Chapter 267: Gene Chain

Xia Xue laid ten DNA reports flat on the forensic science workstation; under the ultraviolet lamp, the chromosome comparison maps revealed an eerie similarity. The gene fragments of Canada’s Prime Minister, Japan’s Minister of Defense, Russia’s energy oligarch... shared seventeen identical marker sites with her mitochondrial DNA.

“This is characteristic of an artificial chimera,” Lin Xiaoman said, using forceps to lift the slide—stem cells extracted from Xia Xue’s bone marrow. “Your seventh chromosome shows splice marks, as if cut by gene scissors.”

The lab suddenly lost power; in the brief gap before emergency backup activated, Xia Xue caught a shadow darting past the fire escape outside. She grabbed the ultraviolet lamp and shone it at the glass, faintly seeing the man’s right hand missing his pinky—the same old injury described in Luo Fei’s sick leave note from yesterday.

“Director Lin, run a methylation test for me,” she suddenly raised her voice, tapping Morse code on the tabletop: [Someone is eavesdropping]. Lin Xiaoman understood, turning on the mass spectrometer’s noise to mask their conversation, then secretly slipping her a note: “The criminal investigation bureau’s internal network was breached at midnight. Your personnel file was the target.”

The refrigerator suddenly emitted an abnormal hum. As Xia Xue turned, the frozen vials containing her blood samples were vibrating in unison. She grabbed the liquid nitrogen tank and sprayed it—the minus 196-degree cold frosted the door, revealing a countdown written in thermochromic ink: 17:00.

“They’re destroying evidence!” Xia Xue yanked open the door to rescue the samples, her fingers brushing the edge of a hidden compartment. Inside the metal layer, a miniature freezer held three pale blue vials labeled “XVII,” bubbling gently.

Lin Xiaoman’s detector emitted a piercing alarm: “The reagent contains a retrovirus! Put it back—” Before she could finish, a pale pink gas spewed from the ventilation shaft.

Xia Xue held her breath and rolled behind the safe cabinet, seeing Lin Xiaoman collapsed on the floor, her pupils rapidly dilating.

———

When riot police smashed through the lab door, Xia Xue was binding a tourniquet around her right brachial artery. She had just injected herself with the inhibitor she’d retrieved from the hidden compartment; now, data streams flickered across her retinas—the side effect of her gene lock being forcibly opened.

“Don’t touch her!” the forensic assistant stepped back, holding up the body camera. “Her blood tested positive for an Ebola variant!”

Xia Xue tore open the collar of her protective suit, revealing the circular scar beneath her clavicle—the mark left after removing the implant this morning. Now, glowing blue fluid seeped from the wound: “This is a chromatic marker, not a virus! They’re using fear to stop your investigation!”

Amid the chaos, she saw Deputy Director Wang Zhentao’s hand resting on his sidearm. This leader, newly transferred in three days, now had his right pinky curled unnaturally. When their eyes met, Wang suddenly drew his gun and pointed it at the ventilation duct: “There’s an attacker!”

Xia Xue knocked over the reagent rack and slipped out the safety window amid shattering glass. As she climbed onto the roof, she heard the muffled thuds of a suppressed pistol—bullets sparking against the cooling tower. She pulled the USB drive from Lin Xiaoman’s pocket, plugged it into her phone, and decrypted the file—her blood ran cold: the 2006 investor list of Noah Biotech prominently listed the current mayor and three provincial bureau leaders.

———

At the southern slope of Qingyan Mountain Cemetery, Luo Fei crouched before the seventeenth row of tombstones. His fingers brushed the characters “Chen Meiling”—suddenly, they peeled away, revealing a laser-engraved serial number beneath: X-0. Fresh cracks marred the cement base of the tombstone; prying it open revealed a biometric lockbox.

“Iris verification accepted,” the mechanical female voice chimed. Luo Fei felt the hairs on his nape rise. Inside, neatly stacked were yellowed lab logs. The first page bore a photo of Xia Xue at age one, annotated: Seventeenth-generation Perfect Vessel.

His phone vibrated—an anonymous number sent a surveillance screenshot: Wang was loading a metal case into the trunk of an unmarked car in the underground garage. Zooming in, the case bore a radioactive symbol, its dosage reading: 17 millisieverts.

“Captain Luo, we’ve got something at the funeral home!” came Xiao Liu’s voice from the radio. “Three corpses’ fingerprints match missing Noah Biotech researchers—but DNA testing shows...”

Static swallowed the rest. As Luo Fei stood, his foot kicked a remote-controlled toy from the offerings pile. The plastic helicopter’s rotor suddenly spun, launching a holographic projection: seventeen red dots moved across the city map, each corresponding to the location of a primary or secondary school.

———

Xia Xue slid down the drainpipe into the underground garage just as Wang was loading the metal case into the car. She crept silently to the rear, using a decoder to clone the car’s lock signal. The moment the trunk opened, seventeen sealed lead canisters lay in perfect alignment, each lid stamped with “Californium-252”—the most expensive radioactive element on Earth.

“So they’re building a dirty bomb,” she murmured, raising her phone to photograph—when the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her skull. Wang’s voice carried a smile: “Do you know where this car is headed? The police bureau is holding an anti-terrorism drill right now.”

Xia Xue’s elbow strike and kick were twisted aside; Wang tore open his shirt to reveal the same circular scar beneath his clavicle: “We imperfects must serve as stepping stones for the perfect vessels.” His pupils glowed an unnatural gold—the classic symptom of failed gene editing.

Distant sirens approached. Wang suddenly spun the gun, forcing it into her hand, then gripped her fingers and pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced his left shoulder, splattering blood across Xia Xue’s stunned face.

“Go!” he whispered, black blood seeping from his lips. “They’ve planted...” His voice cut off as the garage’s load-bearing column exploded. The blast hurled Xia Xue through the air. The last image before unconsciousness: Wang’s right hand, pinned beneath concrete slabs—his pinky intact, adorned with a wedding ring, utterly unlike the prosthetic she’d seen that morning.