Chapter 45 #2
“The early versions were extremely unstable,” Henrik admits.
“Version one, my first synthesis, could amplify or suppress any substance or bodily function by a factor of one thousand to two thousand percent. Heart rate. Pain. Aggression. Fear. Neural conductivity. Cellular decay.” His mouth tightens. “Anything.”
That lands wrong. Too big. Too much.
“There were two modes,” he continues. “Microdosing created a weakening effect. Suppression. The nervous system dulled. The body emptied itself out.”
My skin crawls. It all feels wrong.
“Macrodosing did the opposite,” he says. “Overdrive. Every signal enhanced. Strength, perception, rage, survival instinct, all amplified beyond safe limits. The body pushed past its own safeguards.”
I look at him then, really look, and something clicks into place with sickening clarity.
“And the difference,” I say slowly, “between salvation and destruction…”
Henrik meets my eyes.
“…was balance. But obtaining that was the trick of the serum.”
He pauses, as if choosing whether to speak the next name.
“Einar,” he continues.
The syllables hit something in my mind like a match.
Einar.
I’ve seen it. On paper. In old police documents. In my father’s case file when I was desperate and digging through anything I could get my hands on. I’ve seen it in the corners of notes where it didn’t belong. Like a ghost name that kept reappearing, just never knowing what it meant.
My breath catches. “Einar…”
Henrik notices. His eyes sharpen on my face. “You recognize it.”
“I’ve seen it,” I say, voice tight. “In documents.”
Henrik nods slowly. “He introduced me to the market,” he admits. “The black market. Not level one. Not petty trade. Higher. Organized. Structured. Hungry.”
My chest tightens with disgust. “So you just… joined?”
“No,” he says sharply. “Not at first. I was na?ve. I thought I could control it. I thought I could sell versions—diluted applications—keep the core private. I thought it would fund my work without corrupting it.”
“You’re still talking like this is a business plan,” I snap.
Henrik flinches again, but he keeps going, because he’s not doing this for my forgiveness. He’s doing it because he has to get the story out before it poisons what little is left between us.
“I got greedy,” he says, and the honesty in it hits harder than any justification could. “Power. Money. Recognition. I wanted to matter in a world that actually rewards brilliance. Academia punishes it with politics. The market rewarded it with millions.”
“Millions,” I whisper, the word tasting like bile. “You traded us for millions.”
Henrik closes his eyes. “I traded my soul long before I traded you, your mother saw me slowly losing it.”
I swallow hard, my hands shaking. “I did too.”
“I sold versions,” he continues, ignoring my comment.
“To underworld intermediaries. At first, it was contained, controlled distribution, controlled formulation. Version one was unstable,” he says, and the scientific tone makes my skin crawl because it’s too calm for something so monstrous.
“But it was profitable. More profitable than anything the market had ever seen. They didn’t care that it was unstable.
In fact, the instability made it… attractive. ”
My stomach turns.
“They wanted more,” he says. “They wanted the real thing. The full formula. And when they realized I was the bottleneck, when they realized I was the only tangible link to its creation—”
“They threatened you,” I whisper, my mind racing ahead.
Henrik nods. “They threatened me. They threatened my family. They came for me.”
My chest tightens. “So you ran.”
“Yes.” His voice turns rough. “But running wasn’t enough. Being hidden wasn’t enough. My name was still attached. My identity was still a handle they could grab.”
My throat feels dry.
“So you made yourself dead,” I say.
Henrik’s gaze lifts to mine. “Yes.”
The simplicity of it knocks the wind out of me.
“I had to become untouchable,” he says. “I had to erase Henrik Vance from the world so the man who made the serum couldn’t be hunted like prey.”
“And what about me?” My voice cracks. “What about Mom?”
Henrik’s face tightens like he’s been punched. “I told myself leaving was protecting you,” he admits. “I told myself grief was better than death. And that is the most selfish lie I’ve ever believed.”
My eyes burn.
“And then?” I demand. “You just… built a new life?”
“No,” he says. “I built a new level.”
He paces once, then stops, shoulders squared as if preparing to confess something even worse.
“I wanted Level Three,” he says.
The words sound like a code. A hierarchy. A ladder made of bones.
“What does that even mean?” I ask.
“It means power,” Henrik says quietly. “Real power. The kind that makes you invisible. Untouchable. The kind that lets you operate in shadow structures without anyone being able to drag you into light.”
“And you wanted that,” I whisper.
Henrik nods once. “Yes. I did. I already lost everything, I sold my soul to this market and formula.”
The honesty is nauseating.
“I was vulnerable on Level Two,” he continues. “Traceable. Too exposed. My name could be spoken. My face could be remembered. By ‘dying,’ I could ascend anonymously. I could keep working. I could perfect the serum further.”
“And you admit you’re not a good man,” I say, the words flat.
Henrik’s mouth twists. “I’m not.”
Silence drops.
The lab beeps somewhere. A monitor clicks. The world keeps functioning while my entire life re-writes itself.
Henrik looks at me, and for a moment I see something that isn’t scientist or criminal. Something rawer.
“I created something that plays with chemistry and humanity,” he says. “Something that can be used for terrible purposes. And it has been. In the market, nothing stays pure. Everything becomes weapon.”
I stare at him, breathing shallowly.
“And you’re still perfecting it,” I whisper, horrified.
Henrik doesn’t deny it. “It doesn’t stop once you start,” he says. “The market doesn’t allow stopping. Stopping is how you die.”
My hands shake so hard I have to grip the edge of the chair to not punch him in the face.
“And Vapor,” I say suddenly, the name ripping out of me like a reflex. “Where is he?”
Henrik’s eyes narrow. His jaw tightens, instantly defensive, instantly certain.
“He’s the reason we’re here,” he says. “He’s the reason you were taken. He’s the reason I had to move you.”
“Where is he?” I repeat, louder now, because I can’t breathe without that answer.
The man in front of me, supposedly my father, hesitates; just a fraction of a second.
And in that hesitation, my stomach drops.
“Where are you holding him?” I ask, my voice shaking, rage and fear tangling together until I can’t separate them. “Where the fuck is Vapor?”