CHAPTER ONE: THE FIRST SIGN
Three years had passed since Philip arrived in the United States to pursue his education. Now, he worked as a biochemical engineer at Gingko Bioworks in Boston.
Outside, the morning unfolded like any other. The streets hummed with people drifting through their daily routines: children waiting for school buses, delivery vans weaving through neighborhoods, and a steady stream of traffic buzzing in the background. To most, it was just another ordinary morning.
For Philip, it was Tuesday.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
The sharp alarm shattered the silence of his bedroom. Philip’s eyes snapped open. He stared at the ceiling for a few quiet seconds before reaching out to silence the blare.
He glanced at the clock. Shit, I’m going to be late.
Springing out of bed, he rushed into the bathroom, showered, brushed his teeth, and hurried back to his room. Once dressed, he stood before the mirror adjusting his collar as his eyes swept over his reflection: shirt, trousers, shoes. He lingered for a brief moment, locked eyes with himself, and turned away.
"Good enough," he muttered.
Grabbing his bag, he stepped out into the crisp morning air and walked toward the bus stop.
"Morning, Philip!" someone called out from across the street.
Philip turned, giving a subtle nod. Another neighbor offered a polite smile, and he returned it with a quiet nod of his own. It wasn’t that he disliked anyone—he simply saw no need for idle talk. Over the years, these street faces had grown familiar; they knew him enough to greet him, and he knew them enough to acknowledge their presence.
That was precisely where the boundary lay.
"Morning, Pika!" a little boy called out.
Philip paused briefly, giving a small wave before continuing on his way.
By the time he reached Gingko Bioworks, the laboratory was already humming with activity. Researchers hurried between rooms carrying samples and specialized equipment. Workstations glowed with live graphs and experimental data, while hushed conversations about protein cultures and failed trials echoed through the room.
Philip walked through the laboratory aisles.
"Morning, Philip," a woman at one of the workstations offered evenly.
Philip raised a hand, gave a brief wave, and kept moving until he disappeared into his workspace.
As soon as he was out of sight, her smile faded. "Ugh, how annoying," she grumbled.
Her colleague looked up. "What?"
"Who does he think he is?" She shook her head in frustration. "I’ve been greeting this man for months, and all I ever get is a wave and a nod."
The colleague chuckled. "Maybe he’s just quiet."
"Quiet is one thing," she countered, "but that man acts like he’s allergic to conversation."
Completely unaware—or simply indifferent—Philip settled into his station. He set his bag beside the desk, donned his lab coat, and began setting up his workspace. He wasn't the most friendly person in the building, but he wasn't rude either; he simply spoke when spoken to or when he truly had something to say. Naturally, that quiet distance made people curious. Some mistook it for arrogance, others thought him strange, and a few assumed he simply disliked them. Philip never bothered to correct any of them.
His position required patience far more than charisma. Much of his work involved running experiments, maintaining records, analyzing results, and collaborating alongside researchers to test biological processes. Some days an experiment worked; most days it didn’t. When failure hit, Philip simply started over.
Again, and again.
Failure had become a familiar companion.
Hours drifted by. One by one, the other researchers packed up their things.
"See you tomorrow, Philip."
Philip lifted a hand, offering a brief wave. "Good night."
Eventually, a heavy quiet settled over the laboratory. Philip checked the entrance once more to make sure no one was coming. Satisfied he was alone, he turned back to his screen. He opened a private folder hidden beneath layers of ordinary research files.
Pages of notes, experimental results, calculations, observations, and dates filled the monitor. He scrolled slowly through them until he reached the most recent entry.
His eyes narrowed.
There it was again. The same pattern.
Philip leaned closer, a faint smile touching his face. "Interesting..."
"What are you looking at?"
Philip froze. He quickly minimized the folder and turned his chair to find one of the remaining researchers standing behind him.
"Nothing," Philip said smoothly.
The researcher glanced at the screen, then back at Philip. "You're still working?"
Philip nodded. "Just finishing something."
"Don't stay too late," the researcher said, turning to leave. "I won't."
Philip waited until the researcher's footsteps faded into complete silence. He reopened the folder, staring at the results for several seconds before closing it with a low sigh. He forced himself to finish up his remaining company tasks, but his mind refused to let go of what he had just seen.
As the clocks ticked late into the evening, Philip finally shut down his computer and gathered his belongings. Whatever questions were running through his mind would have to wait. He locked the laboratory door behind him and stepped out into the night.
Boston was still alive, though the streets were far quieter than they had been that morning. Philip boarded the bus and settled into his usual seat by the window, watching the city lights blur past.
For the first time that day, his thoughts weren't on the laboratory. They were on Sasha.
