Author’s POV:
:
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Connor Haxton walked briskly down the street<b>, </b>phone pressed to his ear as he reported thetest developments to his employer.
“Mr. Haxton, I’ve just received word from Felix that there was quite a scene at Cloud City High today,” Connor said, his voice low despite the empty corridor. “The Morgan girl broke a student’s leg -the son of Councilman Reynolds, no less.”
“Interesting,” Ethan Haxton’s smooth voice replied through the phone. “Was it deliberate?”
“Yes, sir. ording to Felix, she did it to defend her brother, who was being bullied. But the way she did it…” Connor hesitated. “Felix said it was precise, calcted. One strike, perfectly ced to cause a clean break. Not something your average teenager knows how to do.”
“So she’s not just resourceful but trained as well,” Ethan mused, the interest evident in his tone. “It seems our Miss Morgan has moreyers than I initially thought.”
“That’s correct, sir. And when confronted by the Reynolds family, she apparently mentioned the Haxton name. The mere mention of your family name caused Reynolds to back down immediately and apologize to her.”
“Did she now?” There was a pause. “Meet me at my office in twenty minutes. We need to discuss this further.<b>” </b>
Inside Ethan Haxton’s sleek, minimalist office overlooking Manhattan, Connor stood rigidly, his reportplete. Ethan swiveled in his leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, a faint smile ying on his lips.
“So she’s leveraging our family name already,” Ethan mused, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Bold move for someone who’s only had minimal contact with Alexander. I wonder what else she’s capable
of.”
“Mr. Haxton,” Connor began carefully, “aren’t you concerned that this girl might be a problem? Now she has the backing of both your family and Felix Huxley.”
Ethan’s green eyes shed. “Are you suggesting we should be ungrateful to someone who saved
<b>10:07 </b><b>Wed</b><b>, </b><b>Sep </b>17
Alexander’s life?<b>” </b>
:
“No, <b>sir</b><b>, </b><b>of </b>course not.” Connor shifted ufortably. “I’m simply concerned that she might bring unwanted attention to <b>the </b>family.”
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Ethanughed, the sound sharp and dismissive. “How much trouble could she possibly <b>cause</b>? She’s <b>a </b>high school student in a backwater town like Cloud City.” He stood, straightening his custom suit. “You’re overestimating her, Connor.”
“With respect<b>, </b>sir, I believe you’re underestimating her.”
Ethan’s eyebrow arched slightly. “Did she pass any message for me specifically?”
“No, sir.”
Jade’s POV:
The following morning, I stepped out of a taxi in front of the Morrison Pharmaceutical Research
Center in New York. The gleaming ss building towered above me.
<b>I </b>walked through the automatic doors into the pristine lobby, my footsteps measured and confident
as I approached the reception desk.
“Good morning,” <b>I </b>said to the receptionist, keeping my voice pleasant but businesslike. “I’m here to
purchase some research materials.”
The receptionist smiled with practiced politeness. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No<b>, </b>but I have a list of what I need.” I ced a folded paper on the counter<b>, </b>already anticipating her
reaction.
Just as expected, her eyebrows rose progressively higher as she scanned the document. “These are… highly specializedpounds. Some of them are restricted for approved research only.”
‘Is <b>that </b>a problem?” I asked coolly, though I knew it would be. Bureaucracy is always an obstacle, but rarely an insurmountable one.
“Do you have a research permit or institutional approval?” The receptionist looked increasingly ufortable<b>, </b>shifting in her seat.
<b>10:08 Wed</b><b>, </b><b>Sep </b>17
<b>42 </b>
“No, but I’d like to speak with Dr. Walter Morrison if he’s avable.” This was my trump card–I’d had dealings with Morrison in my previous life, though he wouldn’t recognize this face.
The receptionist hesitated. “Let me make a call.”
While she picked up the phone, I noticed a man in ab coat approaching, his attention caught by our conversation. I sized him up instantly–mid–forties, self–important, the type who derives pleasure from exercising what little authority he has.
“Is there an issue here, Sandra?” he asked, eyeing me with barely concealed suspicion.
“This young woman is requesting to purchase restrictedpounds without proper credentials,” the
receptionist exined.
The man turned to me, his demeanor instantly condescending–just as I’d predicted. “I’m Dr. Daniel
Mercer, head of research operations. Let me see that list.” He snatched the paper from the counter, a power move I chose to ignore.
His eyes widened as he read. “MR–27 variant? Do you have any idea what this costs?”
I kept my expression neutral, though inwardly I was calcting how quickly I could ess it through less legitimate channels if this approach failed. “Why don’t you tell me?”
‘One hundred fifty thousand dors per 10 milligrams,” he stated, clearly expecting shock. “And that’s if we were authorized to sell it to you, which we’re not.”
I knew this <b>was </b>a lie. Thepound wasn’t that expensive, even on the ck market. <b>“</b>Is that the price Dr. Morrison authorized?” I asked calmly.
Dr. Mercer’s face flushed–a tell that he was lying. “Listen, youngdy, I don’t know who you are or how you even know thesepounds exist, but-”
“I have an appointment with Dr. Morrison,” I cut in.
“No, you don’t, I oversee his schedule.” Mercer’s voice rose as he crumpled the list and tossed it onto <b>the </b>floor–a childish disy of dominance. “Security.”
Two security guards approached. I assessed them quickly–unarmed, minimal training based on their stance. Taking them down would be trivial, but counterproductive to my goal. Before I needed to decide on an alternative approach, an older man with silver hair and keen eyes emerged from an elevator.
<b>10:08 </b>Wed, <b>Sep </b>17
…
“Miss Morgan<b>?</b><b>” </b><b>he </b>called, striding toward us.
Dr. Mercer froze. “Dr. Morrison<b>, </b>you know this person?”
“Indeed I do. She’s my special guest.” Morrison turned to the security guards. “That won’t be necessary<b>, </b>gentlemen.”
The guards retreated, and I savored the way Dr. Mercer’s face drained of color. There’s always satisfaction in watching arrogant people realize they’ve miscalcted.
“Dr. Morrison,” I greeted with a slight nod. “Thank you for seeing me. I was just discussing the materials I need with your colleague.”
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“Yes, I heard.” Morrison bent down to retrieve the crumpled list from the floor, smoothing it out carefully. His eyes scanned the paper, then widened slightly. “I’ve prepared everything you requested. Though I must admit, thesepounds are quite rare and expensive.”
“So I’ve been told,” I replied, ncing at Dr. Mercer. “One hundred fifty thousand per 10 milligrams
for MR–27 variant?”
Morrison’s head snapped up. “What? No, that’s absurd.” He turned to Dr. Mercer with a hard stare.
Dr. Mercer spluttered, “But sir, we can’t just—”
“Who designed this protocol?” Morrison interrupted, examining the list more closely. “Thisbination is… brilliant. Unconventional, but potentially revolutionary.”
“I’m afraid I can’t say,” I answered, though of course, it was my own design.
Morrison studied my face for a long moment, and I kept my expression carefully neutral. Then he nodded slowly. “Come with me to my office. We’ve prepared your materials,”
As we walked toward the elevator, Morrison spoke quietly. “You know, MR–27 variant and several others on your list are incredibly rare. Two years ago, a young girl brought us exotic nts from which thesepounds were extracted. She refused payment or recognition.”