Malcolm removed the visor that monitored Operator 47’s field of view. His unique perspective allowed to experience all of Operator 47’s pain, frustration and memories as if they were his own. The technology wasn't just crude—it was parasitic, feeding on the psychic residue of every connection made through the void. Malcolm savored Roger's terror like aged wine, rolling the emotions across his consciousness as he set the visor aside.

  Through the chamber's observation window, he watched Roger stumble down the corridor, crashing into walls as his mind struggled to process what he'd witnessed. The man would either break completely or become something useful. Malcolm had seen both outcomes before.

  The portal's crystalline core pulsed faster now, responding to the fear saturating the facility. Each pulse sent ripples through reality, and Malcolm noticed with satisfaction that the fissures were spreading beyond the chamber walls. Thin veins of purple light traced impossible geometries across the ceiling, forming patterns that hurt to perceive with merely human eyes.

  His phone vibrated—a mundane interruption in the midst of transcendence. The caller ID showed only static, but Malcolm knew who it was.

  "The asset has made contact with the Lex Aeterna," he said without preamble. "The convergence accelerates."

  The voice that answered wasn't human, couldn't be human, though it wore the cadence of speech like an ill-fitting mask. "The girl's resistance was... unexpected. We require assurance that your methods will yield results."

  "Aiko Takahashi is no longer merely a target," Malcolm replied, watching as a technician entered the corridor and froze at the sight of Roger convulsing on the floor. "She's become a catalyst. Her connection to both realms makes her infinitely more valuable than we initially calculated."

  "Value is determined by utility. If she cannot be turned—"

  "She will be." Malcolm's certainty rang through the chamber like a bell. "Her parents' death left wounds that the Lex Aeterna can only bandage, never heal. Grief that profound doesn't disappear—it transforms. And transformation is our specialty."

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  The technician had backed away from Roger, reaching for an alarm that would never sound. The purple veins had reached the security systems, corrupting their circuits with otherworldly interference. Malcolm watched with detached interest as the man's panic bloomed into comprehension of his isolation.

  "The restaurant strike served its purpose," Malcolm continued. "We've confirmed that Yuxi possesses latent abilities, likely triggered by proximity to Aiko's awakening. Two conduits instead of one—the harvest will be richer than anticipated."

  The voice on the phone made a sound that might have been satisfaction or hunger. "The timeline remains unchanged. You have three days before the conjunction."

  "More than sufficient." Malcolm ended the call and turned his attention back to the technician, who had pressed himself against the far wall as Roger's convulsions grew violent. The operative's body was rejecting its humanity, fighting against the changes the portal had seeded within him.

  Malcolm pressed his palm against the observation window. The glass liquified at his touch, flowing aside like mercury. He stepped through the impossible opening, his footsteps leaving scorched marks on the corridor floor.

  "Help him," the technician pleaded, though his eyes suggested he knew better than to expect mercy.

  "I am helping him," Malcolm said, kneeling beside Roger's writhing form. "He's becoming something greater than the sum of his fears."

  Roger's spine arched at an impossible angle, and Malcolm heard the wet crack of reforming vertebrae. The man's screams had transcended sound, becoming a vibration that resonated through the facility's foundations. Where his tears fell, the floor began to bubble and warp.

  "You see," Malcolm continued, addressing the technician even as he placed a hand on Roger's forehead, "evolution is rarely painless. The human form is merely a chrysalis, waiting for the right pressure to split it open."

  Roger's skin had taken on a translucent quality, revealing dark shapes moving beneath like schools of fish in murky water. His fingers had fused together, forming paddle-like appendages that scraped against the floor with a sound like fingernails on slate.

  The technician—Dennison, Malcolm recalled from the personnel files—had stopped trying to flee. Smart man. The purple veins had surrounded him, forming a cage of light that pulsed in rhythm with Roger's transformation.

  "What do you want from us?" Dennison's voice barely rose above a whisper.

  Malcolm stood, leaving Roger to complete his metamorphosis in privacy. Some births shouldn't be witnessed by those still clinging to their humanity.

  "Want?" Malcolm considered the question as he approached Dennison. "Such a human concept. I don't want anything from you. You're not offerings or sacrifices—you're ingredients. Each mind that breaks, each body that transforms, adds another note to the symphony