SINS OF FROST AND HEAT

LIAM

        'Horrifying screams echoed down the pristine white corridors, muffled only by the thick, reinforced walls of the lab. The child’s voice—high-pitched, desperate—cut through the sterile air, bouncing off the polished surfaces. The sound seemed to cling to the walls, hanging like an accusation against the cold, clinical order of the place.

Inside, the lab was a marvel of advanced technology far beyond the reach of most developed nations. It was clean too clean almost unnaturally so. The metal tables gleamed under the fluorescent lights, their surfaces free of the slightest speck of dust. Rows of state-of-the-art equipment beeped and hummed, and holographic displays flashed streams of data across the room in neat, color-coded lines. The scent of antiseptic hung heavy, mingled with the faint, metallic tang of blood.

At the center of the room lay the source of the screams a child no more than five years old, strapped to a table, his small body convulsing. Wires ran from his head to the machines surrounding him, and his eyes were wide with terror, his cries piercing the air.

Standing nearby, a group of doctors watched, their faces masked and their expressions impassive. One of them, a woman with sharp eyes, scribbled notes into a tablet as the child’s scream subsided into pitiful, breathless sobs.

“Subject 29 is exhibiting increased resistance,” she noted, her voice devoid of emotion. “Gene modification is taking effect, but the side effects remain severe malnourished appearance, stunted growth, and persistent memory loss.”

Another doctor, this one older, nodded as he adjusted a dial on the machine, causing the child’s body to jerk violently.

“We expected that. The genetic alterations are bound to have consequences at this stage. Our focus is on enhancing resilience without compromising cognitive function.”

“Memory loss isn’t a concern?” the woman asked, glancing up from her notes.

“Not if it remains temporary,” he replied. “It’s a small price to pay for the modification to stabilize. We’ll monitor and adjust as needed. The real question is whether the results are sustainable long-term.”

The doctors exchanged glances, and then all of them turned their attention to the man standing in the shadows at the edge of the room.

The current President of Azamia, his tall, imposing frame barely visible in the dim light, watched the scene unfold with a detached interest. His face was a mask of cold indifference, his eyes fixed on the child’s trembling form. There was no trace of empathy there, only the steely gaze of a man accustomed to making hard decisions.

“Is it working?” the president asked, his voice low, barely more than a whisper. He did not flinch as the child’s screams rose again.

The lead doctor gave a nod. “Yes, sir. The serum is showing positive results, but we need more time to refine the side effects.”

“How long?” the president asked, his eyes flicking to the child for a moment before returning to the doctor.

“A few more months, perhaps. We’re close, but the subject need to undergo further testing.”

The president’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the room felt colder, the air heavy with a palpable tension. “See to it that the progress doesn’t stall. We cannot afford delays.”

With that, he turned away, his expression unchanged as he walked toward the exit, leaving the doctors to their work. The child’s screams continued to echo down the hallway as the door sealed shut behind him.'