He found the body slumped against a shattered glass enclosure. A woman. Lab coat. Her badge read . Her eyes were open. Not dead from trauma. Dead from something slower. Something that had crystallized her veins into a frosty silver lattice.
He stood up. Bag still closed. Incinerator cold.
had one final line of text, buried in the fine print of every worker’s contract, page 1,047, paragraph 9: The Company -v5.12.0 Public- -Westane-
Today’s order was simple.
But the word Public was a lie.
They’re not updating the charter. They’re rewriting human biology. The “Public” version is for us. The “Private” version is for the shareholders. And the shareholders aren’t human anymore.
Westane wiped his palm on his jumpsuit and pressed it to the reader. The screen blinked green. He found the body slumped against a shattered
He looked.