1:02 AM — Geneva, Switzerland.
The halls of CERN were quiet except for the low hum of computers and the occasional flicker of a passing light. Everyone had gone home hours ago following the Swiss Federal Council's rare directive to shorten working hours. Everyone except Professor Karim Ziyech, who stood before his terminal, eyes wide, heartbeat increasing exponentially.
On the screen was a sequence of numbers and molecular patterns he'd been chasing for the past sixteen years — a bridge between human biology and machine computation. The missing link that could turn thought into command and life into code.
He froze, then slowly whispered,
"No way... no way…"
And then it hit him.
He threw his hands in the air and shouted,
"Eureka! I did it!"
Somewhere on the desk was an empty coffee mug, a stack of notes, and a half-eaten sandwich. His colleague, Dr. Martin Zayden, had already left, telling him not to kill himself over "that impossible key."
But impossible was Ziyech's favorite word.
Born in Khorramshahr during Iran's bloody war with Iraq, Ziyech was destined to be a loser in life. However a slight scholarship to University of Illinois after the war changed everything. He went on to graduate with a PhD in Bio-Molecular Engineering and landing a job with globally coveted research center CERN — one of Europe leading scientific facilities.
He laughed — the kind of laugh that only comes after years of failure and one accidental success. But the laugh died out quickly when the lab lights flickered.
He felt a bad premonition. Being an extremist Muslim and a frequent guest in Mecca, he was one that considered this type of signs as omens when it happened during good times.
He frowned, glancing toward the main door. The security cameras blinked red, then black. The hum of the servers stopped, and all he could hear was his own breathing.
Ziyech reached for his phone. He dialed a string of numbers and hit the call button. However before he could utter a sentence, the door slid open.
Four men in black stepped in — faces hidden, movements too synchronized to be local police. Ziyech had come in contact with nearby Swiss police officers and he had just one description for them: They were fat and incompetent. The first fired a tranquilizer dart. Ziyech gasped, stumbling backward as the world blurred around him.
As he fell, his hand hit the keyboard. The last thing he saw before the lights went out was the file name flashing across the screen:
THE NEURAL KEY — FINAL PROTOTYPE
When the security team arrived at 6:30 AM, there was no trace of Professor Ziyech, no blood, no broken glass. Just an empty chair, a cup of cold coffee, and a screen that kept looping one message:
"Transfer Complete."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
4:09 PMState University of New York – Main Quad
Napat Ratana walked briskly through the crowded quad, nodding at a few familiar faces but not stopping. She didn't want to get home late today. Her lectures had ended early, which was a small mercy after the past week of back-to-back classes that left her relying on takeout for dinner.
A student she knew for his cheekiness gave her a wink. She started to smile back, but her expression froze.
The air around her seemed to heat up by a hundred degrees in an instant. The instincts she had spent years trying to suppress kicked in without warning. One moment she was in the open, and the next she was behind a tree, barely dodging a bullet that slammed into the bark with a sharp crack.
Time slowed for her. She could feel the vibration in the wood, hear the faint whistle of air as the projectile tore past. Every calculation her mind had suppressed in ordinary life resurfaced instinctively: angles, distance, speed. Her heart pounded, but her focus was sharper than ever.
How did they find her? she thought furiously. It was impossible. She had hidden her tracks better than anyone. Even The Shadow Psalms, for all their efficiency, weren't supposed to be this precise. But were they? The thought felt almost ironic, coming from someone who had once sat at the helm of the organization's darkest operations.
Ruthlessly pushing these doubts aside, she traced the trajectory of the shot. The angle, the position—it was textbook sniper work. Not just accurate, but clinical. Without hesitation, she sprinted. Her stride ate up the pavement, long legs moving in smooth, hurried rhythm. To the oblivious students around her, it looked like an ordinary hurried walk, but inside, every muscle, every sense, was primed for survival.
She followed the bullet's path and arrived at the pavement where it had struck. Everything was wiped clean. No shell casing, no disturbance, no trace of the marksman. Whoever it was, was a veteran, no doubt. Napat exhaled sharply, letting out a sound that was half frustration, half calculation.
She pushed forward, eyes scanning, mind calculating. Her chase led her to an open doorway.
On the other end, Dmitri—code name V-Psalm 53—was sprinting like a man possessed toward a waiting car. Every step deliberate, every glance toward the path he had taken. He was counting on her noticing. After all, she wasn't just anyone. She was Pandora, one of the most dreaded ex-mercenaries the West had ever produced.
As Dmitri reached for the door handle, Napat emerged from the campus library's exit, moving like her shoe didn't have heels. She turned just in time to see a yellow taxi tear down the street, carrying the predator turned prey.
Before reaching her car, she paused. A quick, methodical check: doors locked, tires intact, mirrors positioned. A habit drilled into her over years of necessity. Her hands ran over the metal, lifted the hood slightly to scan the engine, eyes darting for any unusual movement.
For a moment, a prickling sense crawled up her spine, the hair at the back of her neck standing on end. Someone was watching. Someone, somewhere. She froze, listening, scanning. Nothing. Shaking off the feeling, she slid into the driver's seat.
However, she knew it would be foolish to continue giving chase. The Shadow Psalms were not your everyday enemy. The organization was so ruthless that even President Shane Cosby had to think twice before crossing their interests. She didn't know what awaited that taxi.
Slowly but calmly, she started the engine of her black Chevrolet and drove toward home, carrying with her the cold dread that her once peaceful life was coming to an end.