Chapter 22 The Architect's Hand

• The hum of the mass spectrometer seemed to grow deafening in the wake of Thorne’s words. *A targeted attack. A weapon.* The sterile tent felt less like a medical facility and more like a crime scene—the victim comatose on the cot, the weapon invisible, coursing through his veins.
• “Synthetic,” I repeated, the word tasting like ash. My mind, trained for years to diagnose, to fix, to *heal*, recoiled at the concept. This wasn’t medicine. This was assassination with a delayed trigger. “Who has that capability? Nephilim Med’s R&D was focused on immunosuppressants, not… this.”
• Thorne’s hands flew over the keyboard, pulling up schematics. “Not Nephilim. Their work was clumsy. Dangerous, but clumsy. This…” He pointed a trembling finger at the protein model twisting on the screen, “this is elegant. Lethal and elegant. It requires a deep understanding of neuroimmunology and advanced protein folding. This is university-level black ops. Or a rival company with a budget bigger than some nations.”