I’d gotten used to the clink of glasses bouncing off the crystalline windows of Rag ’n’ Joley’s, as well as the troubled chatter of bitter pharmaceutical reps hunched in the corner booths. Sometimes pieces of their conversations drifted in my direction. I knew if I so much as tried to pick up on the words, my sanity would roll out the back door—which needed to be fixed; it was letting the cold winter drafts in. Shrugging off my coat, I sank into one of the worn-down stools, gesturing half-heartedly at the nervous bartender. Catching my eye, he scrambled to retrieve a cold bottle of Richie’s Apple Cider from the coolroom. Rookie. Rag ’n’ Joley’s always kept a bottle or two in the staff cooling box. For me, mostly. People, specifically the men in my field of work, seem to have a disgusting preference for burning liquor that sears your throat as it swirls through your insides.

The young man—Ernie, his nametag said—returned with my bottle, an attempt at a smile sort of sitting awkwardly on his face. Chuckling, I took the bottle and nodded at young Ernie, setting the garnet glass down in front of me.

It had been a long day. They all were, lately. Being CEO of the newest science technologies firm never got easier, even after months of experience in the war that raged across this industry. One hundred and ninety-two days of existence, and Viresyn Labs had already fought two lawsuits, countless instances of blackmail, threats, paranoia, and overeager consumerism. At least it wasn’t undereager consumerism.

I took a slow sip of cider and leaned back in my chair—first time I’d sat down all day. Too many thoughts danced about in the back of my mind—some, unfortunately, making their way to the forefront of my consciousness. Rent was due this week, on Thursday. The air-con in the east wing needed fixing before mould invaded the vents; it would cost us more to replace the old thing than to fix it. Probably. I’d double-check the numbers. Add it to the list. Somewhere behind my eyes, a dozen more tasks stacked themselves into a precarious tower of doom.

“Natalie Fischer.”

I hadn’t noticed anyone approach the bar. The voice was low, gravelly. Said my name like they knew me. Or needed something. Usually, that was the case. I glanced up, wincing as a sharp pain shot through my skull. I crossed my fingers I had ibuprofen left in my purse; the apple cider wasn’t helping.

It took me a moment to put a face to this mysterious voice. When I did, I frowned. He wasn’t the usual desperate device company rep ready to sacrifice everything for a partnership. No, this man… He didn’t have the hungry look I’d come to expect. No pitch deck in his pocket. No panic in his eyes. Just pure control. And that was worse.

“That’s a lot of weight to put behind a name.”

The man didn’t smile. “Get up,” he ordered. “Take your things. Follow me. You don’t want to find out what happens if you don’t.”

I reached slowly into my bag, pulled out a small blister pack, and dry-swallowed two tablets. It wouldn’t take long for it to kick in. Thank God.

“I don’t follow people without a name or a reason,” I replied, finally. “Which are you going to give?”

“Jasper. You’re to take part in a government-led research initiative. Climate crisis. Famine. Global scientific development. Expeditions. Facilities. Solutions. You’ve been requested.”

“And if I decline?”

“I don’t suggest you wait to find out.”

***

The lab was underground. That much, I’d expected.

What I hadn’t expected was the silence. Not sterile, just vacant. The air had that heavy, recirculated taste, as if whatever oxygen had once occupied this space had passed through one too many lungs.

Jasper led me down a web of tunnels until we reached the atrium, a hollow, classroom-like dome, backlit by cold holographic beams and lined with stepped platforms.

At a lectern in the centre stood an older man, motionless, facing a screen that streamed equations and data like falling rain.

“Welcome to Apoptosis,” he said.

I chuckled. “Apoptosis? Like, programmed cell death? That seems… Overdramatic,” I replied.

“Isn’t this place beautiful?” The man ignored me, his voice soft and slow. “I had it redesigned not long ago. A charming place to live out one’s life.”

“Live out?” I repeated. “I think there’s been a mistake. I was told this was a research initiative. Government-backed. Temporary.”

“Is that so? I’m terribly sorry.”

He turned then.

“Natalie Fischer,” he murmured, smiling. “You will make a remarkable addition to my collection.”

My gaze flickered upward, toward the suspended holograms spinning defeatedly above us.

Eyes. Green. Open. Watching.

That was the moment I realised it wasn’t ever the plan for me to make it out alive.