Paul's pupils contracted sharply.
The feverish excitement on his face froze, replaced by a flicker of deep confusion.
He probably assumed this was Wieland's reaction to his "rebirth."Satisfaction. Recognition. Approval.
What he didn't know was—
That smile was my greeting.
From Jack Kane.Special forces operative.
A welcome gift.
"Transfer him to Recovery Chamber One."
Paul adjusted his glasses, concealing the emotions in his eyes as he returned to a scientist's calm detachment.
Several nurses and assistants moved at once, their movements gentle as they shifted me from the cold operating table onto a hovering medical bed.
The bed glided soundlessly through pristine white corridors.
It stopped before a massive metal door.
The door slid open.
The sight beyond made my breathing stall for a split second.
This wasn't a hospital room.
It was a glass palace suspended above the city.
One entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling window, revealing endless skyscrapers below, traffic flowing like rivers of molten gold.
Soft wool carpeting cushioned the floor beneath me.The air carried the scent of expensive aged wood.
I was placed onto a massive bed that seemed capable of swallowing a person whole.
The hospital gown was replaced with a silk robe.
The sensation against my skin was unfamiliar—almost unsettling.
I closed my eyes and forced myself to calm down.
This was Alex Wieland's life.
And from this moment on—
It was mine.
The door slid open again.
Paul entered with two assistants in white coats, a tablet in his hands.
He looked at me the way an engineer inspected a precision instrument—with no concern for a "patient," only evaluation.
"Mr. Wieland," he said evenly."How do you feel?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Inside my mind, I searched Wieland's memories at full speed.
The old man despised small talk.He never wasted words on meaningless pleasantries.
Slowly, I opened my eyes and looked at Paul with an expression of exhaustion laced with irritation.
I said nothing.
Only swallowed, letting out a rough, hoarse grunt.
Paul didn't mind.
He lowered his gaze to the tablet and continued in the same clinical tone.
"Do you remember our discussion in Geneva regarding the Prometheus Project?""Do you have any new thoughts on the third-stage financing plan?"
There it was.
The real test.
My heart slammed hard against my ribs.
The word Prometheus was a key—unlocking a heavily encrypted file in my mind.
Fragments of data surged forward.
Business projections.Offshore transfers.Backroom deals.
Geneva. Financing.A banker with the last name Rothschild.
Wieland despised him.
I endured the splitting pressure inside my skull and seized the most critical thread.
Then I spoke.
"The proposal is garbage."
My voice was my own.
The cadence, however, belonged to a man who had ruled for a century.
"Get Rothschild's people out of my sight," I said coldly."I'll speak with the Saudi Crown Prince myself."
Paul's fingers paused on the tablet.
He looked up.
Behind the gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes sharpened—like scalpels—attempting to dissect me layer by layer.
"It appears your core memory modules remain intact," he said.
One of the assistants quickly recorded something.
"Last question."
A strange curve formed at the corner of Paul's mouth.
"What color lipstick was your most trusted nurse, Lin Weiwei, wearing today?"
My mind went blank.
Wieland remembered boardrooms.Politicians.Lovers.Enemies.
But a nurse's lipstick?
Such a trivial detail didn't exist in his memories.
This was a trap.
A sudden assault based on logic and emotion.
Paul was gambling—
That a newly "reborn" centenarian would never notice such details.
But I wasn't that centenarian.
I was a soldier.
Observation was carved into my bones.
From the moment I opened my eyes, every person in that operating room—every detail—had been etched into my mind.
The young nurse who checked my pupils first.
She was nervous.Her lips pressed together unconsciously.
A faint shade.
Almost unnoticeable.
Nude pink.
As Paul waited, I felt it—
A subtle heat spreading at the base of my skull.
The implanted device.
Its temperature was rising.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to warn.
I didn't answer right away.
I turned my head toward the city lights outside the window, as if the question bored me.
"Paul," I said softly.
"Do you think I've grown senile?"
There was a chill in my voice now.The kind that followed offense.
"Do you really believe I wouldn't notice a young woman trying to draw my attention with cheap tricks?"
I paused.
"That tasteless nude pink only made her look paler."
The smile vanished from Paul's face.
He stared at me in silence for ten full seconds.
Then he shut off the tablet.
"Rest well, Mr. Wieland," he said at last."Tomorrow, Adam will brief you on the next phase of your recovery."
He inclined his head slightly and left with his assistants.
The door closed again.
I was alone.
I released a long breath.
The silk robe clung to my back—soaked through with cold sweat.
The first checkpoint—
Cleared.
I sat up and examined my unfamiliar "home."
No visible switches lined the walls.Only a smooth black panel.
Adam.
Wieland's AI steward.
I cleared my throat and tested my voice.
"Adam. Water."
The bedside table slid open soundlessly.
A mechanical arm extended, presenting a glass of water at the perfect temperature.
The power of technology was unsettling.
I had just taken the glass when the emotionless synthetic voice echoed throughout the room.
It wasn't responding to my command.
It was issuing a system alert.
"Mr. Wieland," Adam said,"your neural signal pattern deviates from historical baseline by 12.7%."
"Would you like to initiate a self-diagnostic protocol?"