Late one evening, she sat at her desk, writing down her latest notes when a knock at her door made her freeze.

No one should be here.

Her pulse didn’t quicken, nor did her breath hitch. She merely set her pen down, expression cool and unreadable as she stood.

Another knock.

Firm. Measured.

Not urgent.

Not random.

Yazmina opened the door.

Mr. Leith Pierre stood before her.

He studied her for a moment, his sharp gaze sweeping over her as if searching for something.

“Good evening, Dr. De la Vega.” His voice was calm, but there was an underlying weight to it. “I thought I’d check in on you.”

Yazmina didn’t blink. “I wasn’t aware I needed to be checked on.”

Pierre offered his usual lecherous smile. “You’ve been… focused lately. More than usual as Crane said.” He tilted his head. “It’s commendable. But I also know how easy it is to become distracted by certain curiosities.”

A test.

A warning.

Yazmina met his gaze, her expression giving nothing away. “I assure you, my priorities haven’t changed.”

Leith held her stare for a moment longer, then gave a slow nod.

“Good,” he said. “I’d hate for anything to disrupt our work.”

And with that, he turned, disappearing down the hall.

Yazmina shut the door softly, her hand lingering on the handle for a second longer than necessary.

Then, she turned her head slightly—just enough to glance at the small enclosure on her desk.

The scorpion hadn’t moved.

But she knew it had been listening.

Her lips curled into the faintest smirk.

“Seems like we’re both running out of time.”

---

The walls were closing in.

Yazmina had always known she was walking a delicate line, but now, it seemed, others were beginning to take notice.

Somewhere deep in the facility, behind closed doors and beneath the ever-present hum of fluorescent lighting, a conversation took place—one that she wasn’t meant to hear.

Leith Pierre sat at the head of the table, fingers interlocked as he regarded the man across from him. His usual composed demeanor was tinged with something sharper tonight—an edge of scrutiny, of controlled unease.

Doctor Wallace Crane stood at attention, arms crossed, a patient yet knowing look on his face.

Eddie Ritterman leaned forward, his voice lowering. “She’s hiding something.”

Pierre exhaled slowly, tapping a precise rhythm against the metal tabletop. “Dr. Yazmina has always been an exceptional researcher. Brilliant, methodical. But lately…” His gaze darkened slightly. “Her behavior is changing.”

“She’s been avoiding unnecessary interactions,” Eddie continued. “Staying in the lab longer than scheduled, spending less time in communal areas, and there was an incident—she was seen leaving one of the specimen containment areas at an unusual hour. The logs don’t match up with her supposed tasks.”

Crane remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Pierre’s gaze flickered to him. “You know her well enough, don’t you?”

A measured nod. “She’s disciplined,” Crane admitted. “Efficient. And not one to waste time on trivial matters.” A pause. “If she’s hiding something, it’s not without reason.”

Eddie scoffed. “That’s exactly what concerns us.”

Pierre sighed, tilting his head slightly. “The last thing we need is another liability.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then—

“Keep an eye on her.”

Crane’s brow lifted ever so slightly. “Surveillance?”

“Discretion,” Pierre corrected smoothly. “If there’s nothing to be concerned about, then this conversation never happened. But if she’s compromised in any way…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

Crane studied him for a moment before offering a slow, understanding nod.

“I’ll handle it.”

With that, the decision was made.

And unbeknownst to Yazmina, the hunt had already begun.

---

Yazmina sat at her desk, eyes fixed on the scorpion inside the temporary enclosure. Its dark, segmented body remained still, claws twitching ever so slightly. For days, she had been testing its behavior—watching, waiting, trying to understand what made it so different from the others.

It had killed every insect she placed inside. Swift, precise, but never consuming them. As if it had no interest in ordinary prey.

Her fingers lightly traced the glass edge.

“What are you waiting for?” she murmured.

The scorpion remained motionless.

Yazmina sighed and leaned back, her gaze narrowing. If it wouldn’t eat insects, then what would it eat?

Her eyes flickered down to her hand, where a faint scratch from an earlier test still lingered.

A thought struck her.

It was ridiculous.

But…

Slowly, she reached out, pressing her fingertips against the glass. A drop of blood smeared across the surface.

The reaction was instant.

The scorpion’s stillness shattered. Its body jerked forward, claws scraping against the glass as it lunged toward her hand. It wasn’t mindless aggression—no, this was something else.

It was drawn to her.

Her pulse quickened.

She hesitated only for a second before lowering her fingers just slightly—just close enough.

In a flash, the scorpion’s pincers latched onto her skin. Its movements were controlled, deliberate. It didn’t sting her. Didn’t wound her further.

It simply fed.

A slow smirk tugged at Yazmina’s lips.

---

She hadn’t even realized how many small cuts had accumulated on her hands until she stepped out of her dormitory.

The wounds stung faintly, thin lines of red tracing over her fingers like forgotten ink marks. She had been too caught up in her research to notice. Too consumed by discovery.

But someone else noticed.

A firm grip suddenly caught her wrist.

Yazmina’s body tensed as she was pulled to a stop. She didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Harley Sawyer’s voice was calm—too calm. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”

She met his gaze evenly. His usual detached expression was marred by something different this time.

She didn’t answer.

Sawyer didn’t wait for one. He pulled her forward, dragging her toward the nearest med station without another word. His grip was firm but not painful—controlled, precise, much like the way he handled his work.

Yazmina allowed it, her expression unreadable.

When they reached the station, he pushed her down into a chair and grabbed the first-aid kit with practiced efficiency.

The silence between them was thick, but Yazmina knew better than to mistake it for concern. Sawyer wasn’t the type.

His fingers moved quickly, cleaning the wounds, dabbing antiseptic over them without hesitation.

Yazmina barely flinched.

But Sawyer noticed the way she watched him. The way she didn’t pull away, didn’t react like someone unaccustomed to pain.

His sharp eyes flickered up to meet hers.

“This isn’t from lab work,” he muttered.

Yazmina tilted her head slightly, the faintest smirk touching her lips. “Maybe I tripped.”

Sawyer’s grip tightened slightly around her wrist. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

She didn’t answer.

He exhaled sharply, clearly annoyed, but continued tending to the cuts. His movements were clinical, almost indifferent, yet there was something oddly deliberate about the way he handled her hands—as if measuring the damage, as if searching for something unspoken.

Yazmina’s gaze remained steady.

Let him wonder.