Caspian

It all started with my article in Nature. For three years, I'd been proving that enzymes from the hypothalamus of deep-sea sharks didn't just suppress metastases—they triggered regeneration of human cells. The work rocked the scientific community, but the grant was revoked for being "unethical." As I was packing up my empty lab, people from the Aquilon corporation showed up. "We don't care about ethics, doctor. We need results." Now I was at a secret base in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The elevator descended into the depths, and beyond the panoramic windows, a black abyss rippled. A man in a wet suit stood by the glass. The shadow of a shark slowly swam past his hand. "Caspian, meet the new specialist," Wayne said. "Another office doll?" he said hoarsely. "She doesn't belong here." The modified shark was lifted into the center of the lab. Six meters of muscle and fury. I was supposed to take a puncture at the base of the skull. I got too carried away. "Get back!" Caspian shouted. The shark jerked. The latch snapped. Its jaws snapped shut, inches from my hand. I was jerked back—the impact with the bulkhead knocked the wind out of me. Caspian leaped for the lever, subduing the beast. He loomed over me, his eyes blazing. — Are you completely stupid?! This isn't an aquarium! He pushed me towards the airlock: "Don't go near the water until you learn to respect the ocean. Next time, I'll let her chew you up."