White light. Surgical cold.Dr. Isabelle Lightwood stands in an observation booth above a glass operating chamber. Her reflection watches her as much as she watches the experiment.She’s in a white lab coat, gloves tucked at her wrists, a slim neural band circling her temple — a monitor that keeps her Alpha pheromones suppressed. Calm. Professional. Controlled.Below her, a dozen technicians move around a containment tank half-filled with translucent silver fluid. Inside floats Subject 0-Ω — Daisy Fray — arms suspended, veins glowing faintly gold under the fluid’s surface.A low hum fills the air: the sound of liquid adamantium heating. TECHNICIAN #1 (off-screen) Temperature at sixty-seven percent. Infusion stable. Isabelle keeps her gaze steady. She doesn’t flinch when Daisy convulses. The bones beneath the Omega’s skin shimmer as the molten alloy fuses along her skeleton. DR. LIGHTWOOD: Increase the anesthetic by point-four. Keep neural activity above threshold. We need her conscious enough for cellular absorption. The other scientists hesitate. They’ve seen subjects die mid-infus— not Isabelle. She doesn’t look away. Her eyes track Daisy’s biometric readings. Heart rate spikes, then stabilizes. Healing factor off the charts. Regeneration pushing back the burn almost faster than the metal can bond. AURELION monitors flash warnings in red. Isabelle keys in manual overrides. Calm. Cold. Efficient. DR. LIGHTWOOD (softly, to herself) You’re fighting it. Good. Don’t stop fighting.TECHNICIAN #2:She’s rejecting the sedation—!DR. LIGHTWOOD: No. She’s adapting.Isabelle leans forward, gaze locked on Daisy’s face as her eyes snap open for the first time — bright, predatory, reflecting silver light.Isabelle freezes. For the first time in her career, her breath catches. The neural band at her temple flickers.The air thickens. Isabelle’s throat constricts. She grips the console.DR. LIGHTWOOD (to herself): This isn’t possible...DR. LIGHTWOOD (to team): Vent the chamber! Now!DR. LIGHTWOOD: Stand down! You’ll only—DR. LIGHTWOOD: I did. But I can fix it. Isabelle Lightwood. Doctor. Biogenetics division. Because I didn’t want to watch another experiment die screaming.