The quiet is uncomfortable.

New York is a void this early on a Sunday morning. The street looks like a documentary I saw once on a depopulated island - a place that should hum with noise and people, now unsettlingly empty. I shift on the cold pavement, noting the skyscraper in front of me as I weigh its structural features against the preconceptions I'd built about New York City. Of all the places to summon me, Mr. Antithesis, in his wisdom, has chosen the heart of the business district--a choice that's both textbook and, unfortunately, daunting.

"Lena, I'm serious. Are you comfortable leaving Scylla with me?" Zenith breaks the silence, and it takes me a moment to register that she's used my first name. Not 'Mrs. Xenograft' or even the clinical 'Dr. Trinh-Norwood'--but Lena.

I consider her question as her words unfold, calculating the angle: a personal reach disguised as professionalism. My gaze shifts to Scylla, standing tensely at my side. Her amber eyes stay on me, the way she does when she senses something unusual, a ripple of anticipation beneath her taut posture. Scylla was not made to be left with others; she was made to stay by me, vigilant, with her bulked-out, chimerized shell as strong and sturdy as the best steel.

The question stirs a bit of aggravation, though I don't let it show. Her use of my first name is a friendly gesture, I suppose, but it implies a kind of intimacy we don't share. Scylla, standing at my side with her sleek, greyhound-lobster fusion body and faintly iridescent carapace, is the only one I'd allow such familiarity. And even then, I know what I am to her--provider, not friend.

"No," I reply, with no intention of softening the blunt refusal. I glance back up at Mrs. Zenith, assessing her reaction with the same neutral scrutiny I'd apply to a hissing cat--she has that look, the subtle calculation behind her expression, each action carefully tailored, no detail left to chance.

She exhales with a faint sigh that reads almost parental. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"Lena," she says again, slower this time. "If Scylla's… enhanced by your powers, I have a strong feeling bad things will happen if she meets Upper Management. I don't want anything bad to happen to her--or you." There's something tired in her voice. Her words are persuasive but with an edge, a degree of insistence that falls like a gentle prod in my side.

"Scylla wasn't created with my powers," I correct, because the distinction is important. "She was born the normal way, from two perfectly ordinary greyhounds." A pause, an inhale, then, "I merely chimerized a dead lobster into her so that she would live forever."

Scylla, on cue, gives a soft whine, as if to verify the statement. I give her a cursory scratch behind the ear, focusing on the familiar click of her hardened plates shifting beneath my hand.

"Right," Zenith murmurs, gaze drifting to Scylla's formidable shell, but she doesn't press the point. For a moment, she watches me, as if weighing her next move, and I don't miss the slight downturn of her lips. She's far too still for comfort. I stay quiet, hoping my silence will signal the futility of trying to convince me otherwise. She stares back, patient. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was trying to understand me.

And then, something shifts. She sighs again, softer this time, almost a gesture of capitulation. "Fine. Scylla, stay with the friendly boss-lady."

At this, Scylla tilts her head, her amber eyes fixed firmly on mine, a skeptical edge to her gaze. I reach down, giving her a reassuring scratch, though it feels like nothing of the sort. Part of me resents this--having to leave her, being made to walk into a meeting with a man I've never seen without her protective shadow.

Still, orders are orders, and if I want to continue my research--unhampered by the mundane interruptions of academia--I know what's required of me.

As Scylla settles reluctantly beside Mrs. Zenith, I turn to the elevator, giving its polished doors a wary glance. Zenith's gaze flicks to the black sample case in my hand, her curiosity unmistakable. She gestures to it with a raised eyebrow.

"So… are you still calling it 'anomalous compound J-237'?" she asks, her tone light but laced with expectation.

I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. "Of course not. I spent an entire month brainstorming."

Her brow arches, clearly doubtful. "Really? You? Alright then, what did you settle on?"

The name sits proudly in my mind, like a perfectly formed thought finally given shape. I clear my throat, knowing how much she'll appreciate it, and say, "Hypeman."

For a split second, Zenith's face is as still as the empty street outside. Then she bursts into laughter--a bright, unrestrained sound that only seems to grow louder as I maintain my unflinching gaze.

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"That… no, Lena, no," she manages between breaths. "That name sucks so bad."

I blink. "What's wrong with it? It fits."

She's still laughing, shaking her head as she holds the elevator door open. "We're going to have to workshop that one."

I don't reply. I step into the elevator and allow the doors to close just as her laughter fades. The silence that follows is sudden, thick with an almost pleasant quiet. I can't resist the faintest grin as I press the button for the top floor, and let the polished mirror-slick doors close in on me, trapping me with nobody but myself.

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As the elevator doors slide open, I'm struck first by the stillness of the place, a near-sterile calm that feels unnatural. Every surface of the office gleams, from the mahogany desk, polished to such a degree I can nearly see myself in it, to the floors, so spotless they reflect the cold fluorescent light above. The air smells faintly of sanitizer, clean in a way that feels less like hygiene and more like compulsion.

My eyes catch on the large, industrial-sized tub of hand sanitizer placed squarely on the desk, angled like an invitation--or a mandate. A metal wastebasket sits beside the desk, and within it, I see the mangled remains of countless stress balls, shredded beyond recognition. Their rubber shreds stick out at odd angles like splayed, twisted limbs, caught mid-scream.

The man himself sits at the desk. I try to discern his face through the sterile, uncompromising atmosphere, but his eyes are still. Clinical. He assesses me with a directness that makes the small hairs on the back of my neck prickle. He's not one for superfluities, that much is obvious.

"Mrs. Xenograft," he says, his tone level.

My spine stiffens, and the correction escapes before I can stop it. "Dr. Xenograft."

His response is immediate, and cold: "No."

A beat of silence passes as I process the flat refusal. I can't tell if it's some strange attempt at humor, and against my better judgment, I press. "Is... is that supposed to be a joke?"

He meets my gaze without a hint of amusement, his face an impassive wall. "I don't make jokes." He shifts, making it clear he's finished with the matter. "In my organization, all senior members hold the titles of Mr. or Mrs. It's not a form of disrespect. It's a requirement."

A curious rule, but curiosity isn't enough to make me push further. Still, I can't resist a final prod, dryly phrased: "And, er, what about transgender individuals?"

There's the slightest flicker of consideration in his eyes before he answers, cool as a clam, "We'll figure that out when we get one."

The hint of humor almost brings a smile to my face, but his demeanor silences it before it has a chance to emerge. He stands, motions for me to sit in a chair facing him, and gestures briefly to the bottle of hand sanitizer on his desk. "Before we begin."

I hesitate, then give a perfunctory pump of the gel, the antiseptic scent sharp as it clings to my skin. He gives a slight nod, one that suggests I've done something necessary rather than welcome, and I take the seat opposite him.

He's... handsome, in a traditional sense. His eyes are almost the exact same shade of amber as Scylla, a brown so light that it looks orange in the setting four o'clock or so sun. Black hair, verging on stress-grey, individual strands of white and silver running through, slightly coiffed at the top so as to curl over his head almost like a cowlick with depression, although his sides are shorn down. Not a hint of stubble, but with that sort of dry sheen that suggests he'd shaved today, rather than being a babyface.

"I understand you've been working on something substantial," he begins, his tone inflectionless. "Something that warrants the loss of two of our operatives."

The tension in his voice is almost imperceptible, but it's enough to remind me why I'm here. Steeling myself, I hold up the case with my sample, opening it to reveal a small vial containing an orange-hued substance, thick and viscous.

"Yes," I reply, my voice steady, clinical. "This is the latest sample of Jump, or rather, its base, Compound A. Or, well, Compound J-237, which is a form of Compound A."

He leans forward, studying the vial with an intensity that borders on uncomfortable, his gaze unreadable. "Explain."

I take a deep breath, finding solace in the scientific explanation. "Compound A is… unique. It can transmit powers to another organism, but in its raw form, it's unstable. Whoever is designing Jump either is or knows someone with a lot of knowledge in pharmacokinetics. If you just swallowed this with Compound B - the one that sort of categorizes the powers - it would spread unevenly, first to your organs, and then blood vessels, then muscles, skin, and finally, your brain. If you got super strength, you'd fold in on yourself. Most of Jump is just normal binders, fillers, and prodrugs, so to stabilize and synthesize Compound A for distribution, I had to create a controlled biological vessel. The frog-bee hybrids."

I can feel the faint tug of interest in his otherwise still face, but his eyes remain fixed on the vial. I continue.

"Frogs, particularly poison dart frogs, have natural adaptations for handling toxins and strange metabolites, compounds similar in action to what we need for Compound A. They can store and sequester alkaloids that target nerve and muscle cells. But frogs alone can't provide the necessary stability or production volume we need. I needed the poison dart frogs as a base because normal local frogs weren't cutting it."

He listens without interrupting, his gaze still focused on the vial. I feel a strange sense of relief; at least he's letting me explain. "So I hybridized them with honeybees," I go on. "Honeybees have venom systems that allow them to process and store certain substances. By integrating the honey stomach from bees, the hybrids can safely store Compound A within their systems. There are chemical compounds in a bee's body that help stabilize, and the honey stomach acts as a sort of bioreactor, refining Compound A to make it safer and reproducible without access to whoever is making the pills for Rogue Wave."

I lean back slightly, watching his face for any reaction, any sign that he finds this useful or satisfactory. His eyes shift briefly from the vial to me, and he gestures for me to continue.