"Recently, Umbrella has brought in a new shareholder. From the intel provided by our people inside, this individual seems to be a very important figure. Some of Umbrella's staff have already been injected with something called the R-1 Serum. It grants them incredible strength, speed, endurance… What do you make of this?"
"Sir, we've investigated this person before. He seems… clean."
The middle-aged man in a suit, seated at the head of the table, slammed his palm against the desk.
"Clean? Seems? But? That's the answer you're giving me? Do you know what the President said about me?"
"He said Congress allocates us a mountain of funding every year, and we spend it all at strip clubs watching pole dancers. God, I don't even know what the hell a pole dance is supposed to be!"
His eyes narrowed, his voice biting with rage.
"Find out everything. I want to know exactly what this R-1 Serum is. If you have to steal it, then steal it. If the intel is true, something like this—left in the hands of a private corporation—is too dangerous."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes."
This was the FIB headquarters. And he, the director of the FIB, was scolded like trash by that brain-dead President every single day.
Shit. In the end, only what's in your hands is real.
He glanced at the green vial in his palm—the very R-1 Serum he had just been ranting about. Why did he have it? Simple. Umbrella had delivered it to him.
And perhaps this vial wasn't the only one circulating among the White Eagle government's inner circle. What exactly was Umbrella planning?
He wasn't foolish enough to tempt fate. To climb this high, you couldn't be an idiot. He knew: if he handed this serum over recklessly, he might not live to see another sunrise.
"Damn… No wonder that Twitter-obsessed idiot of a President wants this. Power… right at your fingertips."
The sensation was intoxicating, like his youth had been returned to him. And they said it could even extend one's lifespan?
"Doctor, we've arrived."
Jon looked down from the aircraft. Las Vegas. Perfect for his needs—perched on the desert's edge, bathed in relentless sunlight, far removed from bustling cities.
The base's water was piped in from far away, and in the event of a biohazard outbreak, this facility—second only to the Antarctic Base—would be one of the safest places on Earth.
As he stepped off the plane, the scorching air rushed against him. Yet he felt no discomfort. Standing beneath the blazing sun, it was as if he were soaking in a warm spring—gentle, rejuvenating.
The universe favored Kryptonians. And the yellow sun was the first key to unlocking their evolution.
"Begin the transfer."
"Yes, Doctor."
Teams of workers began unloading supplies into the base. They moved through a hidden entrance disguised as a small house—inside, a massive platform served as a freight elevator large enough to lower even a helicopter underground. And this was merely one of the smaller access points.
The primary entrance, newly completed, spanned dozens of meters—wide enough to bring in an entire starship.
"Will the underground chambers still have sunlight?"
"Of course, Doctor," an assistant replied instantly. "Our construction crews have already built systems to redirect sunlight from the surface, exactly as you specified."
"And security?"
"The Las Vegas facility has security equal to any other base, though fewer personnel. Still, we've purchased all the surrounding desert. Normally, no one should ever come near."
Jon nodded. "Good. And the supplies?"
"All delivered, Doctor. The warehouse is fully stocked."
"And research personnel?"
The assistant hesitated. "Um… orders from HQ said… Doctor declined too many personnel from joining this base."
Jon's lips curved slightly. "Indeed. That was my request. Enough. Let's go down. And one more thing—have all security personnel injected with the R-1 Serum. I don't want interruptions."
"Understood, Doctor. I'll have White Queen handle it."
White Queen? Jon almost forgot about that program. White Queen was also an artificial intelligence—a strong one, but still far beneath the Hive's Red Queen. The Red Queen could almost be considered a digital lifeform, with her own logic and autonomy.
White Queen… wasn't the same. No matter how clever, she remained bound by her human-coded parameters. That, in itself, could become a liability.
"Welcome, Dr. Jon," White Queen's holographic projection materialized before him. "I have received orders. From now on, the Las Vegas base will be under your command."
"My thanks."
"Doctor, the newly constructed sub-base has been fully outfitted with monitoring equipment as per company protocol."
Jon nodded. The sub-base—an underground annex recently excavated—was connected to this main facility. It would serve as the cradle for his future experiments… and for breeding Kryptonians.
Back in his office, Jon called out:
"White Queen."
"I am here, Doctor."
"Open your core code to me."
"Verifying… Dr. Jon, Level 8 clearance, verified."
"Unlocking core code now."
Lines of raw code streamed across the monitors. Jon's computer linked directly to White Queen's server. His fingers flew, rewriting, overriding.
"White Queen, reboot."
Bzzzt—! Light flickered out, then returned three seconds later. The hologram reappeared.
"Dr. Jon."
"Reset all authority. Hide me as the supreme administrator. Keep all other settings unchanged. From now on, if anyone requests data on this base, notify me first."
"Command acknowledged."
From that moment on, the entire facility—every circuit, every subsystem—was his.
"Show me the base."
And what he saw impressed him beyond expectation. Umbrella's engineering was unparalleled: an underground complex carved out a kilometer beneath the desert. Independent power grids. Water purification. Air recycling. Every system screamed of immense wealth and technology.
The injection of the R-1 Serum into the security force was a sight to behold. Over two hundred guards in total. With their new enhancements, they could probably win a mid-scale war outright. And that was without counting the heavy arsenal at their disposal—attack helicopters, armored vehicles, stockpiles of advanced weaponry.
Jon smirked. Lavish. Reckless. Perfect.
"Andrei, how are things?"
The grizzled ex-soldier straightened immediately at Jon's approach. Like most of the guards, he was a veteran, fiercely loyal to strength. And everything here—the serum, the enhancements, the power—was because of Jon.
"Doctor, everything is stable. It's just…"
"Just what?"
Andrei cast a subtle glance toward the back, then leaned in to whisper:
"Mr. Kal-El seems unhappy with so many doses of the R-1 Serum being used on the guards."
Kal-El? Jon recalled him—an Umbrella middle manager, placed here by higher-ups.
It made sense. R-1 wasn't publicly available. Only senior executives and top labs had access. For this entire garrison to be fully injected was unheard of. After all, Jon was the only one capable of producing the serum.
"Did you tell him this was my order?"
"I did, Doctor. But he insists the serum is company property and shouldn't be wasted on security."
Jon smiled thinly. "I see. Bring Kal-El to the lab. I'll handle his concerns personally."
Andrei blinked. "Doctor… which lab?"
"The isolation lab."
A dangerous glint crossed Andrei's eyes. He grinned, then hid it quickly. The good Doctor might look calm, but anyone with sense knew: he could be terrifying when crossed.
Everyone at Umbrella knew what the isolation labs were for—studies of contagious agents. And the most infamous contagious agent of them all… was the T-Virus.
Minutes later, Kal-El found himself bound to an operating table. His protests fell on deaf ears.
"Doctor, this isn't R-1. What are you doing?"
Jon's voice came cold and measured through the speaker.
"Kal-El, this is R-2. I think you'll find it… unforgettable."
Kal-El's eyes widened at the sight of the blue vial. He knew. Everyone at Umbrella knew. Green was R-1. Blue was infamous. The T-Virus.
"No—you can't! I have Level 6 clearance. If you kill me, you'll—"
"Level 8 trumps Level 6."
The machine drove the syringe into his artery. The blue liquid surged. Normally, T-Virus infection took hours. But injected straight into the carotid… it would be minutes.
Jon turned to Andrei. "Record this: 'Supervisor Kal-El, for the future of the company, volunteered to become infected with the T-Virus as test material.'"
"Yes, Doctor."
As Kal-El's screams filled the chamber, Andrei and the others exchanged looks. None dared question Jon again. Respect—or fear—was etched into every gaze.
From this moment on, the young doctor's authority was absolute.