*Dr. Karen Dergors*
The warehouse smelled like fear and motor oil. Karen's hands wouldn't stop shaking as she walked through the door, both briefcases weighing her down like anchors. She'd changed clothes three times before coming, as if the right outfit could somehow protect her. Stupid. Nothing could protect her now.
"Dr. Dergors." The voice came from the shadows, smooth as aged whiskey. "Punctual. I appreciate that in a business partner."
A man stepped into the circle of light cast by a single hanging bulb. Mid-thirties, dark skin, wearing a suit that probably cost more than she made in a month. But it was his eyes that made her stomach clench—they held the kind of calm that came from absolute certainty of power.
"Mr. Parsons, I presume?" Her voice only cracked a little.
"Boz." He smiled, and it almost reached his eyes. "My mother was the only one who called me Alvin, and she's been gone five years now. Please, sit."
The metal folding chair scraped against concrete as she pulled it out. Around them, shapes moved in the darkness. She counted at least six, maybe more. The smart thing would be to give him the real formula, save her family, deal with the consequences later.
But she kept thinking about Chris Jergenson—she'd seen his medical records during her research phase. Normal guy, fast-food manager, type O negative blood that would metabolize Chance faster than most. If Boz flooded the streets with her drug, how many Chris Jergensons would there be? How many would die when their bodies couldn't handle the strain?
"You brought what I asked for?" Boz sat across from her, movements fluid. He'd been trained, she realized. Military maybe, or just streets that demanded perfection.
"I brought two versions." The truth tumbled out before she could stop it. "One real, one flawed. I haven't decided which to give you yet."
His laugh was genuine, delighted even. "Honest. I like that too. Tell me, Doctor, what would it take to get the real one?"
"Guarantee my family's safety. Permanently. And..." She swallowed hard. "Limit distribution. No kids. No pregnant women. Basic safety protocols."
"You think I'm a monster?" He leaned back, studying her. "My sister was fifteen when she got pregnant. Baby daddy was a werewolf, thought it was funny to leave his mark on human girls. She tried to carry to term but her body couldn't handle it. Bled out in my arms while the paramedics stood outside, waiting for supernatural backup that never came."
Karen didn't know what to say to that.
"I don't sell to kids," Boz continued. "Bad business. As for pregnant women, most of my customers can't afford prenatal vitamins, let alone designer drugs. But I'll make you a deal—you give me the real formula, plus your expertise when we need it, and I'll follow whatever safety protocols you want. Within reason."
"And my family?"
"Under my protection. Anyone touches them, they answer to me." His voice carried the weight of prophecy. "But you work for me now. Exclusively."
She thought of Mitchell, who wouldn't even take her calls. Of Stevens, in three different dumpsters. Of Melissa, walking to school tomorrow morning.
"The briefcase on the left," she whispered.
Boz smiled and gestured to one of his men. "Marcus, take the good doctor home. Make sure she gets there safe. Dr. Dergors, someone will contact you tomorrow about setting up a lab. Oh, and one more thing."
She paused at the door.
"That detective who called you. Hyatt. Stay away from her. She's smart, dedicated, and completely inflexible. Bad combination for people like us."
People like us. Karen wanted to vomit. But she just nodded and followed Marcus out into the night, leaving her life's work in the hands of a man who'd burn the world if it meant his people could finally stand tall in the ashes.
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