When the blast door of Site-18 clanked shut, the biometric records of Dr. Connor Langford—iris scans and fingerprint data—were immediately flagged in the Foundation database as "TERMINATION OF ACCESS AUTHORIZED." It made perfect sense. After all, according to the records, he was now a confirmed defector.
Officially, he was.
This job should not be assigned to a researcher, but "Directed protein synthesis" is worth a risk. Generate customized proteins directly in a petri dish by reconstructing peptide chain folding in vitro. No ribosomes required. No transcriptases required. Not even DNA templates required. If that was true, this technology would enable humans to reshape their bodies at the molecular level, or develop a weapon targeting a specific anomalous entity.
What would Connor become now? An undercover operative? Or a Foundation asset embedded to extract critical technology?
He held a piece of paper on his trembling hands, which would soon alter the course of his fate. By the faint glow filtering through the eaves, the signature emerged:
GOC Under-Secretary-General D.C. al Fine
His defector identity will facilitate his clearance. Intelligence gathering was simple while it's hard to transmit it to the Foundation. As a new member of GOC, his action must be monitored, yet the Foundation allotted him only one year to finish the task. He faced an impossible deadline: extract and exfiltrate the protocols within one year.
Only one thought haunted him—Dr. Serena Langford, his wife and Site-18's best biochemist.
The memory burned fresh. He still remembered the day when the O5 Council approved his task application, Serena broke a petri dish in the lab. Her words were colder than liquid nitrogen.
"Connor, what are you trying to prove?"
Hayes, the Site Director, who had maintained a close personal rapport with him, stood at the door. Knowing Connor's stubbornness, Hayes wordlessly extended him a psychological evaluation report.
Connor held Serena's hands, then guided her trembling fingers on his stomach, "if I betray you, or the Foundation—"
"—dissect me here."
Serena knew that she could hardly dissuade him. She knows, always. In that suspended moment between heartbeats, her whisper carried surgical precision:
"If you do, I'll cut open your stomach."
Connor surfaced from his thoughts with a shudder, putting the letter of commission in his trench coat pocket. He regretted to leave on a rainy day. He regretted not to have dinner before his authorization terminated. He regretted not to give Serena a kiss before the journey.
Connor forgot his umbrella again. He pulled up the collar of his windbreaker, walked into the drizzle, turned around to take a look, then strode forward resolutely.
An ordinary day for the Foundation. For the Langfords, however, this day was enough to change all the things in their lives.
Many amino acids link together like train cars to form peptide chains, and the structure formed by the coiling and folding of peptide chains is called a protein. Proteins are the bricks and cornerstones of the palace of life—most of the human body's structural components are made of proteins, and many enzymes1 are also proteins. Tens of thousands of proteins have been discovered by humans, yet these proteins are composed of only 21 types of amino acids arranged in different structures.
Due to the highly complex structure of proteins, synthesizing large-molecular-weight proteins remains beyond current capabilities. Some say that once humanity masters proteins, they master life itself.
—Excerpt from SCPF Basic Biology Tutorial, Page 32
The weight of his mission pressed against Connor as he entered the door of the GOC laboratory building. Where Foundation facilities hummed with clinical efficiency, this labyrinth thrummed with paramilitary discipline—fluorescent tubes casting jaundiced yellows instead of Site-18's blue glow.
"Aaaah—welcome aboard." The voice oozed like syrup. "How delightful to have one more friend."
The speaker was Whitmore, Connor's new boss: a cadaverous Caucasian male in his late forties, whose rumpled three-piece suit hung on his frame like a discarded snakeskin. The perpetual half-smile twisting his lips suggested he'd just recalled a private joke at your expense.
He ushered Connor into a lab. Flickering bulbs left shadows pooling between haphazard reagent shelves, the sole orderly surface being a stainless steel workbench.
"The majority of researchers come for our protein synthesis technology," said Whitmore, his lips curling in a smirk. "Ironically, that helps us recruit top scientists… for other projects." He snapped his fingers. "Before joining the protein synthesis team, you'll need to prove your worth. Carter! Show the new man around."
The researcher named Carter approached, offering Connor a friendly handshake.
Whitmore adjusted his wrinkled tie with deliberate slowness. "Relax and enjoy your work. Should an… accident occur," his chuckle carried warmth, "we provide global corpse delivery—prepaid! Ha!" The mirth vanished instantly. "Metal detectors will ensure no unauthorized souvenirs leave this facility."
Pausing at the doorway, he delivered his parting shot over one shoulder: "Unlike some silly organizations that hand out Amnestics like candy, we would rather treat you with poison. One dose. Permanent."
The first project Connor joined was completely unrelated to protein synthesis—it involved improving an interlayer material for Agents' protective suits.
When he first saw the sample, Connor froze at its unnatural coloration—a black so profound it seemed the cosmos' abyss staring back, light-devouring in its density, like a million crow feathers compressed into a single surface. His exploratory touch revealed paradoxical textures: glass-smooth yet chitin-resilient.
"What's it made of?" Connor asked.
"A special type of plastic. We call it 'Black Swan,'" Carter replied. "It was reverse-engineered from a supernatural creature. Don't worry. That thing's long dead."
"Why assign a biologist to materials science?"
"This stuff can withstand strong acids and strong bases. But we don't know its biological interactions." Carter tapped the specimen. "Our job's to make sure our field agents don't dissolve while wearing it."
Connor's gaze remained locked on the material, his fingers tracing the edge with unconscious reverence.
The new dorm room is simple but functional. The walls are bare, with no decorations yet. A basic bed sits in one corner, and a simple desk is placed against the wall. There’s a small wardrobe with plenty of space, and a corner for a fan or additional furniture. Though it’s empty, the room feels spacious and ready to be filled with personal touches.
Connor collapsed onto the bed, replaying the day's events in his mind. He had left Site-18 behind and become a GOC researcher now. His new boss Whitmore was an odd character - with his strange clothes and stranger jokes. Connor couldn't tell if this eccentricity was just a facade hiding something deeper. Carter, his new colleague and fellow biologist, would be working closely with him from now on…
Regardless, the infiltration mission had begun. His objective was clear: gather intel on the protein synthesis technology. Just as he'd expected, things were progressing smoothly so far, though GOC's security was tight as predicted. Getting information out to the Foundation would take serious effort.
On this unfamiliar bed, Connor gradually drifted into sleep—where in his dreams, he returned to the day he first met Serena, when they hadn't yet joined the Foundation, but were working at a pharmaceutical research institute.
The rain wove the night into a net, the dim streetlights casting circular patches of light on the sidewalk. Raindrops drummed against the sheet metal of abandoned billboards, their hollow echoes spreading through the empty streets. Water gathered into rivulets, carrying cigarette butts and dead leaves down into the sewer grates.
Connor had just left the building when the last light inside flickered out. The research complex stood like a corpse drained of its soul, silent in the rain. Every window had become a dark, hollow socket, the walls streaked with winding trails of rainwater.
It wasn’t until the security guard locked the doors behind him that he realized he’d forgotten his umbrella. Under the eaves, he held out a hand—the rain wasn’t too heavy, and he didn’t feel like going back into that pitch-black building just to retrieve it.
Everything around him was submerged in the thick darkness. After a few seconds of hesitation, he stepped out from under the shelter and into a shallow puddle. The cold rain needled the back of his neck, his tie flapping over his shoulder before growing sodden and coiling around his throat like an icy snake.
He’d never left work this late before, but he knew where the bus stop was. All he could do was run for it before the rain got worse.
There it was—the fluorescent glow of the bus sign illuminating fractured reflections in the puddles. He stumbled forward, nearly crashing onto the bench under the shelter.
Connor glanced at his rain-soaked watch, tucked it into his pocket, then took off his glasses and wiped the droplets away with his shirt. He caught his breath between the ticking of the second hand and the metallic patter of rain on the slightly rusted shelter roof, staring at the darkened neon sign of the convenience store across the street.
His phone rang. It was his colleague, Hayes.
"Hello?"
"Langford? It’s Hayes."
"Hayes? Why are you calling so late?"
"Langford, I’m leaving. Got reassigned."
"Leaving? Where to?"
"I don’t know."
"You don’t know? Then why go? Better pay?"
"They didn’t tell me anything. And I have to leave tonight."
"Tonight? That’s sudden."
"Yeah… and you probably won’t be able to reach me after this."
"What, you joining some classified outfit now? Come on, you’re good at what you do. You’ll land on your feet."
"You sound exhausted. Get some rest."
If only I could just rest right now, Connor thought.
The moment the call ended, he wished Hayes had said more. On a night like this, just hearing another voice would have been a small comfort.
In the distance, occasional headlights swept past. Each time, he instinctively leaned forward, only to see another passing car. Too tired to check his watch again, he could only measure time by the ebb and flow of the rain.
Then it hit him—he might have missed the last bus. He’d never stayed this late before. He didn’t know. But the rain kept falling, so he stayed put, becoming just another part of the bus stop.
"Hello?"
The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Clear, but unreal.
He jerked his head up. The shelter’s light haloed behind her, outlining a blurred silhouette—like watercolor diluted by rain. She held a clear umbrella, droplets clinging to its ribs.
When had she gotten here?
"Hi," Connor answered, weary.
Silence.
After a moment, he turned. "Will… the bus still come?"
She nodded. "It’ll come."
Silence.
"You’ve never taken the bus this late before?" she asked.
"Never," he said. "Got held up today—and of course, it had to rain."
"I work so late every day, and it's always alone. At this hour, it's rare to bump into anyone…" She turned her head and said, "It's so nice to meet you."
Connor glanced over and noticed the faint white marks around the base of her fingers. His observational skills had never been detective-sharp, but he caught it anyway.
"You work in a lab?"
"Yeah. Mostly… biochemical stuff."
"Funny. Me too."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
Silence.
"I’m Langford. Work at the institute nearby."
"Nice to meet you, Langford. I’m Reed," she said. "Serena Reed."
To Connor's surprise, the other GOC members turned out to be quite friendly toward him.
Carter—that young man who was always chewing gum—even slipped him a packet of instant coffee while showing him around the lab layout.
The GOC, however, maintained exceptionally strict control over new personnel. Signal jammers provided complete coverage of the facility, all outgoing data required triple-layer vetting, and movement was under constant surveillance—off-site trips were limited to one hour maximum. Transferred Foundation personnel would occasionally get tailed by operatives, subjected to full-body scans upon departure, and have even the mud on their shoe soles sampled upon return.
The "Black Swan" project kept iterating and improving, its properties growing increasingly stable. In the latest experiment, it had survived several hours of immersion in aqua regia2 without corrosion.
"Doesn't this seem excessively robust? At this point, continuing GOC funding feels unjustified—it's not like any operative would take a sulfuric acid bath," Connor remarked while reviewing the reports.
"Hey, who knows what kind of supernatural phenomena our operatives encounter? Besides," Carter countered while popping his gum, "without GOC funding, where would your paycheck come from?"
Connor's assessment proved correct. Days later, the Black Swan project was terminated. He got his wish and was transferred to the protein synthesis lab, while Carter was reassigned to the genetic engineering group. Before parting ways, they shared a quiet moment in the break room. Carter gave Connor a piece of gum.
"Genetic engineering's a prime assignment—you'll make a difference there," Connor offered.
"Pfft. Custom DNA/RNA synthesis is decades-old tech, available at most advanced labs nationwide," Carter shrugged. "But directed protein synthesis? That's cutting-edge GOC classified research. You're the one who'll change the world."
"…You're no slouch either."
"Classified access isn't all perks though—you're married, right?"
"Yeah, I am."
"You could apply to relocate your family here. They provides housing."
"Why would I move them here?"
"After handling classified materials, you won't get clearance for external trips for years."
"Hell, I can't even go out properly before that," Connor grumbled.
"It's true."
RNA can store information, consisting of many nucleotides linked together. Each nucleotide is akin to a "word"3, while the entire RNA strand resembles an "article" written in this language.
—Excerpt from SCPF Basic Biology Tutorial, Page 73
Though transferred to the protein synthesis project, Connor was only assigned one specific task—assembling short peptides from amino acids. He could perform his designated role blindfolded, but everything beyond that remained a mystery to him.
He had anticipated this compartmentalization. Protein structures were complex beasts, and their synthesis was inevitably divided into assembly-line segments, with each researcher knowing only their own cog in the machine.
But he knew Whitmore's computer held the complete blueprint.
One evening, he knocked on Whitmore's office door.
"Enter."
Connor stepped inside.
"You again… I believe I made it clear not to disturb me without good reason—so this better be important."
Connor positioned himself at the side of the desk, his eyes flickering to the monitor. Just as expected—GOCOS.
During his Foundation days, Connor had conversed with a retired GOC operative who revealed their classified computers ran on GOCOS, a proprietary system with paranoid-level security. Every failed login attempt was logged. Even with the correct password, fingerprint and facial recognition were required. But Connor, ever the quick study, had spent one morning with an Artificial Intelligence Conscript learning how to "circumvent" these protections.
"I'd like to request a week's leave," Connor said.
"Denied." Whitmore didn't even look up.
"It's my wife's birthday soon—"
"And I believe I just reminded you not to waste my time."
Connor left—He knew his application must be denied, but everything is on schedule. Tonight, maintenance would disable this sector's surveillance cameras.
When darkness fell, Connor slipped past patrols with his laptop bag. Whitmore's door should have been locked, but the gum Carter gave him now jammed the mechanism.
The closer to success, the greater the risk. He moved like a shadow toward the workstation.
Finally reaching the CPU tower, he crouched behind the desk. Now came the real test—applying his crash course in system infiltration.
Connor steadied his breathing. The power button taunted him—untouchable. A single fingerprint would betray him.
Instead, he produced his tool—a simple screwdriver.
Working by feel in the dark, he removed the tower's side panel and gently extracted the hard drive. His laptop screen, dimmed to near-invisibility, accepted the drive through a custom adapter.
The transfer completed in under sixty seconds.
As he reassembled the tower, footsteps echoed in the corridor. Connor froze mid-motion, the screwdriver suspended until the sounds faded.
His trembling hands completed the reassembly. The return journey to his quarters passed without incident.
But his mission wasn't complete. The stolen data was voluminous—impossible to smuggle out intact. He'd need to internalize every detail, then recreate a condensed version from memory.
Site-18, Site Director's Office.
"The deadline is approaching," Hayes said. "Do you think he can make it back?"
"He will," Serena replied.
"I don’t doubt his resolve. But GOC’s surveillance might truly be flawless."
"That’s exactly why he’s the one for this mission. I know what kind of man he is. If he’s trapped behind an impenetrable wall, he’ll carve a hole through it."
"I trust him," Hayes said, his gaze drifting toward the window.
Connor knew the time had come—not because the moment was right, but because the mission’s deadline was bearing down on him.
He had spent six months in the lab improving protective suits before finally being transferred to the protein synthesis team. The time allotted to him had always been tight. Still, he had meticulously documented every step of the protein synthesis process. Now, all that remained was delivering the information to the Foundation—just one final step. In theory, once he handed over the files, the mission would be a success.
In theory.
Reality was far harsher than he had imagined before joining the GOC. Their control over researchers with classified access rivaled the Foundation’s containment of Keter-class anomalies. Escape? Every checkpoint was wired to alarms, and GOC’s armed response made the Foundation’s security look like mall cops. The network? Every outgoing message was scrutinized, leaving him virtually no way to contact Serena or the Foundation. Confess? Suicide. Swallow a USB drive and play dead, wait for the GOC to bury him, then let the Foundation dig him up? Amusing, but only if he could convincingly fake his own death—and they would inspect the body.
Each time he tore a page from the calendar, his stomach twisted. Now, on the very last day of his mission—exactly one year since he had left the Foundation—he was out of time.
Connor’s thoughts were a tangled mess, pressing against his skull like the barrel of a gun. He knew there was no hope of completing the mission as planned. Maybe he should just stay with the GOC? The benefits weren’t bad. No—he wasn’t that kind of man. Betraying the Foundation was unthinkable, especially with Serena waiting for him at Site-18. Memories surged forward, voices overlapping in his mind, each joining the silent tribunal. Whitmore’s voice. Carter’s. Serena’s.
"we provide global corpse delivery—prepaid!"
"This stuff can withstand strong acids and strong bases."
"If you do, I'll cut open your stomach."
Connor clutched his head. The vast, empty lab pressed its silence against him, suffocating. Finally, he wrenched himself free from the absurd trial and jerked upright, his eyes scanning the walls—
Mercury thermometers.
Their silver columns gleamed coldly, all reading the same: 23°C.
A few buildings away, on the other side of the compound, Carter’s phone rang.
DNA is the genetic material of the human body, controlling protein synthesis.
If we compare a cell to the Foundation, then DNA would be the O5 Council, and proteins would be the Mobile Task Forces. However, while DNA is stored in the nucleus, proteins are synthesized in the cytoplasm.
Thus, only when DNA transmits its information to the cytoplasm can proteins be synthesized—this process requires a mediator.
—Excerpt from SCPF Basic Biology Tutorial, Page 94
Site-18, Site Director's Office - Morning
One morning, Serena's personal email—not her work account—received a message.
She opened it to find an anonymous notification:
To Dr. Serena Langford,
We regret to inform you that Connor Langford has passed away due to acute mercury poisoning during laboratory work.
His remains will arrive at your residence by 14:00 today.
For compensation matters, please contact █████@goc.com.
Her fingers froze mid-air. The screen's glow reflected in her eyes, now dull and lifeless.
Serena yanked the power cord and sat motionless.
That afternoon, Foundation agents brought the casket to Site-18. Serena saw Connor's face—pale, lips tinged blue, with an unsettling slackness to his features.
Site Director Hayes stood beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Langford."
Her whisper was almost to herself: "He brought something back…"
Then the dam broke. Trembling, she repeated:
"He brought something back! He must have!"
Preliminary Examination Report:
Cause of death: Confirmed mercury ingestion
Metallic scan: Negative (excluding mercury residue)
"He brought nothing," Hayes said. "Expected—if he'd swallowed a drive, GOC scanners would've caught it. We'll inform the O5s. No autopsy needed. We'll arrange burial—"
"Then he betrayed us," Serena interrupted.
"More likely he found no opportunity—"
"Open his stomach."
Hayes blinked. "What?"
Serena's scalpel-sharp repetition left no room for debate:
"Open. His. Stomach."
Site-18 Autopsy Room, 17:22
The casket returned.
Serena gloved up and took the blade herself. Her usual surgical precision faltered—once, she nearly vomited. Yet she pressed on, driven by some unshakable certainty, as if Connor whispered guidance from memory.
The incision revealed esophageal corrosion, gastric hemorrhaging… then—
A discovery. Nestled in intestinal folds lay a black capsule. Smooth. Pristine. Resistant to stomach acids like some engineered seed.
She cradled it. The capsule's darkness unnerved her—a black so profound it seemed the cosmos' abyss staring back, light-devouring in its density, like a million crow feathers compressed into a single surface. Connor must've felt this too, she realized.
Collapsing to the floor, she laughed through tears, clutching her prize.
Among the various types of RNA, Messenger RNA is synthesized in the nucleus, copies genetic information from DNA, then exits through nuclear pores to deliver these instructions to the cytoplasm for protein production. It serves as the communication medium between DNA and the cytoplasm.
After fulfilling its role in protein synthesis, Messenger RNA is degraded.
—Excerpt from SCPF Basic Biology Tutorial, Page 95
"Tested the capsule?" Serena demanded.
Hayes nodded. "Unknown corrosion-proof shell. Inside—a liquid preserving critical cargo."
"Which is?"
"RNA."
The air stilled. As a biologist, Serena understood instantly: RNA stored information. An organic flash drive invisible to metal detectors.
"Sequenced it yet?"
"In progress. Degradation risk increases hourly."
Serena slumped into a chair. "RNA's nature stores data, but decoding… Connor would've encrypted it. No Rosetta Stone for this."
Hayes frowned. "So we guess?"
"Not blindly. Think mRNA translation—amino acids correspond to single-letter codes. Though 26 letters don't perfectly match 21 amino acids…"
"You lost me."
"If Connor didn't die for garbage, decryption won't be hard."
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
If you're reading this, your decryption works.
RNA capacity is limited. Brief update:
[DATA EXPUNGED]
This was my last resort.
Regret failing to return in person.
Let the dead rest. The living must march on.
I love you, Serena.Though the document required Level-3 clearance, Hayes recited its final lines at the funeral.
"I know loss," he murmured. "When I joined the Foundation, I left my wife behind. Later… when she fell ill, medicine couldn't help. Had we possessed targeted protein synthesis then…"
Serena had no reply.
"Apologies—wrong time for reminiscing. But…" Hayes met her gaze. "The Foundation offers amnestics for traumatic losses. Some memories… are kinder erased."
"Connor," Serena whispered to the wind, "what were you trying to prove?"
Days later, Serena dreamed of that long-past night.
Rain dripped through a café awning, drumming on forgotten coffee cups. She'd worked nights often, yet seldom encountered such rains—tonight, the monotony broke. Almost… pleasantly.
Her umbrella unfurled with a whisper. The downpour softened into a rhythmic patter, like some ancient metronome. She slowed her steps, letting puddles splash her trousers—a tiny rebellion that felt luxurious post-shift.
The bus stop's neon lit fractured reflections in wet pavement. Empty, as usual. No one else kept these hours. The late bus might as well have been hers alone.
She inhaled petrichor from rain-washed trees as the bus arrived. Stepping aboard the vacant vehicle, she carried the rain's quiet gift—that rare, fleeting peace before the tempest of years to come.