Head to the library to research

You need distance. Space to think. The library feels like the logical refuge—neutral ground where you can gather information without Sasha's presence suffocating you.

The walk across campus takes fifteen minutes, and with each step away from the chemistry building, you feel your heartbeat gradually slow. Students pass you in clusters, but you notice the same strange dynamic everywhere—quiet conversations, furtive glances, an atmosphere of nervous anticipation that hangs over everything.

The library's climate-controlled interior offers immediate relief. You make your way past the circulation desk, nodding at the student worker who barely glances up from her phone, and head directly to the research database terminals on the second floor.

Logging in with your faculty credentials, you search for Sasha Victória's published work. The results populate quickly—she's been remarkably prolific for a doctoral student. Twelve papers in the past three years, most in high-impact journals. You start with the most recent, published in June, just before summer break.

"Novel Applications of Recombinant Growth Factor Synthesis in Cellular Enhancement."

As you read, your scientific training takes over, pushing aside the fear and confusion. The paper is brilliant, as expected—Sasha's work always was. She details a method for creating synthetic peptide chains that can trigger unprecedented cellular regeneration and enhancement. The methodology is sound, the results reproducible in the limited scope she describes.

But something catches your eye in the discussion section. A single paragraph, almost buried in technical language, mentions "theoretical applications in human enhancement beyond current ethical boundaries" and references "classified parallel research tracks not included in this publication."

You lean back, processing this. Whatever she discovered, whatever formula she created, it wasn't in her published work. It was in that classified research—the project funded by that shadowy defense contractor, the one that required security clearances and NDAs.

You pull up her earlier papers, looking for patterns, for hints of where her thinking might have been heading. Paper by paper, you trace an evolution—from conventional biochemistry to increasingly radical proposals about human enhancement, cellular invulnerability, superhuman capabilities.

A shadow falls across your screen.

"Find anything interesting, Dr. Morgan?"

Your blood runs cold. That voice. Dr. Richard Whitmore, head of the biochemistry department, stands beside your terminal. But something about him is wrong. His normally crisp suit is wrinkled, his tie loosened. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his hands tremble slightly as he rests one on the back of your chair.

"She destroyed everything, you know," he continues, his voice hollow. "Every file. Every sample. Every piece of equipment she used. I tried to stop her. Tried to preserve the research for proper study." His laugh is bitter and broken. "She demonstrated very clearly why that was a mistake."

He pulls up a chair, sitting down heavily beside you. When he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper.

"Whatever you're thinking of doing, Alex—don't. Just... don't."