Anton stood beside his sister in the sterile glow of her lab, the air thick with the hum of machinery and unspoken questions. The screen before them pulsed with data—lines of code, blood markers, genetic flags flashing in a pattern he didn’t yet understand, but she did. Loila didn’t speak. She just watched him, her arms folded tightly, waiting for the moment it would all register.
He blinked once. Twice. Turned, paced to the far wall, then came back to stare at the screen again, as if proximity might somehow change the result.
“How accurate is this?” His voice was calm but taut, like a wire drawn tight between two towers. Loila gave him a long look.
“I’m insulted you’d even ask.” He didn’t blink. She sighed. “I’m 99.99% certain. And that’s me being humble.” Anton’s eyes didn’t move from
