Chapter 51
Buried in Blood, Buried in Data
Violet
Asher didn’t come with me to the lab this time.
I told myself that would be a relief—no sharp glances, no silent pressure, and no tension humming between us.
But now that I'm here, there's this gnawing absence. The air feels thinner without him. Like I left part of my defense behind and walked into the lion’s den in bare feet. It shouldn’t matter.
I should want the space. But I hate how exposed it makes me feel.
The car ride over is quiet, thick with all the things Dorian doesn't say. He keeps his eyes on the road, jaw tight, and hands steady. It's weirdly polite for a man who once hauled me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say, not bothering to hide the grin tugging at my mouth, “if you're planning to manhandle me again, at least give me a heads-up. I'd wear less mascara and more body glitter next time. Make it a real show.”
Dorian doesn’t flinch. “I only carry flight risks.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
He smirks. “Not a chance.”
By the time we reach the lab, I’m almost grateful for the awkward tension. It’s easier than facing whatever’s waiting for me inside.
While we idle at the security checkpoint, my phone buzzes. Cami.
CAMI: I did something wild.
Me: Oh god. Do I need to bail you out?
CAMI: No. I accidentally slept with Mav.
CAMI: Or maybe it wasn’t an accident.
CAMI: Honestly, it’s all a blur of tequila and questionable decisions.
CAMI: Like… it was supposed to be a one-time thing, but I can’t stop thinking about it. This is bad, right?
ME: That depends. Was he good?
I can practically hear her giggling through the phone, the kind of snort-laugh that means she’s either mortified or dangerously proud. Probably both.
CAMI: Too good. Like criminally good. Your crime boyfriend teaches his men very illegal things.
ME: Ew. Stop. I hate that I know this.
CAMI: No, you love it.
CAMI: He left his gun holster on the whole time. Who does that??
ME: Cami!
CAMI: Don’t judge me, I’m spiraling. I wore heels to the grocery store just in case I ran into him. I haven’t grocery shopped for myself in months.
ME: Okay, that’s impressive thirst
CAMI: I’m a mess.
CAMI: Emotionally reckless and fueled entirely by iced coffee, bad decisions, and sexual tension—and the unsettling realization that he looks like the kind of man who enjoys watching me unravel.
CAMI: Anyway, I’m trying to play it cool, but I think I’m failing because I just offered to bake him cookies and called him 'champ' like a soccer mom.
ME: He probably thinks about you too, but his skull is too thick to admit it.
ME: Just mess with him. Make him suffer.
CAMI: Oh, I will. I’ve already bookmarked three spicy monologues from mob movies and practiced flipping my hair dramatically. I’m gonna make him regret this.
CAMI: Ominous things like, 'you’ll regret this, Maverick' and then disappear dramatically into the night.
I grin at the screen. At least one of us is getting laid without complications—and apparently plotting her own HBO drama in the process.
The lab is quieter than I expected. No icy stares. No tension in the air. Just the low hum of machinery and the smell of sterilized surfaces. That won't last.
I clear my throat as the door hisses shut behind me. "Hi," I say, loud enough to draw every pair of eyes. "I'm Violet Cole. I'm here to—well, to work with you. And also... probably to apologize."
Several techs look up from their stations. A few exchange glances. One mutters something that earns a sharp elbow from his colleague.
I straighten my shoulders. "Last time I was here, I said some things. True things, but probably not the kindest delivery. And then... there was the window. And a situation that none of us expected." My cheeks heat. "Sorry about that. Really."
A few chuckles break the tension. One older tech raises his brow but nods slightly. Another pretends to adjust a microscope to hide his grin.
A soft voice cuts through. "I thought it was badass." The young woman with the braid and sharp eyes stands near the back, tablet in hand. "I’m Sasha. I was here that day. You scared the hell out of everyone, and then you—well, yeah. But you kind of became a legend."
I laugh, tension breaking. "Happy to disappoint you with actual science today."
Sasha steps closer. "We’ve all been trying to crack Zephyra. Nothing stable. Nothing safe."
I walk to the center station and pull out a notepad from my pocket. "Then let’s fix that. I’ll give you the base formula. But you’re not going to like what comes next."
I write while they gather around—some skeptical, some curious, and some just annoyed I’ve been allowed in at all.
One of them, wiry with thick glasses and a sharp jaw, stands stiffly off to the side.
He doesn’t say anything, but the way he watches me—arms crossed, and lips thin—says more than enough.
I recognize him from last time. He was the first to storm out when I called their methods sloppy.
Definitely the one in charge, or at least the one who thinks he should be.
Great.
“Zephyra isn’t complicated in construction,” I say.
“It’s complicated in consequence.” I tap the board once, hard.
“On paper, it looks familiar. Too familiar. Structurally, it isn’t that far off from MDMA — same fast uptake, same clean initial hit.
That was the point. MDMA surges, peaks, then drops.
You get a half-life. A comedown. The brain recalibrates. ” I shake my head. “This doesn’t.”
A hush settles over the room.
“With MDMA,” I continue, “dopamine and serotonin spike, burn out, then fall. You feel connected, open, and suggestible—and then it fades. There’s a cost. A crash. The brain remembers where it was before.” I gesture at the data on the screen. “Zephyra skips that part.”
Someone swears under their breath.
“It hits fast,” I say. “Clean. Sharp. But it doesn’t decay the way it should. There’s no clean comedown. No emotional recoil. The receptors don’t just fire—they reorganize.”
“Are you saying it’s addictive?” one of the techs asks.
I look at him. “No.”
That word lands heavier than yes.
“Addiction still leaves choice,” I say quietly. “Craving. Withdrawal. Resistance. This doesn’t hook into pleasure centers the way MDMA does. It bypasses them.”
I swallow. “It mimics a loyalty response. The same neural pathways the brain uses for trust. For safety. For attachment. The more someone takes it, the deeper that pathway gets reinforced. Saying no doesn’t feel dangerous—it just stops occurring to them.”
The silence turns brittle.
“Obedience,” I add. “Compliance. Even love, if the timing’s right.”
Sasha’s voice cuts in, careful. “That’s not how MDMA behaves.”
“I know,” I say. My chest tightens. “That’s the problem. I don’t remember it behaving like this either.”
A few heads turn.
I force myself to keep going. “The base formula hasn’t changed. Not on purpose. Which means something else is happening—metabolism, binding, or cumulative exposure. Something I missed. Or something that only shows up over time.”
I meet their eyes one by one. “If we don’t stabilize it, this doesn’t make people feel free. It erases the part of them that knows they’re choosing.”
“And if someone wanted that?” Sasha asks softly. “Used it deliberately?”
I don’t hesitate. “Then it becomes the most dangerous thing in this building.”
Sasha nods, jaw tight. “So we start over.”
“We have to,” I say. “From the first synthesis. Every step. Every variable. We watch it breathe. Because whatever this turned into—” I glance back at the data, my stomach hollowing out. “—it isn’t what I meant to make.”
Sasha straightens. “Then let’s make sure it can never be used the wrong way.”
For the first time since I walked in, I smile. “Let’s.”
Later, when the lab starts to empty out for the night, Sasha and I stay behind, still poking at samples and double-checking notes. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that invites real talk.
"So, Sasha," I say, not looking up from the notes. "How’d you end up in a lab owned by the Crimson Order?"
She huffs a soft laugh. She rolls a pen between her fingers.
"I grew up in foster care. A dozen homes, a dozen escape plans.
I always liked science—it was the one thing that made sense no matter where I was.
I got a scholarship eventually, started college, thought I was finally going to be free of the system. "
I glance at her, sensing the shift.
"But halfway through, I lost funding. Some bullshit error no one would fix. I was a week from dropping out, couch-surfing with nothing but debt and anxiety, when someone showed up with a grant. No strings, just—'a gift from someone who believes in second chances."
"Asher," I grumble.
She nods. "Didn’t know who he was at first. Just that he got things done.
Later I found out he knew about my birth mom—she was a dancer at one of the Crimson Order clubs.
OD’d on cheap-cut shit some asshole sold her on credit.
Asher sent men to check on her when she didn’t show up for a shift.
They found me there. I was five. Alone in that apartment with her body for two days.
No one came for me. No family. Just a report.
Just a file. And a girl too angry to cry.
" She exhales, fingers tightening around her pen. "When I aged out of the system and started slipping, he stepped in again. Quietly. No lectures, no promises. Just enough to catch me before I hit bottom. I think... I think he didn’t want me to fail like she did." She looks at her hands. "He doesn’t say much, but he pays well. Gives me space. Makes sure I’m okay. And I think that’s his way of caring. Even if he’ll never say it out loud."
There’s a pause.
"I know what this place is, Violet," she says softly. "But I also know what it gave me. And if we’re going to make drugs safer… I want to be part of that."