Before One Hour.
On the island, Alfred Frey the old man— the director of the secret lab, was pacing restlessly inside the compound.
Cold sweat trickled down his forehead. "Where are they?" he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls.
Years of work, all the resources, the risks they had taken a few months back—everything depended on this trial.
Now it had been ripped from them.
Alfred's hands curled into fists at his sides; his jaw worked, hard and slow. Fury burned in his chest.
"Who the hell are these people?" he rasped, voice low and dangerous.
He paced the room, each step sharp on the stone floor.
Paper maps and tablet screens lay forgotten on the table; the lab's hum felt suddenly thin and useless.
The image of the ruined compound flashed in his head—the collapsed tunnels, the missing files, the empty cages.
It all felt like a personal insult.
"I want them dead," he said through gritted teeth, the words tasting like iron. "How dare they come here and cause this chaos."
