Page 5 of The Sterling Acquisition

But Christ, the scent.

That was the real problem. Without Gensyn’s omnipresent scent scrubbers and his apparently malfunctioning implants, Orion’s pheromones seeped through the walls like a violation of every corporate air quality protocol. The more it permeated, the more Dante’s skin felt wrong. He would flush hot then cold, his heart rate accelerating despite the regulatory breathing exercises he’d been taught. His carefully controlled libido was now a trained dog straining at its leash, whining with desperation.

He’d tried opening windows—they didn’t open. He tried the portable air purifier from his luggage—it wheezed for an hour and died with what sounded like mechanical emphysema. He’d even attempted to rig a scent blocker using supplies from the apartment’s first aid kit, which resulted in him nearly suffocating himself with improvised menthol paste.

Three days in SVI territory, and he was already coming apart at the seams.

The tapping resumed. Soft, deliberate, definitely intentional. Dante rolled onto his side and pressed his ear to the wall, trying to make sense of the rhythm.

Was that code? Or was he so sleep-deprived and scent-drunk that he was imagining patterns where none existed?

But he kept trying to figure it out anyway.

Dante checked his phone. 4:12 AM. This was not sustainable.

Yesterday, between analyzing wall-tapping patterns and fighting Orion’s pheromonal assault on his senses, Dante managed to establish his cover as a vaccine production specialist. He toured SVI’s research facility with the kind of wide-eyed corporate awe that made people want to show off. The facility was impressive in a brutal, utilitarian way—all concrete and steel with the faint smell of industrial disinfectant that never quite masked the underlying odors.

Dr. Sarah Voss, the lead researcher, gave him the grand tour with the cheerful energy of someone who genuinely believed she was saving the world through better living via chemistry. The security was tighter than expected but not insurmountable—keycard access, biometric scanners, but all with the kind of gaps that suggested they were more worried about external threats than internal ones.

He should have been cataloguing every security vulnerability, mapping exit routes, and identifying potential allies. Instead, he found himself distracted, wondering if Orion’s scent had always been so potent or if it was intensifying in response to stress.

“Interpersonal optimization protocol research by our Intervention Specialist Team is particularly promising since we upgraded our equipment,” Dr. Voss had said with the kind of enthusiasm that should have triggered all his professional alarms. Instead, he’d been thinking about amber eyes and defiant snarls.

Duckie Chang, the nervous lab tech with obvious gambling debts based on the brace on his knee and his black eye, had been talkative about the “developments in human behavioral modification” happening in the restricted sections. Yet another lead Dante filed away without the thorough follow-up his Gensyn training demanded.

All very promising for the mission. If he could focus on his objectives instead of obsessing over the activities coming through his bedroom wall.

His phone buzzed with an encrypted message from his handler:

Amalie

Hope you’re settling in well, sweetie! How’s the local hospitality? The Board wants constant communication about any breakthrough discoveries!

Dante stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back:

Facility access secured. Local management practices are illuminating. Should have detailed intelligence soon.

Amalie

Wonderful! I knew you’d find their methods educational.

He set the phone aside and rubbed his temples. Amalie’s relentlessly cheerful corporate-speak was giving him a headache.

A soft knock at his door interrupted his brooding. Dante checked the time—5:23 AM—too early for work-related conversations.

He opened the door to find Leo swaying in the hallway, still in yesterday’s clothes, holding a bottle of something that smelled like industrial solvent and sporting fresh scratches across his neck.

“Dante,” Leo said, slurring. “Sorry to bother you so early. I was wondering... could we talk? In a consulting capacity?”

Leo was drunk. Not fall-down drunk, but past the point where corporate discretion would normally kick in. Which meant this conversation was going to be either very useful or very awkward.

Possibly both.

“Of course,” Dante said, stepping aside to let him in. “Coffee?”

“God, yes.”

While Dante busied himself with the apartment’s primitive coffee maker—which functioned about as well as everything else in this building—Leo slumped into one of the bolted-down chairs and took a long pull from his bottle.