CEO loves me with all his soul.-Chapter 121. Doctor Naehr

By the time they reached the club again, the sun had risen well past the rooftops, casting gray streaks through the morning sky. The place was quieter now, its wild energy reduced to low thudding music, a couple of hungover patrons still loitering near the entrance, and a bouncer who barely glanced at them when they walked in.

Augustin adjusted the collar of his black coat, looking every inch the calculating gentleman. Ethan walked ahead with a sharp, purposeful stride, his black eyes narrowed, muscles tensed under his dark turtleneck. Adrian walked beside them, scanning every inch of the club’s layout as if memorizing it—his silver eyes soft, but focused.

Wryn was not there.

The VIP booth where he had made a drunken scene the night before was empty, a single glass still bearing the lipstick smear of some unknown woman. Ethan motioned toward the bar, where a gruff bartender with sleeve tattoos and a graying beard was wiping down glasses.

Without hesitation, Ethan sauntered up, exuding casual charm.

"Morning," he said with a low, husky voice that made the bartender blink twice.

"Bit early to be back," the man muttered, side-eyeing Ethan’s regal presence. "You forget something?"

"Mm. A friend," Ethan said, tapping the counter lightly. "Tall, buzzed half the time, mouth like a gutter, name’s Wryn Hudel."

The bartender raised a brow. "You a friend of his?"

"Not really," Ethan said, flashing a grin that never reached his eyes. "But I owe him money. Big debt. Trying to square up."

The bartender let out a grunt, his guard lowering. "Ah. Wryn only shows up on set days. Guy’s got a pattern like a moon cycle."

Adrian perked up. "What days?"

"Always on the fifth, thirteenth, and twenty-fourth," the man said. "No idea why. Never misses ’em. If he does, he shows up the next one like nothing happened."

Augustin’s brows furrowed. He was already pulling his phone out, opening his calendar. "Those dates aren’t holidays. Not religious or political. Nothing lines up. And... it’s not paydays either."

Ethan crossed his arms. "Any idea what he does on the off days?"

"Your guess is better than mine. Man likes privacy. Books the same VIP booth every time, leaves with his coat clean and his wallet fatter."

"Friends?" Adrian asked quietly.

The bartender shook his head. "Just drinks, swears, sometimes argues on the phone. Had a woman in here a few days ago though. Unusual for him. Seemed real polite to her too, which is saying something."

Ethan’s expression sharpened. "Polite?"

"Didn’t even cuss. Took off his cap, stood when she stood. Real old-school respect."

Adrian and Augustin exchanged a glance.

"Do you have security cameras?" Augustin asked, voice smooth. "Just curious."

The bartender blinked. "What for?"

"Nothing important," Augustin said with a casual wave. "We just like to know who we’re buying drinks near. For safety."

The man snorted. "Cameras don’t record sound, but sure—management logs about a week’s worth of footage. That room has two angles."

"Perfect," Augustin smiled. "Thanks."

-

Augustin leaned over the old terminal in the manager’s office, fingers flying across the keyboard. His brown eyes sharpened with each frame that flickered onto the screen.

"Got him," he muttered.

Ethan and Adrian crowded behind him, watching over his shoulder as the grainy footage replayed.

It was from four nights ago.

Wryn entered the VIP booth like he owned it. He looked much the same—leather jacket, cocky walk, slightly off-kilter. But as the woman arrived—tall, cloaked in a hood, with something metallic glinting at her wrist—Wryn stood up immediately.

"Pause," Ethan said.

Augustin froze the frame.

Wryn had removed his cap, something he never did even when drunk, and was holding it against his chest. His body language was stiff, respectful. Even fearful.

"He’s not just meeting her," Adrian said, eyes narrowing. "He’s reporting to her."

Augustin nodded. "This isn’t casual. This is chain of command."

They let the tape play.

The woman sat across from Wryn and handed him something—small and dark. A duffel bag. Wryn reached for it cautiously, almost reverently. The camera caught him opening it under the table, just enough to peek inside.

Adrian’s stomach twisted. "Pause again."

Augustin stopped the feed. The bag was open for a split second, but inside—nestled in foam—were vials. Dozens of them. Pale silver liquid shimmered under the low light. Wryn’s face was blank, but his fingers trembled slightly as he closed the bag.

"That’s not booze," Ethan said flatly.

"It’s not normal drugs either," Augustin murmured. "The shimmer—it’s chemically stabilized. Possibly reactive. Like... gene-editing material."

"Or enhancers," Adrian whispered. "Like what the Institute was working on. The failed serum batches."

Ethan’s eyes were cold. "Or weapons."

They watched the rest of the tape. The woman said a few more things, Wryn nodded sharply, and then she left. No handshake. No contact. She disappeared into the crowd like a ghost.

Augustin leaned back in the chair, face pale. "Wryn’s just a cog. A messenger. He’s not the planner. He’s the smokescreen."

Ethan paced the room once. "And if those vials are what I think they are..."

Adrian finished for him: "Then someone is planning something catastrophic. Something irreversible."

"Bioweapons? Super soldier serums? Genetic targeting?" Augustin shook his head. "Even if it’s just for trafficking, this material is above street-level crime. This is organized science-grade hell."

Ethan turned back to the screen. "Get a screenshot of the woman’s face. The moment she turns."

Augustin scrubbed back, found a frame. Her hood slipped back just enough to catch part of her jawline and chin. Pale, no makeup. A scar ran from her cheekbone down to her neck. There was also a glint—some kind of ear device, possibly communication tech.

"Got it," Augustin said. "I’ll run it through facial recognition."

Adrian took a steadying breath. "We need to find out who she is. And fast."

Ethan nodded grimly. "Because whatever’s in that bag... it’s not meant for anything peaceful."

-

The room was white — sterile, cold, inhuman. Every surface gleamed with clinical perfection, but the quiet hum of machines was pierced by one sound alone:

Laughter.

Mad, unhinged laughter.

A man stood at the center of the chamber, tall and thin like a wire stretched too tight. His long silver hair spilled over his lab coat like liquid mercury, and his black eyes glinted with a mania that was far too focused to be dismissed as mere insanity. On the back wall, monitors flickered with streams of genetic code—fractal spirals, shifting models of synthetic cells, and graphs charting impossible mutations made possible.

In the middle of it all was a chamber—glass-walled, sealed, with thick cables feeding into its base. Inside the chamber floated a single vial. Silver liquid swirled within, glowing softly like it held the heartbeat of something divine... or monstrous.

"Finally..." the man whispered, voice cracking as he approached the glass. His breath fogged it slightly, but he didn’t care.

"Finally," he said again, louder now. "All these years. All these failures. All these weak imitations of divinity..." frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

His laughter bubbled out once more, and this time it didn’t stop. He spun on his heel, hair flying as he addressed the empty room like a preacher on fire. "They called me delusional! Insane! They said man wasn’t meant to tamper with the genome!" He pointed a trembling finger at the screen. "But man was born defective. Weak. Fragmented. Diseased from birth by class! By blood! By the illusion of difference!"

A meek voice broke the monologue.

"Doctor...?"

The scientist froze.

A young subordinate stood just inside the doorway, half-hidden in the shadows. He was pale, shaking slightly, holding a clipboard he likely no longer remembered the contents of.

"Doctor Naehr," the subordinate said quietly, "what... what happened? You’re—laughing again."

Doctor Naehr turned, slow and deliberate.

His smile was too wide.

"Why am I laughing?" he said, walking forward, boots echoing on the metal floor. "Because I’ve succeeded, dear boy. I’ve done what gods failed to do. I’ve rewritten the code of man."

He slammed his hand down on the nearest console. The monitor flared to life, displaying two images side by side—one, a human genome. The other, something... else. Sleeker. Flawless. Not natural, but precise. Engineered.

"The Perfect Genome," he said reverently. "One gene set. One bloodline. One species. No more weak. No more strong. No more superior or inferior. We will all be the same."

The subordinate swallowed hard. "You mean... equal?"

"YES!" Naehr shouted. "Equal. Do you know what true equality is? Not fairness. Not rights. Those are human fictions. True equality is in the flesh. When every cell sings the same note. When no mutation causes sickness. No hunger, no inherited flaws. No deformity. No gender difference. No difference at all."

He paced, animated now.

"Imagine a world where the rich can no longer buy stronger genes. Where kings are biologically no different from the lowest man. Where a soldier and a peasant are indistinguishable—interchangeable."

He looked back at the vial in the chamber, eyes gleaming.

"This is the first of many. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Not a drug. Not an enhancer. A rewriter. You inject it, and it overwrites your genome. One injection. One blood. One world."

The subordinate took a step back. "But... wouldn’t that mean... every unique trait, every heritage, every identity..."

"Erased!" Naehr sang, delighted. "Yes! Gloriously, beautifully erased! No more pride. No more shame. No more division. One race. One body. Perfect unity."

He stepped back toward the chamber, his voice soft now. "Of course, the transition will be... difficult. Not everyone will accept it. But they will. Eventually."

He turned, dark eyes now dangerous. "We’ve already started. Injections distributed in secret. The vials passed through faithful hands. Hidden in bars, clubs, public clinics. The mutation is slow. Measured. Undetectable until it’s too late."

The subordinate blinked. "But... the side effects. Some of the trial subjects—"

Naehr’s face darkened.

"Some broke," he said quietly. "Yes. Some died. Others... mutated in ways I did not expect. But all revolutions require sacrifice. And those who fall first pave the way for those who will stand tall."

He placed one hand against the glass of the chamber.

"And they will stand. In time, every human being will wear this genome. Will be this genome."

Visit freewe𝑏n(o)v𝒆l.𝑐𝘰𝑚 for the best novel reading experience