I, the slave boy, awaken with the most potent seed!!

Back in the sleek, polished office at Beaumont Industries, Cassandra felt the tension of her recent discoveries settle heavily on her shoulders. The faint hum of city noise barely reached her here; everything was serene, controlled—her domain. She slipped off her heels and sank into her chair, letting her eyes wander over the familiar expanse of her workspace.

It was clinical, minimalist, every surface gleaming, and every paper meticulously organized. But at that moment, her mind was anything but orderly.

Absentmindedly, she reached into her desk drawer, extracting a small vial of greenish slime—the remains of one of her experimental constructs, the remains of BOBBLES.

She poured it onto her desk, the liquid spreading and then slowly taking form as her fingers traced patterns in its surface. Cassandra watched as it began to take on a shape—a torso, broad shoulders, arms. Her thoughts drifted, her hands guiding the slime into a masculine form.

'Zafron,' she thought, feeling a strange pang of longing. As she molded the slime's shape, it shifted to resemble the lines of his face, the tilt of his jaw, the eyes that had once looked at her with such warmth. She traced the figure's cheek, her fingers leaving faint indentations.

"Where are you?" she murmured. Her voice echoed softly in the quiet room. The figure remained silent, the green substance pliant under her touch but offering no answers. For a moment, she let herself pretend it was him, that he would reach out, tell her everything was fine.

A knock at the door disrupted her thoughts, and she cleared her throat, straightening. "Yes?"

The door opened, and one of her maids entered, her presence respectful and reserved. "Miss Beaumont, your guest has arrived again."

Cassandra nodded, letting the figure of slime rest on the desk as she rose. She took a steadying breath, mentally readying herself for the conversation ahead. With one last glance at the unfinished figure, she stepped out of her office, heels clicking against the floor as she made her way downstairs.

In the lounge, Cassandra found her guest already seated on the leather couch, her figure barely visible in the dim light. The air between them felt heavy, weighted with an unspoken tension. As Cassandra approached, the woman turned, silver hair catching the faint light and shimmering like spun silk.

She sat with a composed, almost distant expression, her gaze focused on some indeterminate point beyond Cassandra.

"Thank you for coming," Cassandra greeted her, settling into the chair opposite. The other woman's eyes shifted, meeting Cassandra's gaze with a calm intensity.

"I wanted to discuss the situation," Cassandra began, her tone as neutral as she could manage. She could sense a slight hesitation in the woman's posture, a tension that spoke of a hundred unsaid things. "I'm… concerned. Zafron is out there, somewhere, and there are more eyes on him than we expected."

The woman shifted slightly, her expression unwavering. "I understand," she replied, her voice soft but carrying a strange undertone—something almost protective.

"He… meant a lot to you, didn't he?" Cassandra ventured, unsure if she was probing too deeply. She could feel the weight of the question lingering in the air, unacknowledged but impossible to ignore.

There was a pause, then a slight nod. The woman's gaze softened, her eyes taking on a distant, sorrowful look. "He did." Her voice was quiet, each word measured. "In ways he may never understand."

Cassandra felt a twinge of empathy, something she hadn't expected. Here was someone else who carried a similar burden, a similar ache. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "We'll find him, you know. He can't stay hidden forever."

The woman's mouth pressed into a thin line. She looked away, fingers tightening slightly against the couch. Cassandra noticed the subtle tremor in her hand, the way she tried to mask it with an air of cool detachment. There was something incredibly human in that moment, a vulnerability that Cassandra couldn't help but pity.

But there was something else in the woman's eyes too, a flicker of something… elusive. A memory, perhaps, or a thought she was unwilling to share.

Cassandra leaned back, studying her guest carefully. "It's strange, isn't it? That feeling of... uncertainty. Not knowing where he is, or what he's doing. Wondering if he even remembers…" Her voice trailed off, caught in a fleeting moment of self-reflection.

A silence settled over them, stretching longer than it should have. The other woman's gaze drifted, her expression unreadable, as if her mind had wandered far from the conversation.

"Do you still work… at the burial house?" Cassandra asked, recalling the faint mention of it during one of their last meetings.

The woman nodded slowly. "Yes, I do." Her tone was barely more than a whisper, carrying a quiet sort of resignation. "It's a strange place, but it's where I'm meant to be."

There was a peculiar weight to her words, a sadness that lingered between them. Cassandra could see the faint shadows under the woman's eyes, the lines of worry that seemed etched into her face. She felt a pang of pity, a sympathy she hadn't expected.

She reached out, resting her hand on the woman's, offering a gentle squeeze. "He won't be lost forever. We'll find him. You'll see."

The woman's gaze flickered, a subtle tremor in her hand betraying her carefully held composure. "Thank you," she murmured, barely audible. Her voice cracked slightly, a hint of emotion slipping through the otherwise guarded facade.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Cassandra's maid reappeared, bowing slightly. "Excuse me, Miss Beaumont, but the head of security needs to speak with you urgently."

Cassandra nodded, casting one last sympathetic glance at the woman. "I'll be back shortly."

As she left the room, Cassandra felt a strange unease settle in her chest. She hadn't expected to feel so drawn to her guest's quiet sorrow, hadn't anticipated the deep well of empathy that had surfaced. She closed the door behind her, leaving the woman alone in the dimly lit room.

Inside, her guest sat in silence, her gaze fixed on the floor. Her hands trembled slightly, and she closed her eyes, willing herself to stay composed. She hadn't expected Cassandra's kindness, the gentle touch that had stirred emotions she thought had died.

'Where are you, Zafron. You need to know. You deserve to know' Cassandra wondered, a tear slipping down her cheek. The question echoed in her mind, a desperate plea wrapped in fear and longing.

And as she sat in that empty room, alone with her thoughts and memories, Cassandra returned, calling out the woman's name.

"Mara."

****

Steele's training regimen was brutal, designed to transform his body and mind into a weapon capable of confronting any adversary—even someone as unpredictable as Zafron. The days had turned into a relentless grind, each beginning before dawn and ending long after the sun had set.

Each session was meticulously crafted to push him past his limits, breaking down his physical and mental barriers in preparation for the mission that loomed on the horizon.

Steele started his mornings with a series of complex combat drills, blending hand-to-hand combat with evasive maneuvers, forcing his muscles to memorize every possible reaction to an attack. His muscles burned, and his joints ached, but he ignored the discomfort, knowing that anything less than perfection was unacceptable. After combat drills, he moved to weapons training—crossbow, sword.

The training grounds had been cleared and reset to simulate the harsh, unpredictable terrain of Area 52, where he would likely face Zafron. He moved fluidly from one weapon to the next, his form sharpened by an almost mechanical focus, each swing and release carrying deadly precision.

It was during one of these sessions that Maze stood at a distance, watching him through narrowed eyes. She'd known Steele long enough to recognize the signs—his jaw set in grim determination, his eyes flickering with something darker than mere ambition. To an untrained observer, Steele's intense commitment would have appeared as mere discipline, but Maze knew him too well.

She saw how he pushed past each completed drill, refusing to rest or reset, as if he were running from something, not toward it.

For the past hours, she'd been tracking his progress and catching glimpses of him going beyond what their mission required. Steele was obsessive, yes, but this was something more—a consuming, all-encompassing drive that she feared would cost them the mission's true purpose. He had convinced himself that Zafron was not just another target, but the target, and it was becoming personal.

Maze took a breath, stepping into Steele's line of sight. He didn't seem to notice her at first, absorbed in a drill that required alternating hits between three training dummies. She cleared her throat. "Steele. Are you planning to run yourself into the ground?"

He froze mid-swing, then lowered his weapon, his eyes narrowing at her approach. "Just pushing through. Got to be ready."

"Ready, yes," she replied, crossing her arms. "But you look like you're preparing for something beyond this mission. Remember why we're here—to capture him, not to destroy yourself in the process."

A flash of irritation crossed his face, but he nodded, exhaling as he dropped his guard. "I know what's at stake."

Maze regarded him carefully, sensing his mounting frustration, his desperation. "If Zafron's worth is what you say it is, then he'll be dangerous enough without you adding more to the mix by making this personal."

Steele clenched his fists, looking past her as if searching for words. She took a step closer, her voice softening but firm. "Steele, don't forget the bigger picture. This mission is about more than just him."

He met her gaze, and for a fleeting moment, Maze saw the struggle in his eyes—the desire to bring Zafron down at any cost, countered by a flicker of doubt. "He's… too unpredictable. I can't risk failing."

"Then let me make something clear," Maze said, her tone like ice. "If I think for a second that you're losing control, I'll step in. I'll take whatever measures are necessary to ensure this mission doesn't become about your vendetta." Her words hung between them like a weight, and Steele nodded, though his jaw was still set with determination.

Maze lingered for a moment, hoping her words had penetrated his resolve. As she walked away, she couldn't help but glance back, catching Steele already returning to his routine. She feared her warning had only reinforced his obsession.