Cyrus stood motionless at the floor-to-ceiling windows, his silhouette carved against Feilun's glittering skyline.
His suit jacket hung abandoned over his chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows like a war general surveying battlefield wreckage.
Kane slumped on the leather couch, tablet balanced on his knees as medical data scrolled endlessly across the screen.
Every chart, every graph, every clinical note hammered home the same brutal truth.
Two weeks.
"The binding agent's molecular structure is unlike anything in our databases," Kane read aloud, his voice hoarse from hours of research.
"Synthetic compounds interfacing with spirit essence at the cellular level. Creating unprecedented fusion reactions."
His thumb swiped through another page of technical jargon that might as well have been written in ancient draconic.
"Translation: we're screwed."
Cyrus's reflection ghosted across the darkening glass, his red-gold eyes burning with frustrated intensity.
