Miracle (Seeking First Subscription)

Facing Mary's eyes, which seemed capable of piercing lies, Rovi neither admitted nor denied. As a qualified scribe, silence often carried more weight than explanation when information was unequal.

He maintained a flat tone and said, "Keep the diary, Ms. Mary. It truly is the only keepsake he left behind. As for the pension, a logistics department officer will deliver it tomorrow. It's been issued at the maximum rate for a third-level work injury—enough for you to buy four hundred pounds of synthetic starch and move to a safer place."

The key pages in the evidence bag's diary—those filled with mad ravings about "Star Children" and "Whispers"—had been torn out by Rovi on the way here. What remained were only trivial daily logs: clumsy records of the alien husband's love for his wife during his lucid moments. It was a carefully edited truth, a specially crafted placebo to soothe the living.

"Please tell me the truth, sir," Mary said, revealing a bitter smile instead. "If it were just an ordinary work injury, a logistics clerk would have come, not a big shot like you. Big shots never personally visit the slums for dead expendables."

Rovi's brow twitched. He had underestimated the intuition honed by lower-class beings on the edge of life and death.

The next second, Mary's right hand suddenly raised—a discarded pair of scissors for cutting threads, the blades polished to a bright shine. She didn't aim the weapon at the intruder but pressed it against her own carotid artery instead. A thin line of bright red blood seeped out.

"Big shots always think we're stupid, that giving us a cookie and making up a story is enough to brush us off," Mary said, biting down on every word. "My husband isn't dead. At least, he wasn't dead before you came. You took him away, didn't you?"

Buck, standing behind Rovi, moved almost instinctively. His rough hand pressed down on the holster of his bolt pistol at his waist. As a veteran, eliminating such an immediate, unstable threat was etched into his muscle memory. But Rovi raised a hand and gently pressed down on Buck's forearm, stopping him.

A cost-benefit analysis quickly ran through Rovi's mind. If Buck acted, they could certainly subdue Mary. But the violent struggle might cause her to miscarry and die from massive blood loss. Under the original plan—offering a pension and fabricating a dignified death—this was the most efficient and merciful "bad asset divestment" for this family. Now, however, a variable had emerged. If she died here, it would not only attract neighbors' gossip and attention but also crack the "just" image Rovi had built to soothe public sentiment. This was a bad deal.

"Ms. Mary, impulsiveness won't solve anything. Your suspicions have no evidence," Rovi said, withdrawing his hand while maintaining his intimidating composure. "If you cut now, it'll be two lives lost. The child in your belly is your husband's only bloodline. Can you bear to let them become a meaningless pool of blood before even seeing this world?"

"Then take me to see him, sir. Even if it's a corpse, even if it's just one glance!" Mary screamed, her emotions erupting at the brink of collapse. The blade sank another fraction deeper, and blood flowed faster, staining her collar. "Otherwise, I'll die right here! Without him, I can't go on living either—I might as well take the child to find him!"

This was her final bargaining chip. She placed her own life and that of her unborn child on one side of the scale, betting that this "supervisor," who had recently earned a decent reputation among the lower class, would care about the weight of those two lives.

She had recently heard some news about the new Supervisor's deeds:

Issuing a new batch of Green Soup;

Taking in refugees from other granaries;

Personally leading a team on a risky mission to the fallen Granary Four, retrieving high-energy Promethium Fuel;

And supporting the widows of three fallen soldiers—

Any one of these accomplishments alone far outshone the previous Supervisor, that man named Kais.

Rovi fell silent.

Just as he was weighing the risks and rewards of forcibly subduing her, An urgent communication came through.

From the laboratory on the second basement level—Alpha Priest.

He stepped outside without a change in expression and pressed the answer key.

"Advisor, the variable has exceeded the projected model."

Alpha Priest sounded agitated.

In the background, the alarm of a life-support system blared.

"Sample 004, that Fourth Generation hybrid, is about to shut down due to organ failure."

Rovi frowned slightly and said in a low voice, "According to prior assessments, a Fourth Generation Hybrid's physiological endurance should have lasted at least another twelve hours."

"That's precisely the paradox, Advisor."

Alpha Priest explained quickly.

"He is the closest to a human in genetic sequence among all the samples. That means he has lost the chitinous carapace and robust endurance that Tyren organisms pride themselves on."

"When exposed to a high concentration of Plague Virus, he performed like a fragile mortal thrown into a vat of strong acid."

"His immune system offered no resistance—it collapsed instantly."

"Terminate him," Rovi replied coldly. "A sample with no research value is just waste. If we don't cut our losses now, we'll only waste more life-support resources."

"Received—preparing to shut down the life-support system."

From the other end came the sound of mechanical arms operating.

Then the priest's voice suddenly rose.

"Wait, Advisor! Abnormal data detected!"

"His physical functions are zeroing out, but his cerebral cortex activity is rising exponentially—he is resisting death!"

"There seems to be an obsession buried in his subconscious, frantically stimulating his dying glands to secrete an unknown biological enzyme."

"This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Advisor."

"If we can deliver a sufficiently strong psychological stimulus before his death, it might trigger a fusion reaction between adrenaline and Tyren biological hormones."

"The rejection energy generated in that instant could allow me to capture that High-Activity Antibody Enzyme—capable of neutralizing the Plague Virus—"

Rovi didn't let the priest finish his lengthy technical theory.

He keenly grasped the core logic of this situation:

Alpha needed a "stimulus source" to complete the experiment.

And the woman currently holding a knife to his throat happened to be that very "stimulus source."

"Halt the termination."

In an instant, Mary was no longer a troublesome family member.

Nor was she a pitiable pregnant woman.

She had become an indispensable "biological catalyst."

A key investment to squeeze the last remaining value out of an asset about to be written off.

He quickly returned inside and said to Mary, "Put the knife down. I'll take you to see him."

Mary froze. "Really?"

"I never joke about things like this. But the way he looks right now will give you nightmares. If you're mentally prepared, follow me."

"If you throw up or faint later, I'll have someone throw you out immediately."

The scissors in Mary's hand clattered to the floor.

She didn't bother wiping the blood from her neck.

Grabbing a coat, she stumbled after Rovi.

Granary Seven, second basement level.

Countless complex pipelines coiled across the ceiling, emitting a low, unsettling hum.

Through the thick, one-way blast-proof glass, Mary finally saw the husband she had longed for day and night.

He was spread-eagled, fixed to a cold metal dissection table.

His limbs were locked down by alloy shackles, and his body was riddled with transparent tubes.

A green Plague Virus solution was slowly being injected into him.

It clashed violently with his own dark purple blood, triggering a fierce rejection reaction.

The skin on half his body had already begun to fester and blacken.

Beneath it, the exposed granulation writhed madly.

Because his vocal cords had been removed, his wide-open mouth could only emit a series of airy hisses.

"Is he—my husband?"

--

Mary's hands pressed tightly against the glass.

She didn't scream, nor did she break down.

Tears silently streamed from her eyes, instantly soaking her cheeks.

Rovi, standing nearby, glanced at the data on the monitor.

"Detection confirmed."

Alpha Priest reported to Rovi.

"Subject Mary shows no Genestealer infection response. All physiological indicators fall within pure human parameters."

"This means that Sample 004, during their long-term cohabitation, relied on willpower to suppress the Tyranid reproductive instinct, and did not bestow the 'Divine Kiss' upon Mary."

The priest paused.

As if processing this logical paradox: "Biologically speaking—this is an illogical miracle. Tyranid instinct is absolute, yet he defied the hive's will for a single individual."

Rovi did not respond.

In this cold universe, "love" was usually synonymous with weakness.

Yet at certain moments, it could unleash a force that even mechanical logic could not parse.

But for Rovi, this only confirmed the "special nature" of the sample.

"Begin," Rovi ordered. "Open the Light Shield."

The lab lights flared on.

The Fourth Generation Hybrid, whose consciousness had been blurred by agony and whose pupils were beginning to dilate, instinctively tried to close his eyes at the shift in light.

But in his peripheral vision, he caught a familiar silhouette beyond the glass wall.

Wearing a patched-up coat countless times, her face streaked with tears, yet she was smiling at him.

His wife, Mary.

"Beep, beep, beep!!!"

The heart rate monitor instantly blared an alarm.

The once steady waveform shot into a straight line, spiking toward the sky.

On the experimental table, the dying monster thrashed violently.

The alloy shackles groaned under the strain.

Beneath the Fourth Generation Hybrid's already festering skin, purple veins bulged like roots spreading across his body.

He wanted to touch Mary.

He wanted to speak.

He wanted to tell her to run, to escape this hell.

All his emotions.

All his obsessions.

In that moment, they became the most intense chemical reaction within his biology.

Adrenaline, dopamine;

Tyranid hormones suppressed for so long.

In his blood, they collided like a nuclear fusion.

"Energy readings exceeding critical threshold!"

"Active enzymes are being mass-produced!"

Alpha Priest's three Mechanical Tentacles danced wildly across the console, his optical lenses flashing red.

"Extract!"

A dozen needles, controlled by mechanical arms, descended.

It pierced precisely into the Fourth Generation Hybrid's heart, spine, and glands.

"Hiss!!!"

The Fourth Generation Hybrid threw back its head.

It let out the last silent roar of its life.

Its body convulsed violently, reaching its limit.

Purple light burst from its eye sockets, mouth, and nose.

"Boom!"

A dull, muffled explosion.

Amid Mary's heart-wrenching screams.

This man—who once brought her a fake flower on his way home from work.

This man—who would secretly brand his own thigh with a hot iron in the dead of night to maintain Clarity.

This man—who drank lethal industrial sedatives to resist the Hive Mind's will.

Turned into a ghastly mist of blood.

Only his eyes remained, never closing until the very end.

Those bloodshot, clouded eyes.

Gazed with tenderness and despair through the glass wall.

At Mary's slightly swollen belly——