CEO loves me with all his soul.-Chapter 122. Facility 12

The walls of the underground testing sector were gray and quiet, thickly insulated and far below any place the sun could reach. No windows. No clocks. Just humming machines and flickering biometric scanners. A sterile world where time bled into nothing and people ceased to be people — just data points, failed variables, or if they were lucky... something useful.

Doctor Naehr entered with the calm confidence of a god in his own temple.

His long silver hair was tied back today, fastened with a dark clip shaped like a helix. His lab coat hung pristine, not a wrinkle out of place. He walked with hands behind his back, flanked by two assistants in black uniforms. Both avoided his gaze. Everyone did.

Rows of observation chambers lined the corridor, each one with a thick glass wall and a sealed door. Most were silent. Some weren’t.

"Status of Subject 32?" Naehr asked, pausing before one chamber.

"Cell degradation reached phase three," the assistant replied, pulling up a tablet. "Subject’s skin has begun to flake. Internal organs show strain. Cognitive patterns are... unstable."

Inside the glass, a figure lay on the floor, twitching occasionally. A woman — or rather, what used to be one. Her eyes were glazed, mouth parted in some silent plea or scream. Her skin shimmered faintly under the lights, like something metallic lurked just beneath the surface.

Naehr leaned in, observing her with detached fascination.

"Mutation overtaking faster than predicted," he muttered. "Unstable reactions to genome pairs A7 and C3. Hm."

He made a note on the console.

"Dispose of her. And draw marrow samples before full collapse."

The assistant hesitated. "Doctor... she’s still breathing."

"And?" Naehr turned, one black brow arched.

The assistant dropped their gaze and nodded. "Yes, Doctor."

Naehr moved on, gliding down the corridor.

They passed another chamber. A child this time — ten, maybe twelve — sitting quietly in the corner, arms curled around his knees. His eyes were hollow. His hair had fallen out in uneven clumps. But he was breathing. Alive. For now.

Naehr stopped.

"Subject 45. Adaptive latency remarkable. He’s taken four times the dosage of the previous batch."

"Yes, Doctor," said the second assistant. "Early resistance is high. He’s—he’s almost... normal."

A rare flicker of delight crossed Naehr’s face.

"Keep him."

He smiled thinly at the boy behind the glass. "You may be the prototype."

Then came the sealed room at the very end — an observation dome larger than the others. Inside, five adult subjects were strapped to upright examination chairs, IV lines in both arms. Monitors beeped, projecting brainwave patterns, vitals, and a slowly counting sequence labeled GENOME MERGE RATE.

"Begin Test Set 19-A," Naehr ordered.

A technician inside the dome pressed a button.

The liquid from the vials — that same glowing silver essence — began to drip through the IV lines. The subjects tensed. One began to shake. Another whimpered softly, the sound muffled by the glass.

Naehr watched with unnerving stillness.

"Pulse spike. Heart rate irregular," a technician announced. "Subject 2 showing early aggression response."

"Interesting," Naehr murmured. "Emotion amplification. Could be useful in controlled soldiers."

Subject 2 began to scream — not in fear, but in rage. He jerked against the restraints violently, veins bulging at the neck. His eyes turned an unnatural shade, flickering with reflected silver.

Moments later, Subject 3 slumped forward. Flatline.

"Record and tag," Naehr said simply.

The others were still alive. Still mutating.

He tapped the glass gently, amused.

"You’re doing good work," he said to no one and everyone. "When the world sees what you become, they’ll beg for it. They’ll beg to be rewritten."

A long silence followed. The monitors ticked on.

One of the assistants swallowed hard. "Doctor, the international inquiry... if this is discovered—"

"It won’t be," Naehr said. "And if it is, by then it won’t matter. We won’t need to hide. Because by then, we’ll be the only ones left."

He turned and walked away, the shadows swallowing him as if the facility itself was eager to protect its maker.

And behind him, in the glass chambers, humanity was being unraveled—one strand at a time.

-

Sunlight pooled gently on the wide windowsill, filtered through soft gauze curtains. The aroma of fresh coffee mingled with a faint citrus tang of oranges, and the faint sizzle of bacon echoed from the kitchen island. The hotel suite was quiet except for the rustle of fabric and the occasional sound of dishes being shifted.

Ethan stood barefoot in the kitchenette, dressed in a silky black robe that hung open just enough to reveal smooth, sculpted muscle and a trail of dark hair down his chest. He was cooking — or more accurately, managing not to burn toast while looking far too attractive doing it.

Adrian padded in from the bedroom, his own robe loosely tied, hair slightly messy and his silver eyes still drowsy with sleep. He looked like a dream painted in soft watercolor — porcelain-pale skin kissed by the morning light, and the kind of delicate grace that belonged in a moonlit painting rather than a kitchen.

"You’re up earlier than usual," Adrian murmured, voice still husky.

Ethan glanced over his shoulder, flashing a grin. "You left my arms, dove. I had no choice but to rise and mourn your absence."

Adrian flushed, brushing a hand over his face. "You’re being dramatic."

"I’m always dramatic when I’m in love and hungry." Ethan turned back to the stovetop. "Also, the eggs were calling."

Adrian walked closer, peering curiously at the contents of the counter. "What are you making?"

"Toast, eggs, bacon, and I’m slicing some fruit. Nothing fancy." He paused. "I was going to make pancakes but then remembered you hate sweet things in the morning."

Adrian blinked. "You remembered that?"

Ethan scoffed lightly. "Of course I did. You looked personally offended that one time I gave you syrup. Like I had insulted your ancestors."

Adrian let out a small laugh. "You drenched it. The pancakes were swimming in it."

"It was flavor, Adrian," Ethan argued, mock-offended. "And syrup is a sign of love. A symbol of generosity."

"I prefer rice porridge with pickled vegetables. Or just soft bread and boiled eggs."

Ethan made a face. "That’s not breakfast. That’s a punishment from a strict grandmother."

Adrian rolled his eyes and leaned back against the kitchen counter, watching him. "I like simple things."

Ethan reached for a knife to slice a mango. "That’s what I like about you. You’re the simplest complicated person I’ve ever met."

Adrian narrowed his eyes. "That sentence makes no sense."

"It does in my heart." Ethan placed the sliced mango on a plate and winked. "Besides, I need contrast. My breakfast taste is as dramatic as my personality. You’ve seen me. Croissants. Cappuccino. Fruit compote. I want a painting on a plate."

"You also once ate spicy sausage rolls with black coffee and said it was ’reviving your soul.’"

"That was soul-reviving," Ethan said, almost wistfully. "Spice is power. And breakfast is the throne room."

Adrian leaned over to inspect the food. "Is that... paprika on the eggs?"

"Smoked paprika," Ethan said proudly. "And a little pepper. You’ll love it."

Adrian took a cautious bite of egg from the plate and chewed thoughtfully. His brows lifted. "...It’s actually good."

"I’ll ignore the shock in your voice," Ethan replied, bringing two mugs of coffee over to the table. "Sit down. Let me serve you like the spoiled spouse you are."

Adrian sat, folding his legs beneath him neatly. "You always act like you’re spoiling me, but I distinctly remember you stealing my coffee yesterday morning."

"I was testing it for poison."

"You drank the whole cup."

"Deep testing," Ethan said solemnly, handing over the coffee and brushing a kiss to Adrian’s temple.

They ate quietly for a moment, soft clinks of cutlery and shared glances across the table. It was the kind of silence only people who trusted each other deeply could share — comfortable and full.

Adrian broke the silence a few moments later.

"You don’t like runny yolks, do you?"

Ethan made a face. "No. It feels like I’m committing an edible crime. Eggs should be fluffy and cooked. Not... weeping."

"I like them runny," Adrian said with a smirk.

"I know." Ethan reached across the table and mock-shielded his plate. "But I will never allow your yolk to touch my toast."

Adrian rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the soft curve of his smile.

Ethan sipped his coffee and then added, "You know what I really can’t understand? Cold breakfasts. Those muesli cups or... green smoothies."

"I like green smoothies," Adrian said defensively.

"They taste like guilt."

"They’re healthy!"

"They taste like something that died and came back for revenge."

Adrian laughed so suddenly he had to cover his mouth. "You’re impossible."

Ethan leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased. "And yet you married me. Now you’re stuck with my breakfast sermons forever."

Adrian sipped his coffee and gave him a sidelong glance. "You like feeding me more than eating sometimes."

"Is that a complaint?" Ethan asked innocently.

Adrian shook his head. "Just an observation."

"I like watching you enjoy things," Ethan said, quieter now. "Even boring eggs."

Adrian looked up, meeting his gaze.

"You make mornings feel real," Ethan added. "Even after everything."

Adrian’s voice was soft. "You do that for me too."

They sat there a moment longer, their hands brushing slightly between coffee mugs, breakfast plates now half-empty and the tension of yesterday’s dangers pushed just slightly to the edge.

A sliver of peace. Warmth. Normalcy. A morning for two people who never thought they’d have it.

And even in the ordinary, their love was extraordinary.

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