Kezia held the stiff paper as a tremor worked its way through her chest. The documents lay splayed across the mahogany desk, charting a terrible, calculated act. Vossik’s curse. Dr. Trost’s murder. The two, once disparate threads, now braided into a single, horrifying truth. She lifted the autopsy report, her fingers tracing the sharp, formal typeface of Dr. Trost's name. Elian. He had been so vibrant, his lab a chaotic symphony of buzzing equipment and discarded coffee cups. Now, only sterile print remained, detailing the dismantling of his life, his body, by the very aberration that afflicted Vossik. This wasn't some ancient family hex; it was a targeted biological attack. Her gaze snapped to Vossik, still peacefully asleep on the study sofa, the lamplight casting his angular features in soft gold. He looked almost vulnerable, a stark contrast to the ruthless CEO she knew. How much did he truly know about this “curse”? Was he a victim, or complicit in a far grander, more sinister design? Anger, cold and sharp, began to prickle beneath her skin, quickly escalating into a furious heat. She snatched the two dossiers, clutching them to her chest, the stiff paper digging into her ribs. She couldn't stay here, not another second under his roof, pretending this was some benign arrangement. She needed answers, and there was only one person who trafficked in such dangerous truths, even if she veiled them in cosmic pronouncements. She stalked out of the study, the sheaf of papers still clutched tight. Her footsteps were loud on the polished floor, echoing through the silent mansion. Reaching the grand staircase, she hesitated for a fraction of a second, then veered sharply toward the guest wing, where Vossik’s security detail usually maintained a quiet vigil. They were gone. Of course. During the night, the perimeter scaled back. Vossik preferred the illusion of privacy, even if it was a deadly one. She found him in the kitchen, already awake. He stood by the gleaming, minimalist counter, nursing a mug of something dark, the scent of bitter herbs hanging in the air. He hadn’t bothered to change from his sleep clothes – a silk robe the colour of deep ocean water, cinched carelessly at his waist. He looked up as she entered, his grey eyes, usually so flat, showing a flicker of something unreadable. Concern? Annoyance? “Kezia. You’re up early.” His voice was low, a rumble against the hushed quiet of the dawn. He took a slow sip from his mug, his gaze lingering on the files she still gripped. Her temper, a wildfire always simmering beneath the surface, ignited. “Early? I haven’t slept, not since I found this.” She dropped the files onto the island, the heavy thud rattling the pristine counter. The autopsy report lay face-up, Dr. Trost’s name emblazoned on it, next to the Rhent-Rhys Anomaly. Vossik’s jaw tightened. He placed his mug down, the ceramic clinking softly against the marble. He moved with a languid grace that belied the sudden tension in the room, picking up the autopsy report. His eyes scanned the page, then flicked to the genetic profile of R-117. He didn’t betray a single emotion, his face a mask of granite. “Account for this,” Kezia demanded, her voice rising, raw with accusation. “Clarify how your ‘curse’ is identical to the thing that killed my teacher. Tell me how this isn’t just some Rhent family blight, but a biological signature, a weapon.” Vossik looked up, his gaze meeting hers, cold and steady. “I owe you no answers, Kezia.” “Nothing? Elian is dead! He was murdered, Vossik! And you’re walking around with the same… same cellular alteration! You think I won’t connect the dots?” She jabbed a finger at the reports. “This isn’t a curse. This is a targeted assassination. And you, the Rhent Corporation, are either the target or the perpetrator. Which is it?” He sighed, a low, weary sound that cracked the facade of his indifference. “You’re making assumptions based on incomplete data. It’s far more complex than you understand.” “Then make me understand!” She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “We’re going to Madame Zorina. Now. She sees patterns. She’ll tell me the truth, not your corporate lies.” Vossik looked down at her hand on his arm, then back at her face, a faint parting of his lips. He paused, then slowly, deliberately, nodded. “Very well. But you will heed her counsel, not just her… interpretations.” An hour later, they were in Zorina’s peculiar data den, a hidden alcove beneath the Mirehollow Archives. The air thrummed with the low hum of ancient servers and the faint scent of ozone and something akin to burned sugar. Neon light, a swirling vortex of cyan and caustic pink, spilled from dozens of monitors, casting bizarre, shifting shadows across the room. Zorina, perched on a stool before a bank of screens, looked like a benevolent witch-doctor, her silver hair braided with optic fibres that glowed faintly. Chert, who had insisted on coming, sniffed cautiously at the glowing cables, his three legs navigating the wires with practiced agility. “Ah, Kezia, my dear. And Vossik. The threads of destiny tighten, do they not?” Zorina’s voice was a low purr, her eyes, magnified by thick lenses, twinkling behind a pair of spectacles perched on her nose. “You bring questions, but the data has already sung its song.” Kezia thrust the papers at her. “Zorina, tell me, what is the Rhent-Rhys Anomaly? And why did it kill Elian?” Zorina took the packet, her long fingers, adorned with intricate silver rings, sifting through the pages. Her gaze scanned the chromosomal sequences, then darted between the glowing screens. The data began to shift, complex algorithms coalescing into visualisations of molecular structures, swirling nebulae of information. “The Rhent-Rhys Anomaly,” Zorina began, her voice gaining a sudden clarity, “is not a mutation born of nature. It is a carefully crafted design. A synthetic bioweapon. ‘Rhys’ is a misnomer, a deliberate obfuscation. It is the Croy-Rhent bioweapon, Kezia. Designed by Bramwell Croy to target the Rhent lineage, an elegant, slow-acting poison meant to dismantle a dynasty from within.” Kezia’s world tilted. Croy. The man who called her the “mother of the weapon.” The pieces slammed into place with sickening force. “My mentor… he was trying to cure it, wasn’t he? He found a way.” Zorina nodded, her eyes fixed on a pulsating diagram on her screen. “Indeed. Dr. Trost, with his brilliant, unconstrained mind, discovered a unique biological resistance. Antibodies. Rare, potent. Present only in a select few, due to an ancient genetic lineage. Your lineage, Kezia. Your unique genetic profile, the one that makes you a ‘match’ for Vossik’s cursed bloodline, provided the key. He was synthesizing a counter-agent. A cure. Croy intervened before it could be deployed.” The air crackled, not with electricity from the machines, but with the sudden, violent rage that surged through Vossik. He lurched forward, his face a mask of furious disbelief. “This is madness. Dangerous speculation. We are leaving, Kezia. Now.” He grabbed her arm, his grip hard, intending to pull her away from the swirling neon and the damning data. But Kezia dug her heels in. Her dark eyes blazed with a fierce, unwavering light. This was no longer about survival, about escaping poverty or just protecting her baby. This was about vengeance, about a cold, righteous fury that solidified her resolve. She met Vossik’s angry gaze, her voice cutting through the hum of the servers, utterly resolute. “No. We’re not leaving. Not until I understand every detail. Croy killed my mentor. He poisoned you. And I am going to cure you, Vossik. And then I am going to destroy him.” Her words hung in the air, a stark, powerful declaration. The ferocity in her eyes, the unflinching determination, seemed to strike something deep within Vossik. His grip on her arm loosened, his expression shifting from anger to a profound, unsettling stillness. He looked at her, truly looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time, seeing past the temper and the vulnerability to the unwavering steel beneath. He opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, perhaps to question, but no words came. Instead, a guttural cough tore through him, violent and ragged. He staggered, releasing Kezia’s arm completely, and dropped to his knees, his body wracked with a sudden, devastating spasm. A wet, sickening sound filled the room as he bent over, coughing again, hard, onto the glowing neon floor. A dark, viscous liquid, pitch-black and oily, splattered across the polished surface, catching the light in grotesque, shimmering pools. The bioweapon was accelerating.

Algorithms of Betrayal