<h4>Chapter 191: The Underground Lab II</h4>


    <strong><i>(Third Person).</i></strong>


    The hum of the venttion system droned through <strong>Section Nine</strong>, a low, steady whisper above the darker sounds: the asional groan from a cell, the metallic rasp of chains shifting, the drip... drip... drip... of unseen leaks.


    In the central corridor, under the flickering glow of overhead lights, two senior researchers stood, their clipboards pressed to their chests.


    Their coats were clean this morning, but under the crisp linen, the weight of months of failure hung around them like a funeral shroud.


    "Numbers are dropping too fast," murmured the taller one, Dr. Halvors, voice rough from too manyte nights. "We’ve lost four in thest cycle — organ failure before the second phase."


    "And now the Mayor has forbidden fresh captures without approval," added his colleague, Dr. Nera, fingers tightening around her pen until the knuckles nched.


    Halvors let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "Approval, we will never get. Brackham wants results but keeps our leash short."


    Nera turned, her gaze sweeping toward the reinforced doors that hid the tanks. "We still have the hybrids," she offered, though her tonecked conviction.


    "The hybrids are unstable," Halvors snapped, quieter this time, but sharp. "They die. They always die. We need living wolves to refine the serum."


    His eyes drifted to the corridor leading to the holding cells.


    "Which means," he continued, "we start making choices."


    They walked slowly toward the cells, the echo of their footsteps sharp against stone.


    "Which ones?" Nera asked, almost softly.


    Halvors flipped open his clipboard. "The older ones. The ones who resist the worst."


    Nera’s lips pressed into a thin line. "They will fight. They always fight."


    "Then sedate them harder," Halvors replied, unblinking. "They can’t help us if they die fighting. But if they live long enough for tissue samples, marrow draws, and neural mapping—"


    He trailed off, and they both knew what he meant: then maybe, just maybe, the hybrid program would produce something stable. Something marketable.


    They stopped before Cell 12 once again.


    Inside, the young male who had attacked the doctor earliery curled on the cold floor. His breath was ragged, shoulders trembling from exhaustion, but his eyes... his eyes still burned with defiance.


    "He nearly wed my assistant’s face off," Halvors muttered, scanning his notes.


    Nera studied the prisoner. "He’s strong. Rage like that can damage organs we need intact."


    "We don’t have the luxury to wait," Halvors countered. "And it’s not as if he’ll get gentler with time."


    He tapped the clipboard, voice t. "Put him on tomorrow’s list."


    Nera’s mouth tightened, but she nodded.


    They moved on, peering through barred windows into the other cells. Two captivesy almost motionless, chests barely rising. Another — an older female — sat hunched in the corner, golden eyes dull but not empty.


    Halvors raised an eyebrow. "And her?"


    Nera hesitated. "She’s quieter. Might survive longer."


    "Which makes her more useful. Not tomorrow — but soon," Halvors decided. He made a mark beside her number. "Use the loudest first."


    Behind them, one of the juniorb assistants, a boy who couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, lingered with a tray of vials.


    His face was pale, eyes fixed on the caged wolves. Sweat trickled from his hairline.


    "Problem, Levik?" Halvors asked without turning.


    Levik swallowed. "N-no, doctor."


    Halvors turned then, voice low and deliberate. "You remember your ce here, yes? Whatever pity you carry, leave it at the checkpoint."


    Levik lowered his gaze. "Yes, doctor."


    But as Halvors and Nera walked on, the young man let his eyes drift back to the werewolves.


    And for a moment, he wondered what it would feel like to be on the other side of the bars.


    ---


    Later, under the harsh glow of a hanging bulb in the record room, Halvors and Nera stood over a worn table littered with folders and diagrams.


    "These are the only living specimens we have left," Nera murmured,ying out the list.


    "Twelve total," Halvors counted. "Four strong enough for major extractions, the rest for smaller draws."


    Nera hesitated, her voice dropping. "Even if the serum stabilizes, we don’t have enough to move to Phase Four."


    Halvors’s gaze hardened. "Then make Phase Three work. We don’t have a choice."


    Outside, a distant ng of metal on stone echoed — the restless protest of a captive who refused to die quietly.


    ---


    Deep behind reinforced doors, a single hybrid floated in a tank, its silhouette warped by green-tinted fluid. Its chest rose, then stilled, then rose again.


    In a dark corner of theb, an older scientist stood alone, his coat stained at the cuffs, watching.


    "They were right to fear them," he whispered to himself, voice hoarse. "And wrong to think we could control them."


    His gaze dropped to the clipboard in his hand, where the heading read:


    <strong>Gic Bridge: Lupine-Human Prototype (HB-7)</strong>


    And under it, a single scrawled note:


    <i>Subject unstable. Termination rmended.</i>


    He hesitated — then crossed out "termination" and wrote:


    <i>Retain. Observe.</i>


    Because deep in his marrow, even the doctor feared what might happen if they pushed too far.


    But the fear of disappointing the Mayor, the Senators, the hidden backers... was greater still.


    ---


    As the night settled in Cell 12, the young werewolf stared at the bars, chest still rising and falling with slow, stubborn breaths.


    In the hall, the lights dimmed to half-strength, and silence crept through the stone passages like a living thing.


    Yet under that silence, hatred, pain, and a savage will stirred.


    One day, the captives would either break or the chains would.


    And somewhere above, in a mansion guarded by loyal wolves, Alpha Draven was nning how to find them.


    But tonight, in Section Nine, the monsters wore white coats.


    And the wolves, half-starved and chained, still dreamed of running free under moonlight.


    But their dreams can onlye true if their future King finds them quickly before the monsters in human form turn them all intoplete specimens that can never be reverted.


    Only if Draven had a little idea of how his people had been turned intob rats, he would have gone straight for Brackham and used him to find this ce.