"With this setup, the frog-bees can reproduce and process Compound A reliably, allowing us to harvest it in stable, large quantities. And the bonus is that their biochemistry produces byproducts that could have lucrative secondary uses."

"Such as?" he prompts, his tone as even as the number two, though I sense the interest buried somewhere beneath it.

"Epibatidine, for example. It's a painkiller based on a natural alkaloid, altered to reduce its toxicity - there's been a lot of hubbub about Epibatidine as a painkiller, but nobody has been able to synthesize a version with a wide enough gulf between "effective" and "lethal". Nobody besides me, of course. Then there's Epi-Melittin, a compound of frog toxins and bee venom. It has both analgesic and cell-penetrating properties, making it exceptionally fast-acting. Finally, we have Pumilio-Apamin, a combination of pumiliotoxins and apamin, a neurotoxin. At low doses, it heightens reflexes and sensory perception; higher doses could induce psychoactive effects--useful for various… applications. Like, drug applications. Street drugs."

I meet his gaze, letting the words settle. "Each of these byproducts offers a range of possibilities, not only in their original forms but potentially as combinations. Their effects could be controlled, dosed, and tailored for anything from high-grade analgesics to stimulants, enhancers, or parties. But those samples are still at the lab. This is just Compound J-237. I have some cultured cells from Daisy Zhen that I've been able to isolate a sort of… analogous form of Compound B from via the same bioreactor process as Compound A. Just taking the "power enhancing" part of her powers without any of the… other stuff."

Mr. Antithesis studies the vial for a few more seconds before setting it down, his fingers almost meticulously adjusting its position on the desk. "Impressive," he says at last, his tone still measured. "And these side products--how do you propose we utilize them, Mrs. Xenograft?"

The faintest twinge runs through me at the title, but I suppress it, reminding myself of where I am and who I'm speaking to. "Controlled release. We can tailor products for specific effects, from refined enhancements for our own operatives to street-market versions for revenue. Hypeman alone--if properly branded and distributed--could corner a unique market as a power amplifier, creating demand from high-value targets."

His eyes shift up to meet mine. "Hypeman?"

I pause, sensing that he's not entirely pleased with the name. "A working title," I say briskly, almost defensively. "The name is… negotiable."

Mr. Antithesis raises an eyebrow, looking almost amused. "That's alright. We'll workshop it."

The office's air has become sharper, somehow even more clinical, as Mr. Antithesis leans forward, resting his hands on the desk, fingers steepled.

"Now… walk me through the operation, Mrs. Xenograft. Why did it go wrong?" His tone is chillingly even, without the faintest suggestion of irritation or disappointment, a scalpel poised for incision.

I take a breath, knowing he'll accept only precise, surgical answers. "Operation Ivory was planned with specific objectives, including acquiring a breeding population of poison dart frogs for further bioproduct development. We accounted for the existing zoo security, and our personnel were to execute swiftly. But… variables emerged."

"Variables." His eyebrow raises slightly, unblinking. "Go on."

"Our team encountered a previously unknown superhero, a young one with some sort of super strength or propulsive power. Samantha Small was there, too, but she was accounted for." I allow myself to sound clinical, to avoid any hint of defensiveness, though there's a chill down my spine. "This other individual was not on the radar of known operatives in the area. She disrupted the final phases of the extraction, resulting in the capture of Mr. Nothing and Mr. Mudslide."

He considers this, his gaze a touch distant as he processes. "Unexpected resistance. But that doesn't explain your accountability in this. How did you assess and assign the risk?"

My fingers itch to adjust my glasses, though I resist the impulse, keeping my hands still on the desk. "I was responsible for oversight on the operation and planned its technical aspects," I reply, voice calm. "The personnel selection was based on skill fit for the targets. Mr. Nothing's infiltration abilities and Mudslide's ability to break through the zoo's defenses without sounding an alarm were necessary components. Under normal circumstances, they would've handled any anticipated opposition."

Mr. Antithesis's silence stretches, and I catch my reflection in his polished desk. Finally, he speaks.

"And yet, here we are," he remarks, voice softer now, almost contemplative. "It appears your selection wasn't quite as precise as it should've been."

I meet his gaze, and this time, the flinch is real. I steady myself quickly. "Yes, sir. I take responsibility for the results. There were blind spots in our intelligence, and I'll ensure resources are reallocated for both immediate and long-term contingencies. I'll also be personally addressing their legal fees, as well as contingency planning for retrieval if necessary."

He leans back slightly, his face giving nothing away, though his hands are still precisely positioned. I know he's testing my resolve, waiting for me to deflect or equivocate. I remain silent.

"Accountability," he says, almost musing, "is critical to this operation's success. Which brings us to Hypeman." He gestures towards the vial of compound on his desk. "Is this viable, Mrs. Xenograft? Financially, chemically, what am I looking at in terms of returns?"

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"Viable, sir, and profitable," I respond, tone clipped, knowing he won't accept anything less than conviction. "Hypeman production costs are low, particularly since the frog-bee hybrids are sustainable, and the culture of Daisy Zhen's cells requires only basic culture upkeep. I'd estimate a husbandry setup to be cheaper than your typical clandestine drug lab. The frogs themselves require minimal upkeep -- small enclosures, basic insect feed, moisture control."

"And can we expect a competitive profit margin?"

"Absolutely," I reply. "In fact, one of Hypeman's most… favorable qualities is its incompatibility with Jump. Any user attempting to combine the two will experience a, uh… Well, remember when I mentioned that Jump would make you fold yourself in half without the pharmacokinetic bits?"

His lips curl into a barely-there smile. "Explosive failure?"

I nod, allowing a slight smile myself. "Exactly. While Jump may appeal to a general clientele, Hypeman will attract a different echelon of users - one with existing powers. It amplifies natural abilities, increasing their effectiveness across physical and cognitive domains."

He's silent again, his gaze fixed on the vial. "This makes it a specialty product," he says, more to himself than to me, before lifting his eyes to meet mine. "Specialties come with risks. And returns."

I choose my next words carefully. "Hypeman's effects are potent enough to entice high-value clients, even given the risks. Moreover, due to its formulation, only those with suitable experience can administer it effectively. We control access by controlling its distribution, preventing any careless combinations with Jump. As it stands, I am the only human being alive capable of producing the required precursors for Hypeman. It's totally unable to be duplicated."

He nods, then shifts slightly forward, and for the first time, I notice the raw skin on his hands, the slight traces of red, almost rubbed raw. He's tense, perhaps more than he allows himself to appear.

"And production oversight? I trust you'll be managing this."

"Yes," I answer, knowing full well he'll take nothing less than complete ownership. "I'll be setting up the husbandry and handling quality control personally. Frogs are sensitive, but with the right balance of humidity and nutrients, we can maintain consistency in each batch. My degrees in Zoology aren't for nothing."

He raises a hand. "Understood. And I presume you'll be responsible for any operational hiccups?"

"Absolutely," I respond without hesitation, sensing his gaze sharpen in approval. "If any personnel become liabilities, I'll address it immediately. This is my project, and I'll shoulder the results."

His eyes linger on me for a moment longer. "Good. That's exactly the level of dedication I expect. I don't tolerate flippant handoffs or scapegoating here, Mrs. Xenograft. Results are what matter."

He seems to be watching me, waiting for something, a flicker of hesitation or fear, perhaps. But I know better. As he studies me, I remind myself that this is business. He has no interest in theatrics.

"You seem nervous, Mrs. Xenograft," he remarks, noticing the slight twitch in my left hand.

I force myself to meet his gaze. "I'm fully prepared to accept responsibility for my part in Operation Ivory's outcome, sir."

To my surprise, he nods, his expression softening a touch. "I'm not interested in making an example out of you, Mrs. Xenograft. I'm not some comic book supervillain. Your research and your skills are valuable to the Kingdom. Punishing you would be counterproductive."

He lets that word settle, letting its clinical neutrality reassure me. "Do you have anything else you'd like me to know?"

I think for a moment. "I believe that covers it all," I say, after twenty extremely stressful seconds.

"Good," he replies. He glances pointedly at the large tub of hand sanitizer on his desk, his gaze intent and unwavering. "Please sanitize once more before we shake."

It's not a request.

I hesitate only for a moment, scanning his desk and catching sight of the faint redness marring the skin on his knuckles, as if he's scrubbed them raw, over and over. Keeping my face impassive, I press the dispenser, letting the cool, clinical-smelling gel pool in my hands before rubbing it over my fingers and palms.

"Thank you," he says, though his tone is detached. This isn't so much a pleasantry as it is a procedural step, a final formality in the conclusion of our meeting. Something more ritual than anything else.

He extends his hand, and I take it, our handshake brisk and functional, yet somehow carrying a weight that feels almost ceremonial, a tacit acknowledgment that I am indeed here on his terms. This is no longer an arrangement for grant money or academic funds. No, this is a contract, one bound as much by money as by trust and authority.

When he releases my hand, his expression shifts into what might pass for satisfaction, or at least a form of approval.

"I've reviewed your project and the reports you filed on the hybrids' development," he says. "This level of initiative is exactly what we value. So you'll be seeing a raise for your work, along with a share of Hypeman's gross sales, in addition to your regular operating budget."

For a moment, I'm stunned. A reward. Not just any raise, but a substantial cut of Hypeman's revenue. I could expand the lab, even improve the habitats for the hybrids with minimal oversight. It's a thrill I usually reserve for scientific breakthrough, but now I feel it at the prospect of resources, pure and unhindered. Despite myself, I feel a slight warmth unfurling.

But his next words cool it just as quickly.

"However, Mrs. Xenograft," he says, each word razor-sharp, "I expect this to be your only slip-up in our operations. Any further issues or oversights in judgment will directly impact your continuing employment here."

I'm accustomed to stiff, corporate language from grant panels, but in his mouth, "continuing employment" feels far less like an offer to reconsider and far more like a door slamming shut. A finality looms in it, the reminder that while the Kingdom may not deal in comic book punishments, the stakes remain incredibly high.

I force myself to nod, businesslike. "Understood, sir."

"Good. It's only fair that since this venture was your own brainchild, you have a substantial share in its returns," he adds. "But remember, that also means you bear responsibility for its failures. I hope that's clear."

Crystal clear. It's the worst parts of arguing for research grants combined with something colder, something uncompromising. But compared to the other institutions I've dealt with, I remind myself, this might even be… tolerable.

With a curt nod, he turns his attention to the neat array of documents on his desk. Our meeting, it seems, is over.

I step back, smoothing down my coat, feeling the quiet weight of his words settle on me. This isn't academia. It's something more severe, something less forgiving. And yet, for the first time, I feel as though the resources are truly mine to shape, free of the bureaucratic mess I've always loathed. I turn toward the door, and as I do, I catch a glimpse of the city skyline from his window, Manhattan sprawling out into the crisp Sunday afternoon.

Maybe I'll even take a cab around the city before I leave.

I turn around and head back for the elevator, wiping my hands on my pants to get the last traces of hand sanitizer off.