Chapter 2: The Watchers

Chapter 2: The Watchers

The single, sterile beam of the headlight pinned Anya in place, turning her bedroom window into a stage. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, oppressive silence. They weren't just outside; they were watching. A primal fear, cold and sharp, lanced through her. They couldn't possibly know. How could they? The Plastiphage was minutes old, a miracle born of despair in the privacy of her room.

The jarring buzz of the building's intercom shattered the quiet, making her jump. It was a harsh, ugly sound, one rarely used. No one ever visited them.

"Who is it?" her father's voice, laced with irritation, crackled from the main room.

Anya scrambled back from the window, her mind racing. The Plastiphage. It was still on her nightstand, a small mound of impossible life pulsing with a soft, emerald luminescence. It was a beacon. She had to hide it.

Her first instinct was to shove it under her pillow, but the gentle glow simply diffused through the thin, recycled cotton. A drawer? It would light up the inside of the nightstand like a lantern. Panic began to cloud her thoughts, making her limbs feel clumsy and slow.

"Just a moment!" her father called out, the scrape of his chair telling her he was finally leaving his digital fortress. He emerged from his lab, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair, his brow furrowed in annoyance at the interruption. He glanced at Anya, who was frozen in her doorway, her wide, unnaturally clear eyes fixed on the pulsing organism.

"Anya, what is it? You look like you've seen a ghost." He didn't wait for an answer, instead heading for the door.

A loud, firm knock echoed through the apartment, preempting the intercom. It wasn't the knock of a neighbor or a delivery drone. It was precise, methodical, and patient. The sound of authority.

"Don't open it!" Anya whispered, the words catching in her dry throat.

Her father shot her a look of pure exasperation. "Don't be ridiculous. It's probably just a grid-inspector." He unlocked the door.

Standing in the dimly lit hallway were two men. They were so utterly out of place in the grimy corridor that they seemed to have stepped out of another world. Both wore impeccably tailored black suits that probably cost more than a year's rent. Their shoes were polished to a mirror shine, and their faces were blank, impassive masks. The taller one had a small, silver pin on his lapel—a stylized letter 'K' encircling a perfect globe.

"Dr. Aris Solara?" the man asked. His voice was smooth, neutral, and utterly devoid of warmth.

"Yes. What is this about?" Aris asked, his tone already defensive.

"My name is Marcus Thorne. This is my associate." The second man gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "We're with Khemia Global's corporate security division. This is just a routine follow-up regarding your research grants. May we come in?"

It wasn't a question. They stepped over the threshold before Aris could answer, their cold, assessing eyes sweeping over the cluttered apartment, taking in the towers of data-slates and the snaking cables with dismissive professionalism.

Anya felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft from the hallway. It was an aura that radiated from them, a predatory stillness that made the air feel thin and sharp. It was the feeling of a herbivore sensing a pair of silent carnivores who had already chosen their prey. Her very soul recoiled from their presence.

She shrank back into the shadows of her room, her gaze fixed on the glowing Plastiphage. Its light seemed to pulse in time with her frantic heartbeat, a secret she was sure the men could feel, could smell.

"Khemia's grants are for theoretical modeling," Aris said, crossing his arms. "They don't include house calls from security."

"New company policy," the man named Thorne replied smoothly, his eyes lingering for a moment on the closed door of Anya's room. "We like to maintain a personal connection with the great minds we support. We were just wondering if you've had any... unexpected breakthroughs recently. Anything unconventional?"

As he spoke, Anya felt their cold, invasive presence reach for her secret. It was an instinct, a pressure in her mind. They were hunters, and the Plastiphage was the most impossible, exotic creature in the world.

She had to protect it.

Her desperation from before—the despair that had given birth to the Plastiphage—was nothing compared to the terror that gripped her now. This was a primal, protective instinct. She focused all her attention on the glowing fungus. A new command, born not of sorrow but of fierce, protective will, formed in her mind. It wasn't a word, but a feeling, an absolute need.

Hide. Be unseen. Become nothing.

A wave of dizziness washed over her. The room swayed, and a cold sweat broke out across her forehead. It felt as if a plug had been pulled deep inside her, draining her warmth, her energy. Through her swimming vision, she saw the Plastiphage respond.

The soft, emerald light didn't just switch off; it was recalled. The glow receded into the fungus, as if it were drawing a breath. The vibrant green color began to shift and mottle. It bled into a dull, listless brown, then darkened further, picking up the grimy texture of the recycled wood-composite of her nightstand. The living, pulsating surface flattened, becoming rough and inert. In a matter of seconds, the vibrant, impossible lifeform was gone, replaced by what looked like a meaningless stain, an old water-ring or a spot of dried grime, utterly indistinguishable from the rest of the worn-out furniture.

The effort left Anya gasping. She leaned heavily against the doorframe, her legs trembling, a profound, bone-deep exhaustion settling over her. She understood in that moment, with terrifying clarity: the power that had created the miracle, that had commanded it to hide, was her own life force. And it was not an infinite resource.

"Anything at all, Doctor?" Thorne pressed, his voice cutting through her daze. "Any unusual energy readings? Strange organic samples?"

"My work is on that screen," Aris snapped, gesturing to his main monitor. "It's data. It's theory. If you want to read my papers, be my guest. Otherwise, this 'routine visit' is over."

Thorne held his gaze for a long moment, a faint, unreadable smile touching his lips. "Of course, Doctor. We appreciate your time." His eyes flicked down the hallway one last time, directly at Anya, and for a split second, she was certain he could see right through her, right to the draining secret she was protecting.

Then, as smoothly as they arrived, they turned and left. The heavy apartment door clicked shut behind them, leaving a silence that felt louder and more threatening than their questions.

Aris let out an exasperated sigh, muttering about corporate thugs and privacy violations. He was so wrapped up in his own indignation that he didn't notice his daughter was pale as death, propping herself up against a wall.

"Insolent bastards," he grumbled, stalking back to his lab. "Thinking they own my research..."

Anya didn't hear him. She stumbled into her room and collapsed onto her bed, her breath coming in ragged pants. Her hand trembled as she reached out to the spot on her nightstand. She touched the rough, grimy-looking patch. It was cool and still, giving no hint of the vibrant life coiled within.

The secret was safe. For now. But the watchers had a name: Khemia Global. And she knew, with a certainty that chilled her more than any exhaustion, that they would be back. This was not the end. It was the beginning of the hunt.