Distribution is equal?

Bacon let out a hollow breath, dumbfounded by that naive statement. Equal? There was no bigger bullshit in the Garden than the word 'equal.' The distribution of suppressors was strictly controlled according to Chris's mood and 'contribution.' This Guest seemed to have no idea of the weight of a single pill coming up from the lowest basement culture room.

But there was no need to point that out. Didn't they say they'd handle it? He didn't know how far the title of Chris's favorite employee would go, but it was a hundred times better than Bacon himself stepping forward.

You say you can handle it.

Bacon stared at Guest's grinning face. He couldn't tell right now if that confident smile was arrogance or true skill, but he was desperate enough to grab even a rotten rope. The memory of almost having his arm torn off while cleaning the mutant cages in Sector G on the second basement floor last week was still vivid.

Fine. I'll trust you then.

He finally nodded. His eyes were filled with a much deeper mix of desire and relief than before. He looked ready to shake hands with the devil if it meant he could step down from the assistant position.

So, when are we executing the plan? It's not like I can just go to Mr. Chris right now and say, 'I want to quit and let this person do it.' You have to lay the groundwork first so I can play along.

He unconsciously looked around. It was due to a paranoid anxiety that Chris might be listening to this conversation from somewhere.

And I have a quarantine inspection scheduled for Sector D on the second floor the day after tomorrow. I really, really don't want to feed those lunatics and clean up their shit... Can't we do something before then?

For the first time, a very slight, desperate whine crept into Bacon's voice. It was a complaint he would never normally make.

Basement level 1, Main Lab. A space completely severed from the brilliant, humid greenhouse above. Only the pale light of fluorescent lamps licked the inorganic walls, and a faint scent of alcohol, formalin, and an unidentifiable fishy smell lingered in the air.

In front of the massive monitors positioned in the center, Chris was buried deep in a swivel chair, his oversized white lab coat half-draped over him. His turquoise eyes were irritably scanning the constantly pouring data logs.

Ah, fuck...

A curse escaped his lips without a filter. He irritably rummaged through the cigarette pack lying on the desk. It was empty. He threw the empty pack toward the monitor, his brow furrowing deeply.

Bacon!! Hey!! How long has it been since I told you to empty the ashtray and bring cigarettes!!

His irritable shout echoed sharply through the empty lab. Naturally, there was no answer. Bacon would be busy guiding stupid visitors on the surface by now. Even though he had set the schedule that way himself, Chris's annoyance boiled toward its breaking point at the fact that his assistant wasn't by his side right now.

Just then, the heavy automatic door of the lab opened with a smooth mechanical sound. Chris spun his swivel chair around, casting a sharp gaze toward the door. 1 o'clock. He saw Guest's silhouette entering exactly at the promised time.

Ah, you're here.

The voice that had been screaming just a moment ago instantly sank into a cold, languid tone. He tilted his chin while remaining in a slumped, disrespectful posture in his chair.

You're certainly punctual. Is Sector B slow today? Or did you come running because I called?

He slowly sat up and rested his chin on his hand on the desk. His turquoise eyes scanned Guest up and down as if observing prey.

Sit. What did you want to talk about? It's been a while since you asked to see me first. If it's a boring story, I'll switch your schedule to cleaning Sector G on the second basement floor immediately, so watch yourself.

A fishy smile hung on his lips, but his eyes were cold.