The air in Silverport’s Free Press newsroom was thick with the scent of stale coffee and frantic energy. For Sarah Jenkins, it was the smell of truth, a tangible thing she was desperately trying to grasp before it slipped through her fingers. Her desk, a chaotic island of notepads, printed emails, and a half-eaten sandwich, was the command center for an investigation that had consumed her. Edward Collins and his corporate enforcer, Alistair Crane, were no longer just names in a file; they were specters haunting the city’s underbelly, and she was getting closer to their lair.Her latest breakthrough was a whisper from a terrified lab tech, a woman who’d spoken of irregularities at Crane’s primary research facility, ‘GenoDyne Innovations.’ The whispers spoke of corners cut, safety protocols ignored, and a new, highly lucrative “nutraceutical” being fast-tracked to market with data that was, in the tech’s words, “too beautiful to be true.” It was the kind of story that could make a caree

The world celebrated. Howard Crane, the bioterrorist, the architect of the Ghost Fever, was a phantom. His empire was ash, his name a global curse. The news cycles, so long saturated with dread, now played on a loop of triumph. The Kronos Facility footage was the nail in his coffin, the final, grotesque proof of his inhumanity. The manhunt was the largest in history, a planet-wide net cast for a ghost.In Aegis Haven, they held a memorial service for Sarah Blake. It was attended by thousands, both in person and via live-stream. They spoke of her courage, her tenacity, her unwavering pursuit of truth. She was posthumously awarded every journalistic and humanitarian honor the world could muster. She was a martyr, a hero.Reuben stood at the podium, the eyes of the world upon him. He spoke the expected words—of bravery, of sacrifice, of a light extinguished too soon. His voice was steady, his composure absolute. But inside, he was a cavern of silence. The words felt like stones dropped i

The great gates of Aegis Haven closed behind him with a final, hydraulic sigh, sealing away the ghost of his family and the screaming urgency of the command center. Reuben was alone in the driver's seat of a heavily laden HON supply truck, its cargo bay packed with the last reserves of the experimental antiviral and basic medical gear. The rain had not ceased; it fell in thick, grey sheets, turning the world into a blur of asphalt and misery.He had made the calculation. The airlift into Capital Heights was underway, but the city's periphery—the sprawling suburbs and forgotten industrial towns—would be cut off, left to drown in the plague. The centralized response was a scalpel; he was now a blunt instrument, heading for the places the strategy had deemed expendable.But as he navigated the slick, dark roads, the mission was a distant abstraction. The only thing that was real, the only thing that burned with more intensity than the Ghost Fever alerts pinging on the truck’s console, wa

The chamber of the United Nations General Assembly was a universe of muted gold and green, a cavern designed for the slow, grinding speech of nations. Today, it was silent, a collective breath held. Every seat was filled. Delegates from every recognized nation on Earth stared down at the single figure standing at the simple wooden podium. Cameras from every global network focused on him, beaming his image to billions. In the VIP gallery, Anna, Liam, and what remained of the HON’s inner circle watched, their faces tight with a mixture of pride and terror.Reuben Stone looked smaller than he was, a man diminished by the scale of the room and the weight of the moment. He wore a simple, dark suit, a concession to the formality of the occasion, but it hung loosely on his frame. The chronic toll of the Sacrifice Points was no longer a private agony; it was etched into the new lines on his face, visible in the slight, persistent tremor in his left hand as he placed his notes on the podium. H

The structured debate had done nothing to quell the fundamental schism Reuben’s confession had created. It had merely polished the arguments, sanding down the raw, emotional edges into sharp, diplomatic weapons. The world had spent seventy-two hours in a fever dream of analysis, and now it was time for the fever to break. The General Assembly was reconvened for a special session, the air thick with the grim finality of a verdict.Reuben was recalled to the chamber. He stood again at the podium, but the man who had spoken days before seemed like a ghost. The tremor in his hand was more pronounced, a visible testament to his claims. The hollows under his eyes were darker. He was the living evidence of his own testimony, a walking, breathing price tag.The Assembly President, a seasoned diplomat from Ghana, spoke with a voice weighed down by history. “Professor Stone,” he began, the formality a shield against the unprecedented nature of the moment. “This body has heard your testimony. We