havecameras everywhere; I’ve learned to assume I’m always being observed.
“I’m still in the preliminary analysis phase,” I reply, choosing my words carefully. “The samples show remarkable resilience. Any exploitable weaknesses would require significantly more time to identify.”
“Time is a luxury we may not have, Doctor.” Caldwell’s tone hardens. “The wild clans grow bolder by the day. The Council needs options in case negotiations fail.”
The unspoken command hangs between us: find a way to hurt them. Find a biological vulnerability we can exploit if diplomacy fails. My stomach tightens at the implications.
“I understand the urgency,” I say, “but rushing genetic analysis often leads to missed opportunities. Some of these samples show potential for medical applications that could benefit all shifters.”
“Your humanitarian interests are noted, Doctor, but remember your primary directive.” Caldwell pauses. “The Council expects concrete results by the end of the month. Focus on identifying weaknesses, not applications.”
The call ends abruptly. I set the phone down and exhale slowly, the weight of my assignment settling across my shoulders. This is the uncomfortable reality of my position—my research could save lives or become a weapon, depending on who wields it.
I return to my microscope, but my concentration has fractured. The ethical implications of my work have always troubled me, but never more than now. These blood samples aren’t just data points; they represent living beings with their own societies, traditions, and rights to exist.
My gaze falls on a locked cabinet in the corner—the one labeled “Priority Acquisition.” Inside sits a list of shifter types whose blood samples would advance our research exponentially.At the top: “Storm Eagle—Status: Unattainable.” No one has ever captured a Storm Eagle alive. Those magnificent aerial predators kill their wounded rather than allow them to be taken by ground forces.
I respect that kind of loyalty, even as it frustrates my scientific curiosity.
I’m entering notes about anomalous healing factors when the emergency klaxon shatters the laboratory silence. Red lights pulse overhead, and the automated system announces: “Medical personnel report to deployment bay. Code Red. Casualties at the Northern Settlement outpost.”
My heart pounds as I secure my workstation. I’m a researcher, not a field medic. But all medical personnel with advanced degrees are subject to emergency deployment when casualties overwhelm standard resources.
I’ve never been called up before. This must be catastrophic.
Twenty minutes later, I’m strapped into a military-grade helicopter alongside three other doctors and a team of medics. The chopper vibrates beneath us as we race toward the northern border settlement. Dr.Reeves, our senior physician, briefs us over the roar of the engines.
“The supply convoy was ambushed an hour ago. At least thirty casualties, many critical. The settlement’s medical facility is overwhelmed.” His expression is grim. “Reports indicate coordinated aerial attacks—precision strikes on fuel tanks and medical supplies.”
“Storm Eagles?” asks Dr.Chen, voicing what we’re all thinking.
