Now, instead of a white lab coat, Lauren wore a standard-issue orange jumpsuit that chafed against her skin. "Phillips," a voice grated against the silence.

Lauren looked up. Standing at the bars was Warden Vance, a man whose face looked like it had been carved out of a granite cliff. He wasn't there to process her paperwork. He held a small, familiar glass vial—the blue tint of the Project X prototype shimmering under the dim hallway lights.

The heavy iron door of Cell 402 didn’t just close; it boomed, a sound that Lauren Phillips felt in the marrow of her bones. For a woman used to the high-tech, sterile environment of

"In about thirty seconds," Lauren whispered, leaning her forehead against the cold steel bars, "you're going to realize that in this lab, I’m not the test subject. You are. Now, be a dear and find the keys to this cage."

"The board at MylfLabs wants to know if the rumors are true," Vance said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "They say you didn't just invent a medicine. They say you invented a way to own a person's will."