The entire restaurant fell dead silent when my daughter ran across the marble floor and threw her arms around a complete stranger.

The facility of Apex Bio-Tech was located in the industrial tech corridor of Meyrin, just three miles from the French border. It was a stunning piece of modern architecture—a four-story cube constructed entirely of white concrete and reinforced smart-glass that adjusted its opacity based on the angle of the sun.

Surrounding the complex was a ten-foot perimeter wall fitted with motion sensors and thermal cameras.

Nolan brought our rented van to a stop in a wooded cul-de-sac three hundred yards from the facility's rear service entrance.

"The thermal perimeter is active," Nolan reported, monitoring a handheld frequency scanner. "They have private security guards stationed at the main gate and two patrols sweeping the internal courtyard. Standard corporate defense setup."

"How do we get inside?" Evelyn asked from the seat behind us. She was wearing a dark navy utility jacket Nolan had provided, her hair tied back tightly. She had refused to stay behind at the airport hangar, threatening to walk to Meyrin herself if we left her behind.

"Through the cold-chain logistics tunnel," I said, pointing to a blue print of the building displayed on my tablet. "Apex receives daily liquid nitrogen deliveries for their cryogenic storage units through an underground service bay. The delivery vehicle arrives every morning at six-fifteen."

I checked my watch. 6:08 AM.

"Nolan, disable the delivery driver discreetly," I instructed. "We take the vehicle through the subterranean gate."

Five minutes later, the blue cryogenic tank truck pulled up to the security barrier at the rear gate. Nolan was behind the wheel, wearing the driver’s high-vis yellow jacket and baseball cap, while Evelyn and I were concealed in the narrow utility compartment behind the driver's cab.

The security guard stepped out of his booth, clipboard in hand, barely glancing at the truck’s logo before scanning the barcode on the side of the vehicle.

The gate hummed open, and the truck rolled down the concrete ramp into the subterranean basement.

The service bay was cold, smelling of diesel exhaust and super-cooled gas. The moment the truck came to a halt beside the main intake valve, Nolan cut the engine, slipped out of the cab, and neutralized the two bay technicians with swift, non-lethal strikes before they could press the alarm button on the wall.

"Bay clear," Nolan whispered through his tactical earpiece.

Evelyn and I dropped out of the utility compartment onto the cold concrete floor.

"Which floor is Keller’s primary laboratory?" Evelyn asked, her voice steady despite the high stakes.

"Sub-level two," I said, leading them toward the heavy steel blast doors marked CLINICAL DEVELOPMENT - RESTRICTED ACCESS.

I pulled an encrypted keycard reader from my pocket—a device my tech team had programmed using the access codes recovered from Helena’s old corporate files—and pressed it against the door's digital lock.

The red LED light flickered twice, turned green, and the heavy pneumatic lock disengaged with a loud hiss.

We stepped into sub-level two.

The corridor was blindingly white, illuminated by bright LED panels recessed into the ceiling. On either side of the hall were floor-to-ceiling glass walls exposing sterile research laboratories filled with centrifuges, gene-sequencing equipment, and rows of stainless steel incubation tanks.

And sitting at a central desk in the middle of the main laboratory, reviewing digital brain scans on a massive curved monitor, was Dr. Matthias Keller.

He looked older than he had in the photographs—his silver hair cropped short, his tailored lab coat pristine, his expression calm and intellectual.

I stepped through the sliding glass door of the lab, my shoes silent on the rubberized flooring.

"Dr. Keller," I said softly.

Keller didn't jump. He slowly leaned back in his leather chair, pulled off his gold-rimmed reading glasses, and set them gently on the desk beside his monitor.

"Victor," Keller said, his voice smooth, cultured, and entirely devoid of surprise. "I was wondering how long it would take you to follow the breadcrumbs from Bern."