The label changed everything.
BIOACTIVE RESEARCH MATERIAL WESTBRIDGE BIOMEDICAL — LOT 7C Until that moment, the problem beneath East Residence had at least been easy to categorize—not understand, but categorize.
Strange energy.
Mutated wildlife.
An unknown underground organism.
ARB containment.
A supernatural problem: complicated and dangerous, but supernatural.
Humans had apparently decided that was not enough.
Now we had laboratory waste.
Which meant somewhere between the giant centipede, the ancient heartbeat, and the secret federal agency— paperwork existed.
That somehow made everything worse.
Mayra photographed the broken vial from six different angles.
“Don’t post that anywhere,” Amelia said.
Mayra looked offended.
“I know.” “You once posted a picture of your parking ticket with the caption ‘government oppression.'” “That was different.” “How?” “It was funny.” Amelia stared.
Mayra lowered the phone.
“I’m not posting it.” I hovered above the vial.
The remaining brown glass held almost no residue.
The Codex had attempted analysis.
— Trace degraded bioactive compound detected.
Composition: Incomplete Multiple organic growth-regulation signatures present.
Spiritual-energy contamination detected.
Source material unsuitable for trait extraction.
— Growth regulation.
“What kind?” — Insufficient intact sample.
— Naturally.
I relayed the important part through the notebook.
Mayra wrote: GROWTH-REGULATION COMPOUND + SPIRITUAL CONTAMINATION Then looked at Amelia.
“So somebody dumped experimental growth chemicals onto supernatural bug radiation.” Amelia closed her eyes.
I buzzed once.
Basically.
“Please stop making terrible descriptions accurate,” Amelia said.
Mayra grinned.
But her amusement faded quickly.
She looked toward the floor.
“Could this have made the thing downstairs?” For a moment, nothing moved.
That was the worst question available.
Amelia studied the vial.
“I don’t know.” Neither did I.
The unknown organism had seemed far beyond the insects surrounding it.
Ancient or new, plant or animal, natural or created by Westbridge Biomedical—we had no way to tell.
Mayra flipped open her laptop.
“Then we find out what Lot 7C is.” Amelia looked at her.
“Carefully.” Mayra sighed.
“You say that before everything now.” “Because everything you suggest requires the reminder.” Accurate.
— Westbridge Biomedical turned out not to be one building.
Because of course it wasn’t.
According to the university website, the name covered three research centers, two teaching laboratories, an animal-care facility, a clinical partnership program, and something called the Center for Translational Biosystems, which sounded like scientists had been awarded grant money for inventing nouns.
Mayra scrolled.
“Where do we even start?” I flew onto the laptop.
Search the lot.
She had already tried.
Nothing.
Public university pages did not generally publish the serial numbers of potentially illegal supernatural waste.
Shocking.
Amelia read through the biomedical directory.
“Who handles material disposal?” Mayra searched.
Environmental Health and Safety.
Research Compliance.
Hazardous Biological Materials.
Several pages of regulations appeared.
Mayra groaned.
“Government websites.” “University.” “Same spiritual experience.” I approved.
Then she found something useful.
A PDF.
BIOACTIVE MATERIAL TRACKING AND DISPOSAL — INTERNAL LABORATORY FORMAT GUIDE Lot numbers followed a pattern: building, research group, batch.
Mayra enlarged an example.
4B-19C Not 7C.
She frowned.
“Too short.” Amelia looked toward the broken label.
“Perhaps old.” Good thought.
Mayra searched archived versions.
Nothing.
Then she tried cached documents.
No.
Old student lab manuals.
No.
University procurement reports.
No.
Then a familiar name appeared in a faculty-news article.
Matthew Reed, doctoral researcher, receives Westbridge Biomedical Innovation Fellowship for work in insect tissue regeneration and adaptive stress response.
All three of us stopped.
Insects, regeneration, adaptive stress.
The combination was hard to ignore.
Mayra clicked.
Matthew Reed looked around thirty.
Black hair, glasses, a friendly academic smile.
The article described his lab’s work studying rapid tissue repair in insects and other small organisms under environmental stress.
Nothing supernatural.
Nothing suspicious.
But relevant.
Mayra whispered: “Do we know a Matthew?” “No,” Amelia said.
I gave two buzzes: no.
Mayra continued reading.
His supervisor: Dr.
Esther Caldwell.
Another name.
Esther.
Professor of Comparative Molecular Biology.
Specialties included insect physiology, cellular regeneration, and experimental bioactive compounds.
That last phrase mattered.
Mayra looked at us.
“Bioactive compounds.” Yes.
Could be coincidence.
Large biomedical department.
Many labs used bioactive materials.
Do not jump.
Amelia pointed toward the lab address.
Biosciences Annex, Level 2.
Public university building.
No burglary necessary.
Progress.
Mayra smiled.
“We go ask him.” Amelia said: “No.” There it was.
“What do you want to do, send Plenteaful through the vents?” I rubbed my front legs together.
Mayra saw.
“No.” Amelia actually looked tempted.
Then regained judgment.
“We first observe.” Mayra leaned back.
“You two are exactly the same.” False.
Amelia looked offended too.
Good.
— The Biosciences Annex smelled like alcohol wipes, coffee, plants, and stressed graduate students.
I liked it.
Biology everywhere.
Unfortunately, most of it existed behind sealed doors.
Amelia and Mayra entered around noon.
I traveled inside Amelia’s hood.
Not on her shoulder.
The unknown humanoid spirit beast had taught us something useful.
Assume observation.
A mosquito constantly riding Amelia in public would eventually become noticeable.
So I hid.
Uncomfortable.
Effective.
Mayra had recruited Sam.
Not stolen his card this time.
Technically.
Sam Porter turned out to be exactly the sort of person I expected Mayra to be friends with.
Tall.
Curly brown hair.
Permanent amused expression.
Plant-sciences T-shirt beneath an open flannel.
He met them in the lobby carrying two coffees.
“Okay.” He handed one to Mayra.
“Why are we stalking biomedical researchers?” “We are not stalking anyone.” Mayra accepted the coffee.
“We’re networking.” Sam looked at Amelia.
Amelia said nothing.
He turned back to Mayra.
“That’s worse somehow.” I liked Sam.
He had good instincts.
Mayra had told him she was interested in a cross-department project involving unusual insect growth.
Not entirely false.
Sam knew Matthew Reed from a greenhouse collaboration.
Convenient.
“He’s usually in the second-floor insect lab around lunch.” Insect lab.
My wings twitched.
Amelia felt the movement through the hood.
A finger subtly pressed against the fabric.
Do not.
I stayed.
Sam led them upstairs.
Students moved through the corridor.
Lab coats.
Boxes.
Equipment carts.
One locked door displayed: COMPARATIVE ADAPTATION LABORATORY Below: CALDWELL / REED Found it.
Sam knocked.
No answer.
Again.
A voice inside: “Yeah?” Door opened.
Matthew Reed.
Same man from the article.
Except the photograph had neglected to capture the most important feature.
Exhaustion.
He looked like he had not slept properly since undergraduate school.
“Sam.” “Hey, Matt.” Matthew looked toward Amelia and Mayra.
“Are these the people asking about insects?” Sam had apparently been efficient.
Mayra smiled.
“That sounds weird when you say it like that.” Matthew considered.
“It was weird when he said it too.” Excellent.
He stepped aside.
“Come in.
Don’t touch anything.” Amelia entered.
I remained concealed.
The laboratory was beautiful.
Not aesthetically.
Biologically.
Glass insect enclosures lined one wall.
Climate-controlled cabinets.
Microscopes.
Refrigerators.
Sample racks.
A small growth chamber.
The Codex began detecting ordinary fruit flies, beetles, moths, and crickets.
Nothing mutated.
Nothing supernatural.
Just normal science.
Matthew gestured toward several cages.
“So what’s the project?” Mayra answered smoothly.
“Not really a project yet.” Danger.
“We noticed unusual insect growth around East Residence.” Matthew stopped.
Only for half a second.
But I noticed.
So did Amelia.
Mayra continued as if she hadn’t.
“Jose said pest control was dealing with it, but I thought it was interesting.” Matthew’s expression had changed.
Not fear.
Caution.
“East Residence.” “Yeah.” “You’re residents?” Mayra nodded.
“Third floor.” Matthew looked toward Amelia.
Then Mayra.
“Did you handle anything?” “No.” Mostly.
“Get bitten?” Mayra hesitated.
“Facilities did.” Matthew knew about Jose?
Maybe campus rumor.
Maybe more.
He moved toward a desk.
“Large centipede?” All three of us became still.
Mayra recovered first.
“You heard?” Matthew did not answer immediately.
Then: “Campus safety report.” Possible.
Amelia’s voice remained calm.
“Those reports aren’t public.” Matthew looked at her.
He smiled faintly.
“Biomedical faculty gets incident notices involving unusual animal exposure.” Could be true.
He wasn’t faculty, though.
Doctoral researcher.
Maybe lab received notices.
Mayra glanced toward a refrigerator.
Several printed labels covered the door.
Lot numbers.
Complex.
None resembled 7C.
She asked: “Do you guys work with growth compounds?” Matthew’s friendly expression disappeared.
Not fully.
But enough.
“Sometimes.” “What kind?” “Depends.” “Anything called Lot 7C?” Silence.
There.
Direct hit.
Matthew stared at her.
Sam looked confused.
“What’s Lot 7C?” Mayra smiled too casually.
“Saw it on an old container.” “Where?” Matthew asked.
Too fast.
Amelia stepped in.
“Near East Residence.” Matthew’s face went pale.
Not dramatically.
But unmistakably.
Sam looked between them.
“Okay.
Did I miss a meeting?” Matthew walked toward the lab door.
Closed it.
My body tensed.
Not hostile.
Privacy.
He looked at Mayra.
“Where exactly?” Mayra did not answer.
Good.
Matthew realized.
“Right.” He rubbed one hand across his face.
Then looked toward the ceiling.
“I told them this would happen.” Them.
Excellent.
Amelia’s voice sharpened.
“Told whom?” Matthew hesitated.
“I shouldn’t be discussing this.” Mayra folded her arms.
“A giant centipede bit a facilities worker in our dorm.” Matthew closed his eyes.
“Jose?” “You know him?” “Everyone knows Jose.” Fair.
“He okay?” “Yes.” Matthew exhaled.
Then made a decision.
“Lot 7C shouldn’t exist anymore.” Mayra’s expression tightened.
“What was it?” Matthew looked at Sam.
Sam raised both hands.
“I know nothing.” “Keep it that way.” Rude but probably wise.
Matthew turned back.
“Seven-C was an internal designation.” “Seven C what?” Amelia asked.
“Seventh experimental series.
C formulation.” “For?” Matthew looked toward the insect cages.
“Stress adaptation.” My attention sharpened.
He continued.
“The lab was trying to improve recovery after tissue damage in insect-model species.” Regeneration.
Mayra looked at his fellowship plaque.
“Your research.” “Partly.” Matthew seemed uncomfortable.
“Seven-C wasn’t mine originally.” “Whose?” “Dr.
Caldwell’s project.” Esther.
Amelia’s eyes narrowed.
“What did it do?” Matthew hesitated.
“Made insects difficult to kill.” I rubbed my front legs together.
Amelia subtly pressed the hood again.
Stop being enthusiastic.
Matthew continued.
“Not immortality.
Nothing ridiculous.” He glanced at several enclosures.
“Improved clotting.
Faster tissue repair.
Better survival under toxins and heat stress.” Useful.
Very useful.
“But we discontinued it.” “Why?” Mayra asked.
Matthew’s jaw tightened.
“Abnormal growth.” “Some test colonies became larger.” “How much?” Amelia asked.
“Thirty percent.” Not centipede size.
“Sometimes more.” Still.
“Behavior changes too.” That mattered.
“Aggression?” “Feeding.” Matthew looked uneasy.
“They started consuming things they normally wouldn’t.” Mixed-feeding bug at greenhouse.
Maybe unrelated.
Maybe not.
Mayra asked: “When was the project discontinued?” Matthew looked directly at her.
“Seven months ago.” Silence.
Same time as the first East Residence incident.
There it was.
Amelia’s voice became cold.
“What happened to the material?” “Destroyed.” Lie?
Matthew believed what he said.
I thought.
Mayra asked: “All of it?” Matthew’s face answered before his mouth.
“No.” Sam muttered: “Oh, fantastic.” Matthew gave him a look.
Then said: “One waste shipment went missing.” Missing.
Not dumped?
“How does hazardous research waste go missing?” Mayra asked.
“It doesn’t.” “Apparently it does.” Matthew looked frustrated.
“Containers were logged for transfer to chemical destruction.” “Then?” “Transport record says they arrived.” “But?” “The receiving facility has no matching intake.” Mayra frowned.
“So somebody signed off fake paperwork.” “Or the records were altered.” Human fingerprints.
Exactly.
Amelia asked: “How many containers?” Matthew looked toward the closed door.
“Enough.” Terrible answer.
Mayra pointed vaguely toward East Residence.
“Enough for that?” Matthew looked frightened.
Not of us.
Of the possibility.
“Seven-C doesn’t explain what you’re describing.” Interesting.
“Why not?” “Because it was chemistry.” He tapped the desk.
“Growth factors, signaling modifiers, engineered viral vectors—nothing that should make a thirty-centimeter centipede in seven months.” Something else was involved.
Spiritual energy.
The basement source.
Seven-C might amplify mutation.
Not create it.
Matthew continued.
“Something would have to massively accelerate the adaptation.” Exactly.
He didn’t know the supernatural piece.
Maybe.
Unless he was acting.
My Codex detected nothing unusual from him.
Ordinary human.
No energetic signature.
Likely innocent.
Amelia’s tone softened slightly.
“Who knows the shipment was missing?” Matthew laughed without humor.
“Officially?” He counted.
“Dr.
Caldwell.
Me.
Compliance.
Environmental Health and Safety.” “And unofficially?” “Whoever took it.” Fair.
“ARB?” Mayra asked.
Matthew froze.
The room became silent.
Sam blinked.
“What’s ARB?” Matthew stared at Mayra.
“You need to stop asking questions.” Confirmation.
Not answer.
But confirmation.
Mayra leaned forward.
“You know them.” Matthew opened the door.
Conversation over.
“I’m serious.” His face had gone hard.
Not threatening.
Scared.
“Whatever you saw, report it to campus safety.” Mayra laughed once.
“They’ll call it a raccoon.” “Then let them.” “What if somebody gets hurt?” “Somebody already did.” His frustration broke through.
“I know.” Matthew lowered his voice.
“I spent three months answering questions after the first incident.” ARB.
Almost certainly.
“They told us the material wasn’t responsible.” Amelia asked: “Did you believe them?” Matthew looked at her.
No answer.
That was enough.
He stepped aside.
“Go.” Mayra looked like she wanted to argue.
Amelia touched her arm.
Not here.
They left.
Sam followed.
Outside, he waited until the stairwell door closed.
Then: “What the hell was that?” Mayra smiled weakly.
“Networking.” Sam stared.
“You people are insane.” One buzz from inside Amelia’s hood.
Yes.
He stopped walking.
“Did your clothes just buzz?” Amelia kept moving.
“No.” I remained perfectly still.
Sam watched her.
Then Mayra.
“I am going back to plants.” Smart man.
He left.
— Outside the annex, Amelia finally let me out.
I flew from her hood and inhaled fresh air.
Freedom.
Mayra stretched.
“I think that went well.” Amelia stared.
“We frightened a doctoral researcher into throwing us out of his laboratory.” “So…
moderately well.” I gave one buzz: yes.
Amelia looked at me.
“Of course.” But we had information.
Lot 7C: Experimental adaptation compound.
Discontinued seven months ago.
Missing waste shipment.
First East Residence incident immediately after.
ARB investigation.
And, most importantly— Seven-C alone could not explain the mutations.
It required an accelerator.
The unknown energy source beneath our dorm supplied exactly that.
Human chemistry plus supernatural pressure.
Two causes colliding.
That might be why the basement ecology was so wrong.
The greenhouse showed natural spiritual adaptation.
Slow.
Balanced.
The dorm showed forced adaptation.
Chemical growth modifiers.
Concentrated energy.
Rapid mutation.
I flew in a slow circle while thinking.
Mayra looked at me.
“He does the thinking loop now.” Amelia nodded.
“I’ve noticed.” I landed on Amelia’s shoulder.
She asked quietly: “Someone intentionally moved the waste.” Probably.
But why East Residence?
Random disposal?
Cover-up?
Experiment?
Was the source beneath the building known beforehand?
Maybe someone dumped Seven-C into the utility system because they thought nobody would find it.
Then discovered something was already below.
Or— worse— they knew.
I did not like that possibility.
Mayra looked toward the biomedical annex.
“Dr.
Esther Caldwell.” The supervisor.
The original project leader.
We needed to know more.
Amelia said: “Not yet.” Agreed.
Matthew was already scared.
Approaching his supervisor immediately after would be obvious.
Observe first.
Mayra sighed.
“Fine.” Progress.
Then a male voice behind us said: “Amelia?” She stopped.
I felt her shoulder tense.
We turned.
A young man approached across the courtyard.
Tall.
Athletic.
Expensive jacket worn casually enough to suggest he’d never considered the price.
Dark blond hair.
Easy smile.
Good-looking in the polished university way.
Two other guys walked several steps behind him.
He was human.
Completely ordinary as far as my senses could tell.
Which somehow felt refreshing.
Mayra muttered: “Oh no.” The young man smiled.
“Hey.” Amelia’s expression became blank.
Not cold.
Worse.
Socially blank.
“Chase.” There.
Chase Morgan.
The way Mayra said his name told me enough.
Apparently the biomedical conspiracy was not enough; now we also had a social problem.
Chase looked at Mayra.
“Mayra.” “Chase.” Neither sounded pleased.
Then his attention returned entirely to Amelia.
“I texted you.” “I know.” “You didn’t answer.” “Correct.” I nearly buzzed approval.
Chase laughed.
Not offended.
Yet.
“I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner tonight.” “No.” Immediate.
Clean.
Efficient.
Excellent.
Chase blinked.
One of the guys behind him looked away, already hiding a smile.
He recovered.
“You don’t even know where.” “No.” Mayra stared at the ground.
I could feel laughter building.
Chase smiled again.
Slightly tighter.
“Come on.
One dinner.” Amelia looked at him.
“I am not interested.” Clear.
No ambiguity.
A reasonable person would leave.
Chase was not unreasonable yet.
He raised both hands.
“Okay.” He laughed lightly.
“Worth asking.” Better than expected.
Then his gaze moved toward me.
I was sitting on Amelia’s shoulder.
Mistake.
His eyebrows drew together.
“Is that a mosquito?” Mayra’s entire body became alert.
Amelia did not react.
“Yes.” Chase stared.
“And you’re just letting it sit there?” “Yes.” His expression shifted into genuine confusion.
Then amusement.
“That’s…
weird.” I used a very quiet high buzz.
Idiot.
Chase’s hand lifted instinctively.
Swat.
Not hostile.
Normal human reaction.
Amelia caught his wrist.
Fast.
Not supernatural-fast.
But fast enough.
The room went still.
Her fingers wrapped around his wrist before his palm moved six inches.
Chase stared.
Amelia’s expression had become ice.
“Don’t.” One word.
The atmosphere changed.
Chase slowly lowered his hand.
Amelia released him.
His friends had stopped smiling.
Mayra looked at me.
I looked at Amelia.
Interesting.
She had reacted instantly.
Protective.
No thought.
No calculation.
Chase rubbed his wrist.
“Okay.” His smile returned.
But thinner.
“I didn’t know it was your pet.” Amelia’s eyes sharpened.
“He isn’t.” Mayra coughed suspiciously.
Chase looked confused.
“What?” “Nothing.” Amelia turned.
“We’re leaving.” She walked away.
Mayra followed.
I remained on her shoulder.
Behind us, one of Chase’s friends laughed.
“Dude, rejected for a mosquito.” Chase said something too quiet to hear.
Mayra heard.
Her expression tightened.
Amelia did not turn.
Good.
No escalation.
Not yet.
I looked back.
Chase stood where we’d left him.
Watching Amelia.
Embarrassed.
Not furious.
Not evil.
Just a young man who had been rejected publicly in front of friends.
That mattered.
People became dangerous through choices, not because I needed them to fit a convenient role.
I hoped he made good ones.
Probably optimistic.
Mayra muttered: “He’s going to be annoying now.” Amelia said: “He was already annoying.” I gave one buzz: yes.
Mayra looked at me.
“Careful.
He almost killed you.” Technically, I almost got slapped by an ordinary human for the first time since reincarnation.
That was humbling.
Five extracted traits.
Supernatural blood exposure.
Mutated predators defeated.
And Chase Morgan’s palm could still end my entire evolutionary career if it landed properly.
Good reminder.
Mosquito first.
Survival before pride.
I settled deeper into Amelia’s hair.
She noticed.
Her hand rose slightly.
Not touching me.
Just close.
“You’re fine.” I looked at her.
One buzz: yes.
Then I glanced back at the Biosciences Annex.
Matthew Reed.
Lot 7C.
Missing waste.
ARB.
Dr.
Esther Caldwell.
Chase Morgan could wait.
The real danger at Westbridge was still below our feet.
But human problems had begun arriving above ground too.
And unlike centipedes— humans were much harder to poison without paperwork.