Question him about where Sasha conducted her classified research

You lean forward, keeping your voice low and steady. "Richard, where did she conduct the classified work? The actual breakthrough—where did it happen?"

Whitmore's eyes dart around the library, checking the aisles between the stacks. His hands grip the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles go white.

"The sub-level," he whispers. "Beneath the biochem building. There's a restricted lab that the contractor set up—reinforced walls, biometric locks, the whole security apparatus. She had twenty-four hour access." He swallows hard. "Had. Past tense. Because there's nothing left down there now except twisted metal and melted equipment."

You process this information carefully. "When did she destroy it?"

"Three weeks ago. August fifteenth." The date comes out with mechanical precision, as if he's repeated it many times. "She came to my office that morning, different somehow. Taller. I thought maybe she was wearing heels, but..." He trails off, shaking his head. "She told me she'd had a breakthrough. Said she needed to 'secure her work.' I thought she meant backing up data, filing patents. Standard procedure."

His voice cracks slightly. "By that afternoon, she'd incinerated every hard drive, destroyed every sample, and used her bare hands to rip apart equipment worth millions of dollars. When I confronted her..." He stops, breathing hard through his nose.

"What happened when you confronted her?"

Whitmore's face goes pale. "She picked me up like I weighed nothing. Held me against the ceiling tiles with one hand around my throat for—I don't know how long. Twenty minutes? Thirty? She wasn't even straining, Alex. She just held me there while she explained, very calmly, very rationally, exactly what she could do to me. How she could hear my heart struggling. How she could see through my clothes to watch my ribs compress. How she could crush my windpipe with a fraction of the pressure she was using."

He pulls at his collar, and you see faint bruising still visible on his neck despite the weeks that have passed.

"The sub-level," you press. "Can anyone else access it?"

"The biometric system is completely destroyed. But even if you could get in..." Whitmore meets your eyes, and you see genuine despair there. "She melted the reinforced steel doors, Alex. Used something—heat vision, I don't even know—but the metal ran like water. Whatever secrets were in that lab, they're slag now."

A phone buzzes. Whitmore pulls out his cell, glances at the screen, and his face goes even paler. He stands abruptly.

"I have to go. She's... I need to go." He looks at you one more time. "Don't go down there. Don't investigate. Just forget about all of this and maybe, maybe she'll leave you alone."

He hurries away between the stacks, leaving you alone with the glow of your terminal and the weight of new information