Clocking in

The sterile, white halls of Harkon University’s lab building felt like a world apart from the rest of the sprawling campus. Despite the modern architecture, the lab was a place of chilling silence, broken only by the hum of machines and the occasional hiss of an automated door. It was here that the most gifted minds came together, pushing the boundaries of science in ways that would’ve been unimaginable a generation ago. Every inch of the building exuded a cold precision that matched the singular focus of its researchers, who dedicated their lives to unraveling the mysteries of the universe, the world, and of mankind.

Emma entered through the main doors. As she walked through the main hall on her way to her assigned lab, she gazed absentmindedly at the towering shelves, filled with rows upon rows of glass vials, each one containing samples from the most varied and volatile of genetic experiments. Some were sealed tightly, their labels warning of dangerous mutations. Others, still in development, showed faint pulses of neon glow through the glass, evidence of the subtle energy generated by their unstable contents. There were whispers of both awe and dread surrounding these specimens—the potential for breakthroughs as immense as the risk of a catastrophic failure.

In the farthest corner of the lab, Emma eyed a set of colossal metal cabinets standing against the wall, marked with red warning stripes. These were reserved for the most dangerous projects, the ones that had moved beyond controlled experimentation and into the realm of pure unpredictability. No one dared approach them without an intricate set of protocols in place. Emma, being a student worker, wasn’t authorized to go near them. The curious young woman’s inquisitive nature and unfiltered mouth had gotten her chewed out a couple times in her brief tenure in the research labs. Most of the time, it spurred from her fascination with those cabinets. Every cabinet contained a lock and password known only to a select few, and those few were as tightly bound to secrecy as they were to their own personal demons.

Emma entered the staff lounge and made her way over to the “sign-in table,” a table specifically for every division’s employee sign-in sheets. The sheets, each attached to a separate clipboard and arranged in the straight line across the table, served no real purpose, as university employees had long-since switched to clocking in/clocking out through an app on their phones. However, the division leads, all older men, insisted on keeping a paper record as well.

After signing in, Emma entered the lab and greeted her lead researcher, Dr. Weylen. He muttered something back to her that she couldn’t understand, but she paid no mind and carried on with her morning tasks.

Dr. Robert Weylen, the head of the genetic mutation division, paced the room with an intensity that made even the most hardened researchers uneasy. A tall figure, with sharp features and eyes that seemed to pierce through the very fabric of the lab. In his youth, he was a man driven by a singular obsession: to manipulate and reshape the genetic code, to unlock the latent power he believed could revolutionize the human body. Now, at 54, the years of dead ends, red tape, and long work hours had disillusioned him. The cynical—yet wise—man now sought the opportunity to secure the necessary wealth to live off his money. His hair was always slightly disheveled, his lab coat perpetually untidy. Yet there was an undeniable elegance to his movements, a grace that hinted at the dangerous beauty of his mind—a mind that had long since moved past ethical concerns.

Dr. Weylen eyed his young assistant as she dutifully carried out her assigned tasks. He couldn’t help but indulge his crude inner desires as his gaze lingered on her shapely ass. Her figure, so delicate and feminine, was alluring to the hardened older man. He knew she was transgender. Though she didn’t look it, Emma was quite open about it. Regardless, Dr. Weylen couldn’t have cared less. A pretty face, a nice body, holes to fuck, and breasts to grab were the only prerequisites he required to bed a woman. Of course, he was no fool either. The doctor would never consider making an advance on a subordinate, or any colleague, but there was no harm in appreciating the visual bounty on display should he have the time.

The man’s gawking came to an abrupt end as the door behind him swung open. In came the man Dr. Weylen had been looking for. The answer to the cynic’s prayers, or so he was assured by his colleague. He was rather insistent in fact, Dr. Weylen recalled. Though, he had yet to be convinced.

“Ah, Damien Nightingale, I presume? Dr. Robert Weylen,” Dr. Weylen extended his hand out to greet the man, “Good to finally meet you.”

The man shook Dr. Weylen’s hand, “You as well, doctor.” Damien attempted a warm smile, though it admittedly looked rather sinister.

Dr. Weylen almost gasped as his hand touched Damien’s. They were ice cold. He looked upon the mysterious Damien Nightingale, unsure of what to initially make of him.

Damien was tall, even taller than Dr. Weylen, so no shorter than 6’2”, with a broad frame that made any room he was in feel smaller. His thick, charcoal black hair was quaffed perfectly to the side, it’s dark elegance in stark contrast to Damien’s pale, rugged face. His eyes, brilliant—and yet deeply haunted—stared through the doctor. His dull, black eyes glinted red as his disinterested gaze finally focused on the older man before him.

Emma, having heard the commotion, turned to face the men. She was taken aback by the stranger’s appearance. Something about him was deeply unsettling but also so attractive. He looked disheveled—more so than Dr. Weylen—with a stubbly beard formed over his chiseled, sunken features and dark circles under his eyes. It was as if he hadn’t slept in some time. Yet Emma found she couldn’t stop staring at him. The longer she looked at him, the less she wanted to look away.

“Ms. Lovelace, if I could interrupt your staring for a moment?” Dr. Weylen asked dryly.

Emma’s cheeks flushed a deep red. She hadn’t noticed the men turn their attention to her. She hoped they weren’t watching her long, and though she had to resist the urge to glare at the doctor for his dry remark, she did genuinely feel bad for being so rude.

“I’m so sorry. What did you need, doctor?” Emma replied, sheepishly approaching the men.

The woman could feel Damien’s eyes on her now. She tried to avoid looking directly at him for too long, lest she re-enter her trance, or faint from the intensity of meeting his gaze.

To Emma’s surprise, it was Damien who replied, “Coffee—girl—and quickly. I am exhausted from my travels,” he growled.

Emma was taken aback by his request. Again, her cheeks flushed. She hated being talked down to, always had, but this was especially degrading. She hesitated, her pride not wanting her to comply with such a rude order. She could tolerate dry remarks with a dash of condescension, that was just academia in general, but this was worse. Still, she knew if she just kept standing there it would only make things more awkward.

“Yes, two coffees, both black, if you would please, Ms. Lovelace,” Dr. Weylen jumped in.

Relief washed over Emma as she could now simply respond to the doctor and not address the rude man standing before her.

“Right away, doctor,” Emma said, putting on her best fake smile and scurrying out of the lab. She could still feel Damien’s cold eyes weighing her down with their heavy stare as she left the room.