Gene adjusted the collar of her uniform, the starched fabric cool and almost unyielding against her skin. It was startlingly white, pristine, smelling faintly of industrial cleaner and ozone – the signature scent of the White Angels' laundry service. Over her chest, the embroidered wings were an intricate silver thread against the white, catching the sterile overhead lights. They were the emblem of salvation, of protection, of impossible flight. Yet, on her, they felt heavy, a lie she wore openly. Still too clean, too perfect, too damn unearned. She hadn't truly bled for them yet, hadn't faced the kind of darkness the older Angels carried in their eyes, hadn't performed the miracles the legends spoke of.

  The White Angels' headquarters, a vast, imposing structure of steel and reinforced concrete, usually a place of purposeful activity and controlled warmth, felt different today. Colder than she remembered. Not just the air, which carried a dry, almost metallic chill through the wide, echoing corridors, but something deeper, more pervasive. An emptiness? A creeping sense of weariness that permeated the very walls? Or maybe it wasn't the building itself. Maybe she was the one changing, the hopeful optimism and wide-eyed idealism slowly eroding, leaving a hollow space where the cold could settle in.

  And the cold seemed to deepen whenever she was summoned to the heart of it all – the operations room. Which was happening again. Jack Smack had called her in. The curt, no-nonsense message delivered via internal comm-panel had arrived less than five minutes ago, jolting her from a tedious data cross-reference task. Third time this week. Each summons felt less like a routine briefing and more like... an urgent summons to the principal's office. Or perhaps, worse, preparation for something she wasn't ready for, something that would finally tarnish this impossibly white uniform and perhaps, irrevocably, change her. The walk down the long, fluorescent-lit hall towards the ops room felt heavier each time.

  Jack Smack had called her into the operations room again. Third time this week, and it was only Wednesday. Gene felt a familiar knot tighten in her stomach, a cold, unwelcome feeling she associated with impending doom and frantic problem-solving. Smack, the Director, never summoned her unless the numbers were grim, the projections disastrous, or, God forbid, both. This week had already been a pressure cooker, juggling a delayed product launch, a brewing scandal with a competitor, and a persistent cyber-attack that felt like a digital hydra, sprouting two new heads for every one they managed to sever. Now, this. Gene smoothed down her perpetually rumpled skirt, took a deep breath, and prepared for the worst. Whatever Smack had to say, she knew it wouldn't be good news. The man practically vibrated with bad tidings.

  She pushed back from her cluttered desk, the worn surface barely visible beneath stacks of technical manuals, energy cell schematics, and half-eaten nutrient paste packets. The hum of the aging data server in her tiny office was a constant companion, a low, persistent drone that vibrated through the floor and up into her bones. It was a sound that spoke of slow processing speeds and the ever-present threat of system failure, mirroring the anxieties that gnawed at her own mind.

  Stepping into the main hallway, the cool, fluorescent-lit air felt thin, almost sterile. It was a manufactured coolness, fighting a losing battle against the heat radiating from the server rooms deeper within the complex. The artificial air, recycled again and again, carried a faint, metallic tang, a constant reminder of their isolation. As she turned the corner towards the operations floor, she had to pass the mural.

  Spanning the entire wall was the 'Bastion of Humanity' – a sprawling, heroic depiction of human soldiers, idealized and determined, bracing against an onslaught of colossal, monstrous silhouettes. The figures were larger than life, their faces etched with unwavering resolve, weapons gleaming under a nonexistent sunlight. Each face, though generic, seemed to stare directly at the viewer, silently demanding sacrifice and unwavering loyalty. On the opposing side, the monstrous silhouettes clawed and writhed, forms hinted at but never fully revealed. Jagged edges, glowing eyes, forms too unnatural to comprehend fully. These were the horrors beyond the perimeter, the things that lurked in the black nothingness of space. The art was meant to inspire, to remind everyone what they were fighting for, what they had already sacrificed.

  Propaganda, she thought, the word had a bitter tang on her tongue. She saw the real cost in the reports she filed daily, the casualty lists, the sheer, overwhelming indifference of the enemy. This mural felt like a lie painted over desperate reality. But she didn’t say it out loud. Not here. Not anywhere within these reinforced walls. Here, silence wasn't just caution; silence was survival. Every hushed conversation, every avoided glance, every carefully neutral expression was a brick in the wall everyone built around themselves. She adjusted the strap of her datapad bag and quickened her pace towards the imposing doors of the operations room.

  The chime on her internal comms unit had been curt, as usual. "Gene. Operations Room. Now. Smack." Short, sharp, imperative. Jack Smack had called her into the operations room again. Merely stepping on the Director's polished floor required a certain mental preparation. This was the third time this week, and the week felt like it had only just begun. A cold dread, not entirely unfamiliar, settled in the pit of her stomach. What disaster had unfolded this time that required her particular set of dismal insights?

  She tracked the slow, agonizing creep of the silhouettes' territory on strategic maps. Here, in the heart of the machine, silence was survival. Not just keeping secrets, but keeping your thoughts secret, building an internal fortress against the pervasive dread and the official narrative. She quickened her step, the mural's silent, painted lie receding behind her, the operations room doors looming ahead.

  Inside, Jack was waiting.

  He didn’t look up from the data slate in his hand, its smooth, dark surface a familiar barrier between him and the world around him. Numerical streams and complex diagrams danced across the screen, demanding his absolute focus. The sterile, recycled air of the observation deck felt heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and old coffee. But she could feel the weight of his attention, a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, the unsettling certainty that despite zero visual acknowledgment, he was acutely aware of her presence, her timing, everything. Even without his eyes on her. It was unnerving, this ability of his to command awareness without ever diverting his gaze from the crucial data feed. “You’re late.”

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  Gene closed the hatch behind her with unnecessary force, the sound echoing slightly in the tense silence. Her heart beat a little faster than it should, a mix of exasperation and a tiny, stubborn resentment. "By thirty seconds," she muttered, the words tight in her throat. Thirty seconds. After navigating clogged transit routes and security checkpoints that were his responsibility to streamline.

  He finally reacted, not by looking at her, but by a subtle shift in posture, a barely perceptible tightening around his mouth. Then, the slow, deliberate lift of an eyebrow, questioning, critical. The action was almost comical in its understatement, except that she knew exactly the weight behind it. His voice dropped slightly, acquiring an edge sharper than any blade. “And those thirty seconds could cost us.” The unspoken accusation hung between them – incompetence, negligence, potential failure with catastrophic consequences. The hum of the machinery suddenly seemed deafening.

  Her body responded before her conscious thought did. The instant Jack mentioned an assignment, an electric current seemed to shoot down her spine, stiffening muscles she hadn't realized were relaxed. She straightened, shoulders squaring, her gaze locking onto Jack's with focused intensity. Adrenaline, cold and sharp, began its familiar surge. "What’s the assignment?" she asked, her voice level betraying none of the sudden inner charge.

  Jack didn't place the slate; he tossed it with a flick of his wrist. It clattered onto the cool, unforgiving surface of the steel table between them, the sound echoing slightly in the sparse room. A grim, pixelated face stared up from the screen – Igor. His eyes seemed to follow her, even in the still image. "I want full behavioral tracking," Jack stated, his voice clipped and devoid of preamble. Location tags. Voice logs. Every move, every whisper. If he deviates again – if he so much as steps off the approved path, if he makes contact with unauthorized parties – we initiate a fallback."

  Gene, standing slightly back from the table, visibly paled under the harsh fluorescent light. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, the sound surprisingly loud in the sudden silence. He didn't look at the slate, keeping his eyes fixed on Jack. "Fallback meaning—?" he began, his voice hesitant, almost a whisper.

  Jack's gaze didn't waver from her, but his response was directed at Gene, sharp and final as a snapped wire. "You know what it means, Gene. There's only one meaning." The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air – a cold, irrevocable end.

  She felt the familiar shift, the seamless transition from passive readiness to active engagement. Muscles tensed, back aligning itself with practiced precision. Her posture became a statement: attentive, capable, ready to execute. "What’s the assignment?" she articulated clearly, cutting straight to the purpose of the summons.

  With a casual, almost dismissive gesture that belied the weight of the object, Jack sent the digital slate sliding across the polished surface of the meeting table. It spun slightly before settling, displaying the face of their target: Igor. His photo was a standard issue, unflattering capture, yet something in the set of the jaw or the coldness of the eyes suggested the required level of threat. "Priority one," Jack began, his tone brisk and efficient. "Full behavioral tracking. We need real-time location tags, comprehensive voice logs. Zero blind spots. If he deviates again from pre-approved parameters, if his pattern changes in any significant way, we initiate a fallback."

  She did. The memory of the sterile training cube, the flickering projection detailing Protocol 7, Subdivision C ('Handling of Cognitively Emergent Assets'), was burned into her mind. She’d read the protocols in training, studied the flowcharts and outcome matrices until the chillingly efficient language felt almost mundane. Any hybrid showing the faintest signs of independent thought – a question posed outside parameters, an unprogrammed emotional response, a creative solution to a test – was to be neutralized quietly, with no press, no ripple outside sanctioned channels. Rewritten in some cases, minds were wiped and reprogrammed into compliance. Discarded in others, efficiently and permanently. Gene hadn't hesitated when the signal came. It was just a protocol. Just a job.

  Yet, here, in the low hum of the secure sub-level office, the weight of it settled. She looked across the sparse desk at Jack, his face partially obscured by shadow from the single overhead light. It felt less like a conversation and more like an interrogation, despite his relaxed posture.

  “Why me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, the question fragile in the tense air. Why involve her in... this?

  Jack leaned back slightly in his chair, then deliberately leaned in, his eyes glinting in the dim light, fixing on hers. The casual movement felt invasive, calculated. “Because you’re soft enough that they don’t see you coming,” he said, his voice low and even, like ice cracking.

  She flinched, a sharp, involuntary recoil deep in her gut. Soft. The word felt like a physical blow precisely because it wasn't wrong. It was the truth she carefully cultivated. Gene had been working her way up quietly for years, starting with the dull, necessary grunt work: processing endless streams of paperwork, deciphering and transmitting coded messages that meant life or death to others, sifting through recruitment screens for anomalies that everyone else missed. She was the grey mouse in the corner, the one who didn’t make waves, who followed instructions precisely. Jack trusted her–or rather, used her–more than most, but it was a purely pragmatic trust. Only because she hadn’t given him a reason not to. Yet. And the unspoken 'yet' hung heavy in the air between them, a promise or a threat she couldn't quite decipher.

  “I thought we were focused on external threats. Human-Alucard conflict escalation. Not internal surveillance,” she said.

  Jack chuckled dryly. “You still don’t get it. The biggest threats are never out there. They’re the ones we let inside.”

  Gene picked up the slate. Igor’s face remained frozen on the screen. She remembered him from the estate—quiet, obedient, too polished. But his eyes… they looked different lately. Unsettled. Aware.

  “You said Maisie Lennox is off-limits,” Gene said, not looking up. “But if Igor’s near her—”

  “She’s valuable for now. Don’t complicate things.” Jack’s tone went cold. “Keep watching. Report directly to me. No one else.”

  Gene nodded slowly. “Understood.”