Chapter 5
But Diana refused to budge.
She shoved aside the researcher blocking her path and charged straight toward the isolation room. "Move! If you won't treat him, I'm taking my father home! The Lancaster Group has its own medical team—a hundred times better than your pathetic institute!"
The director's face changed dramatically. He hurried after her. "Ms. Lancaster, your father's condition—he can't be moved—"
"Get lost!" Diana pushed him away, her hand already on the isolation room door handle.
"You can't go in."
Diana whipped around to see Lucinda standing three steps behind her, watching her calmly.
"The virus your father contracted has an airborne transmission rate three times that of ordinary flu. Open that door now, and within two hours, this entire institute becomes a contaminated zone. Within three days, half of Starlight City will be affected. Do you want your father to be the source of that catastrophe?"
Diana's expression flickered, then resumed its haughty posture. "Stop with the fear-mongering! You—some nobody who came out of nowhere—what do you know?"
"She's telling the truth."
A trembling voice came from behind.
One researcher had gone pale, staring hard at Lucinda. "Airborne transmission rate three times higher... that information came from a mysterious consultant's work three years ago, published only in internal journals, never released publicly. How do you know about it?"
The room fell silent for a moment. All eyes turned to Lucinda.
Diana froze for a second, then laughed coldly. "So you snuck a peek at some papers, and now you're here lecturing everyone? I've been in and out of labs with my father since I was little. I've seen more cases than you've eaten meals. Someone like you who doesn't even know which way the lab door opens—you think you can stop me?"
She took a step closer. "Move."
Lucinda didn't budge.
She raised her eyes to meet Diana's imperious gaze, and her lips curved slightly.
The smile was so faint it was barely visible, yet somehow deeply unsettling.
"What are you smiling at?" Diana's brow furrowed.
Lucinda didn't answer. She turned to the older researcher. "The internal paper from three years ago, page 47. The treatment protocol for viral variant strains—the appendix mentioned an inhibitor. Dosage calculated by body weight, intravenous injection. Within ten minutes, his heart rate will drop, and blood oxygen will rise."
The researcher's pupils constricted sharply. "That was only theoretical modeling. It's never been clinically validated..."
"Validate it now."
Diana stared, then scoffed. "Quite the convincing act. Why don't you claim you developed it yourself?"
She turned to the director, impatience coloring her tone. "You're just going to let her spout nonsense? If something happens to my father, who's taking responsibility?"
The director's forehead was drenched in sweat.
He looked at the jumping numbers on the monitoring screen, then at Lucinda's impossibly calm face. His mind spun in chaos.
Everything this woman said sounded logical, but—
But who was she?
He'd never seen her before.
He knew the core personnel roster by heart. This face wasn't on it.
He knew all the consultants, too. The youngest was in his forties. None this young.
The researcher was about to speak when Lucinda cut him off.
"You've been in and out of labs with your father since childhood. After all these years, this is the level you've reached?"
Lucinda's voice remained even. "The moment the virus manifests, instead of thinking about treatment, all you want to do is deflect blame. You don't even understand the basic rule that isolation rooms can't be opened. Your father's lying in there, life hanging in the balance, and the time you've wasted here would've been enough for me to save him three times over."
Diana's expression turned ugly. She whirled toward the two security guards at the door. "Get this lunatic out of here!"
The guards exchanged glances and moved forward—
"Stop!" Elowen stepped in front of Lucinda, arms spread to shield her, voice trembling with anger. "Don't touch her! She's my mentor!"
The monitoring room fell silent.
Everyone's gaze swept between Elowen and Lucinda.
Who was Elowen? The institute's youngest researcher. A genius with a PhD at twenty-three. Normally arrogant, never giving anyone face.
When did she get a mentor? One who looked even younger than her?
The older researcher was the first to react, stepping forward. "Elowen's right. The priority now is saving the patient, not throwing people out."
Lucinda glanced at Elowen. The curve of her lips deepened slightly.
Then she turned and walked straight to the control console.
Diana's face changed dramatically. "What are you doing?"
Lucinda ignored her. Her hand fell on the console, her slender fingers flying across the keyboard.
Lines of complex code instantly appeared on the screen, data cascading down like a waterfall.
Diana rushed forward to stop her but was blocked firmly by Elowen.
Lucinda didn't look back, her voice calm. "Barney's intracranial pressure has reached one hundred three. Delay any longer and not even God can save him."
On the screen, commands flew by in rapid succession. The mechanical arm in the isolation room slowly activated, moving precisely to Barney's side.
Blood draw, testing, medication—the entire process flowed seamlessly, fast enough to dazzle the eye.
Diana stared dumbfounded. It took her a long moment to recover, her voice shrill. "Stop right now! You're some wild nobody from who knows where—what gives you the right to touch my father? If anything happens to him, I'll make this entire institute pay!"
Her words had barely fallen when footsteps sounded from outside.
"Headquarters is here!"
A man in a dark gray suit strode in quickly. In his early thirties, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, he exuded an air of scholarly refinement.
The director's eyes lit up. He hurried forward. "Mr. Mitchell! You're finally here!"
Dwight Mitchell—the bureau's youngest special-grade researcher, a top expert in biomedicine. He'd published over twenty papers in international journals. A true heavyweight.
Diana's eyes brightened too.
Of course she knew Dwight. At the Lancaster Group's medical division's annual gala last year, she'd personally toasted him. Even her father had been respectful.
With him here, they could definitely develop an antidote!
She pushed past those blocking her path and rushed forward, her expression instantly turning respectful. "Mr. Mitchell, you're here! My father, he—"
Before she could finish, she froze.
Dwight didn't even look at her.
His gaze traveled past her and landed directly on that cool figure at the control console.
Then his eyes lit up—the kind of glow reserved for seeing an idol.
"Boss?"
Dwight rushed over in two strides, unable to contain his excitement. "Boss, it's you! What are you doing here?"
The entire monitoring room fell so silent you could hear a pin drop.
Boss?
The director's jaw dropped. The researchers' eyes nearly popped out. Diana's expression was spectacular.
Lucinda didn't turn around, her fingers still flying across the keyboard. "Less talk, more work."
"Yes!" Without another word, Dwight rolled up his sleeves and rushed to the console. "Boss, give me orders—tell me where to aim and I'll fire!"
"HSV-047 inhibitor. Dosage calculated by body weight. Intravenous injection."
"On it!" Dwight's fingers flew across the keyboard, his movements more efficient than all the previous researchers combined.
Dead silence filled the monitoring room.
Everyone stood frozen like statues, staring at the scene.
The bureau's youngest special-grade researcher, a top figure in biomedicine, was now standing beside that young woman like a novice apprentice, doing exactly what she said without a single superfluous word.
Diana's lips moved, but no words came out.
Lucinda straightened, her voice calm. "Seal the central chamber. Everyone out."
Dwight nodded immediately. "Yes!"
He turned to look at the room full of stunned people. "Didn't you hear? Everyone out!"
The director opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but Dwight's glare stopped him cold. He wisely turned and headed out.
The other researchers quickly followed.
Diana stood rooted to the spot like a wooden post, unmoving.