It does make me feel a little better, knowing they’ve tightened up security. Who would be crazy enough to sabotage his work? Easy: people who listen to rumors and lies without doing any research to see if they’re true or not. People who want to believe the worst. They go off on crazy, half-baked stories.
Stupid people who don’t understand science. People who aren’t like us.
When we stop at the gate, waiting to be allowed through, I look over at Dad. What’s it like to be a genius? I’ve thought that sometimes. I’ve wondered what it must be like to know he’s doing great things, even if there are so many others who don’t agree. I wonder how much courage it takes to stick with it evenwhen there are setbacks and complications—all the words I’ve heard him use so many times. It never stops him, never slows him down. He keeps moving forward.
He would probably laugh if he knew how many times I’ve thought of him as a hero. That’s not what he’s in this for. It’s the reason he never gives interviews, why he won’t even publish any journals. He doesn’t want notoriety. He only wants the work. Knowing he’s changing the world. Saving humanity.
And I get to be part of it.
The gate slides open, and we pull through, past the guard station, past the outer fencing. I’ve stopped seeing the razor wire. I know how it looks to someone on the outside—intimidating, secretive—but when you understand what’s being protected in here, it makes sense. Breakthroughs don’t happen without security. Without sacrifice.
Dad parks in his usual spot near the east building, and we walk in together. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, turning everything that sterile blue-white I’ve come to associate with these nights. Every Wednesday, like clockwork. My infusion nights.
He’s quiet as we make our way down the corridor, his shoes clicking against the polished floor. I match his pace, my sneakers barely making a sound beside him. The hallway smells like disinfectant and recycled air, and underneath it, something faintly metallic. I used to hate that smell, but I’ve gotten used to it.
We pass a few technicians on the way. They nod at Dad, and he nods back without slowing his pace. Nobody looks at me twice. I’m not sure what they know about my role here, whether they see me as a colleague or a patient or something in between. Maybe they don’t think about it at all.
The infusion room is at the end of the hall, behind a door that requires Dad’s keycard and a six-digit code. Inside, it looks theway it always does: the reclining chair in the center, the IV stand beside it, the monitors arranged along the wall. A steel cart with supplies laid out in neat rows. Everything prepped, everything ready.
“Sit down,” Dad says, already moving to the counter where the vials are stored. “I want to go over a few things before we start.”
I settle into the chair, pressing my back against the cushion. The vinyl is cold through my hoodie. I pull my sleeve up to the elbow on my left arm without being asked—we’ve done this enough times that I know the routine. Find the vein, clean the site, insert the line.
“We’ve made some modifications to the serum,” he says, his back to me as he prepares the IV bag. His voice has shifted into his clinical tone. He’s measured, detached. This is Dr. Moore now, not Dad. “The concentration has been adjusted. Based on the bloodwork from your last session, your body is adapting, but not as quickly as we’d hoped. So we’ve refined the ratio. It should integrate more smoothly this time.”
Should. I notice the word but don’t say anything. There are a lot ofshouldsin this process. Itshouldwork. The side effectsshouldbe manageable. My bodyshouldaccept what’s being introduced.
“That means less resistance from your immune system,” he continues, turning to face me now with the IV bag in hand. “Which means less pain.”
“Okay.” I nod, trying to sound brave and probably failing.
He hooks the bag onto the stand, then sits on the stool beside me to prep the line. His hands are steady as they always are—not a tremor, not a hesitation. He is completely certain.
I wish I could say the same.
I barely feel the needle anymore. The pinch is nothing compared to what comes after. For a moment, there’s only thequiet hum of the monitors and the slow drip of the IV, and I let myself relax. Just a little.
Then the heat starts.
It always starts the same way. A warmth spreads from the injection site, creeping up my arm as if it’s alive. It moves through me slowly at first, almost pleasant, feeling as if I’m sinking into a hot bath after a long day.
I close my eyes. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe the modifications actually worked.
Then the warmth turns sharp.
As if a switch is being flipped; the comfortable heat suddenly replaced by something biting and wrong. My blood feels like it’s pushing back, while every cell in my body is rejecting what’s being introduced. The shifter blood doesn’t belong inside me. No matter what changes Dad makes to his ratios or whatever, and my body knows it.
I grip the arms of the chair. My jaw locks. A sound slips out of me, something between a gasp and a whimper, and I hate it. I despise that I can’t sit here and take it the way I keep telling myself I will.
“Breathe through it,” Dad says. “Your vitals are elevated, but within range. This is normal.”
Normal. I want to laugh, but the pain is climbing, spreading from my arm into my chest, my ribs, my spine. It can feel my bones humming. My fingers are tingling. My eyes fly open and, as usual, my vision’s starting to go blurry around the edges.
I try to focus. To remember why I’m doing this. A life where my body isn’t broken. A life where I can have children, where the thing that’s been wrong with me since I was born doesn’t define me anymore. Dad told me years ago that shifter biology could be the key. Their ability to heal, to regenerate, to overcome what human bodies can’t. He said if we could bridge that gap, wecould change everything. Not just for me, but for anyone who’s been told there’s no hope.
That’s worth the pain.
But God, it’s painful. It hurts more than last time, and the modifications were supposed to make it easier. My back arches against the chair. I can feel sweat beading along my hairline, running down my temples. Every muscle in my body is pulled tight as a wire.
