I spin around and he’s leaning against the door frame in charcoal trousers and a white shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, watching me with that expression that always makes me feel like he’s seeing straight through my skin to whatever’s underneath. His knuckles are split across three fingers, fresh scabs visible in the fluorescent light.
“This is—” I gesture around the room because words are failing me. “How did you—”
“I made some calls.” He pushes off the frame and walks toward me. “Turns out money can buy almost anything, including next-day delivery on laboratory equipment.”
“This must have cost—”
“Don’t worry about what it cost.”
“I’m not worried, I’m just—” I stop, shake my head. “Why?”
“Because you’re a scientist.” He stops a few feet away. “And because I have a problem I need you to solve.”
“What kind of problem?”
He pulls out his phone, taps the screen a few times, and hands it to me. Data fills the display—molecular structures, clinical reports, death certificates. Lots of death certificates.
“Synthetic narcotic,” he says. “Killing addicts across Moscow. Thirty-seven confirmed deaths in the last month.”
My stomach drops as I scroll through the data. The molecular structure kicks my brain into gear immediately, because I know this compound. I’ve seen it.
In myownresearch.
“This is sophisticated,” I say. “This isn’t street-level synthesis.”
“No. Someone knew what they were creating.”
“It’s an MX-42 derivative.” I’m already zooming in on specific bonds. “The base structure matches compounds from my doctoral thesis, but this binding site modification would increase potency. Except the stereochemistry is wrong for long-term storage, which means—”
I stop.
“Which means what?”
“Which means whoever made this either didn’t understand the degradation, or they didn’t care.” I look up at him. “When this breaks down in the body, it creates a cascade of free radicals. Massive cellular damage. The breakdown products are more lethal than the parent compound. Every batch becomes more dangerous over time.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Fix it how?”
“Create an antidote.” He takes the phone back, his fingers brushing mine in a way that shouldn’t make my pulse jump but does anyway. “If you understand how it’s killing people, you can design something that stops the process.”
My brain is already running. The puzzle is exactly the kind of problem I’ve spent my entire career training to solve.
“This would take months,” I say. “Synthesis, testing, optimization. I can’t just—”
“I’m not in a hurry.” He’s watching me with an intensity that makes it hard to think. “Take whatever time you need.”
“And if I can’t do it?”
“You can.” He says it like it’s a fact he’s already verified. “If anyone can create an antidote for this, it’s you.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
“Good. I’ll leave you to it. Luka will be outside if you need anything.”
He turns to go.
“Roman.”
