The quarterly report burns in my hands. Red ink everywhere. 'You're bleeding us dry with these human trials,' Fischer says, adjusting his tie. Twelve board members stare. My temples throb. That high-pitched laughter again—but the security feed shows my mouth isn't moving. The emergency vial in my desk hums. Three choices: 1) Call adjournment and inject the inhibitor serum, 2) Leak Fischer's offshore accounts to the Bugle, or 3) Suggest a 'demonstration' of our new neural toxin. My finger traces the pumpkin-shaped grenade prototype under the table. The laughter gets louder when I blink.