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You ask, “What are you doing here?” and wipe at your eyes with the back of your arm and sniffle. Drama already visited you tonight. Shattered glass on the counter? An empty mouse cage? What trouble did you get yourself into, little girl?

You eye my partners, the monstrous yet dim-witted Yevgeny and the volatile yet small John-Boy. You inch back and rub your lower back. You’re nervous. No need to be, my cherub. You’ve always been a good little girl. “I’m giving lab tours for interested parties. I’d ask you the same question.”

You whisper, “I came to feed the mice.”

I explain that I know this seems odd and unnerving in the middle of the night. I like to give tours when the labs are quiet. With everything empty and silent, we are more apt to see its potential. All lies, but it’s that potential that I want to talk to you about.

You remain quiet, and the gaze from behind your glasses bounces from one person to the other.

I say that we all heard the rumors—that Vincent Varian has a secret side project. What could it be, I’ve often wondered. I’ve heard it all. Super cop program? Alternative energy? But I never once heard about perfection in a pill. Could this be the secret project? I sit in your office chair and put my feet up.

You shift your weight. The broken glass from the cage crunches underneath you. Better get on your knees. Clean it up. Wouldn’t want my sweet little girl to get hurt. Then you murmur, “Oh. I was just talking. You know how people talk at parties.”

But you’re not like other people. You like it when I say that to you. I see how you twitch your mouth and lick your lips when I say it: There’s no one like you. You’re special, my cherub.

I remind you, “You said within the year. And I believe you even said, ‘under-promise, over-deliver’?” You gasp. Red splotches travel down your neck. “What is in that little head of yours?” I imagine that freshly slapped look spreads to your breasts.

And in that tiny, quiet voice, you say, “I’m afraid it’s only in my head. I was talking hypothetically last night.”

“No!” I say with a clap. “What is Vincent Varian hiding?” The other morons who tried the kidnapping schtick bungled their jobs. But you never bungle a job. You’re my dependable girl.

You say, “I barely talk to the guy; let alone know about any secret projects. I’m just a lab lackey.” You rub your lower back again. “You’re on the board. You’d know more than I would. ”

I was afraid of this. No one understands emergencies anymore. What if I told you something bad’s going to happen? “A lot of Shadowhaven’s people are going to get sick. They might die. I believe it has something to do with what was stolen from the W.H.O. in Manila? Would your pill be hypothetical then?”

“No.” You look to the ground. My sweet little girl’s ashamed from holding back. But the soul of someone else possesses you. You add with more volume than I thought you were ever capable of, “But you need to wait at least a year, especially to pass human clinical trials. People over ambition. That’s what I always say.”

Oh, I get it now. The research is stuck. You need a little force to get it out. So, I reach into my pocket, pull out my mask, put it on, and… you whimper.

I say that I am a part of some people. Powerful people. You don’t want to do anything stupid, do you?

You shake your head. The exaggerated shake of a child who hates being disobedient. Because if you did something stupid, you would have to contend with far scarier people.

You wipe your nose. “Is that why you took my files? My notes?”

I didn’t take your files, which means someone got to them first.

“Is that why you killed Dr. Varian?” you ask .

What are you talking about?

“If this is an attempt to suppress my work, you needn’t bother. I’m not dying for this! I’ll give you all that I have. Just let me leave.”

“Where is it?” I hiss out my question like a popped tire.

“It’s in my lunch bag in the mini fridge.”

John-Boy checks the refrigerator and grabs the pink polka-dotted lunch bag. He opens it and pulls out a vial of serum.

“That’s what I was talking about at the party. I should warn you. It’s very new. It has had no clinical trials. Okay? I’m leaving now.” You tiptoe to the door, even though Yevgeny waits for you there.

I say, “Not so fast. We want to see a trial. On John-Boy here.”

There you go, rubbing your back again. It’s beautiful to see what you do when you’re scared. John-Boy rolls up his sleeve.