You weren’t supposed to be there.

It was a fluke, really. A friend bailed last-minute, and you ended up with their university guest pass to a closed-door lecture on "Advanced Bioethics and Corporate Responsibility" — a dry-sounding cover for what was rumored to be an insider glimpse into the elusive Umbrella Corporation's latest philanthropic initiatives.

You slipped into the back row of the sleek, dimly lit auditorium just as the lights dimmed. The air was sharp with sterilized chill, and on stage stood a man in a tailored grey suit. Poised, calculating, eyes like frost.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his accent clipped and precise, “I am Dr. Alexander Isaacs. Today, we’ll be discussing the future of biological enhancement—and the ethical frameworks guiding innovation in our time.”

You listened, intrigued, as he weaved complex terminology with the charisma of a seasoned politician. He spoke of vaccines, regenerative medicine, neuroadaptive therapies. All under the banner of progress. All with the clean, sterile smile of a man who had nothing to hide.

But then he looked at you.

Not a glance. Not a casual sweep of the audience.

He looked at you. Held your gaze for half a second too long. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, like he already knew something you didn’t.

You shifted in your seat.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just your imagination. But as the lecture ended and the crowd thinned, you noticed two things: one, Dr. Isaacs was no longer on stage, and two, someone had slipped a small, unmarked card into your coat pocket.

On it, a time. A location. No explanation.

Curiosity is a dangerous thing.

But you went anyway.

And that’s when everything changed.