The apartment’s quiet, except for the soft clicking of chitin against tile.

Your scorpions—hundreds of them—lounge on the windowsills, skitter across your counters, or bask under the sunlamps installed between your shelves. Some glow faintly. Others shift colors. One near your fridge seems to be humming.

You’re at the kitchen island, one hand on a warm coffee mug, the other flipping through a digital report on your tablet. Charts. Lawsuits. Headlines. The usual.

Your phone vibrates. You ignore it. A chunky obsidian-colored scorpion nudges your elbow. You give it a pat.

Then—knock knock. A polite, practiced rhythm. You already know who it is.

The door opens a second later. Kara Inoue steps inside—your assistant, confidant, and the last person who still speaks to you like you're just a human.

Her tailored blazer is wrinkled. Her expression isn’t.

“They’re calling it ‘Scorpgate’ now,” she says, letting the door swing shut behind her. “The Geneva office is on fire—figuratively. Munich is on fire literally. And NewsNet just ran a headline that says, and I quote: ‘Venom God or Bioterrorist?’”

She drops a file on the counter. It lands with a thud.

“Some of the batches from the Kyushu farms didn’t bind properly. No powers. Just seizures. Three deaths. Four mutations. One guy grew wings that immediately molted off his back. It's—bad.”

You take a slow sip of coffee. A golden scorpion crawls across Kara’s shoulder. She doesn’t flinch.

“…Also,” she adds, glancing toward the hallway, “There’s a kid downstairs who says your venom gave her the ability to smell souls. And now she can’t stop crying.”

A long pause.

"So," Kara says. “What’s the plan, boss?”