The pressurized cabin of the private jet was a chamber of vibrating tension, the low-frequency thrum of the engines acting as a dark metronome to the psychological warfare unfolding between the Scientist and the King. The medical bay was lit by cold, recessed LED strips that cast long, distorted shadows across the metal floor.
Dahmer Lukas stood over the reclining medical berth, his silhouetted form looming like a dark god over the wounded Alpha. The words Malcolm had just spat—the admission of "cheating" with the intern, the confession that his blood was rotting with silver desire—hung in the air like a thick, toxic mist.
