Washington, D.C.
Office of Senator Scott Pimble — 6:14 a.m.
Mara Ellison had been a chief of staff long enough to recognize the sound of a man holding his breath.
Senator Scott Pimble stood by the window of his office, phone pressed to his ear, the early winter light painting him in pale gray. He hadn't sat down since he arrived. He hadn't even taken off his coat. Mara watched the muscles in his jaw tighten, then loosen, then tighten again.
"Yes," Pimble said quietly.
A pause.
"Yes, I understand."
Another pause—longer this time.
"…Say that again."
Mara's pen stopped mid-scratch.
The call ended without ceremony. Pimble didn't move for several seconds after. When he finally turned, his eyes were wet, unfocused, as if the room hadn't fully rendered yet.
"Mara," he said hoarsely. "Cancel everything today."
She blinked. "Senator, you have Judiciary at nine, Appropriations at—"
"My daughter," he said. His voice cracked once, then steadied. "She's cancer-free."
The words landed like a dropped glass.
Mara stood slowly. "I'm sorry—what?"
"Scans came back an hour ago. Full remission. No detectable malignant cells. No residual markers. Nothing." He laughed once, a short, broken sound. "They ran the tests three times. Thought the machines were wrong."
Mara felt the air thin. "That's… that's impossible. Ovarian stage IV doesn't—"
"I know." Pimble exhaled. "That's what they said too."
She swallowed. "Was it the experimental chemo?"
"No." He shook his head. "Nanotech. Blackfire Technologies."
The name sat between them like a live wire.
NIH Clinical Imaging Review Board — 7:42 a.m.
Dr. Elaine Horowitz had spent her career staring at scans. Tumors, shadows, metastasis maps that told grim stories in grayscale. She prided herself on emotional detachment. It was how you survived this job.
She was on her third cup of coffee when the fourth scan appeared on the screen.
"That's the pre-treatment image," said a junior analyst.
Elaine nodded. "And the next?"
The image flicked.
The tumor was gone.
Not reduced. Not fragmented. Gone.
"No," Elaine said softly. "Overlay the markers."
The analyst complied. Fluorescent highlights confirmed it—no residual malignancy, no scarring consistent with surgical removal, no radiation damage.
"This patient had confirmed ovarian carcinoma with lymphatic spread," Elaine said. "That doesn't just disappear."
A silence fell over the room.
Someone at the back finally spoke. "Could the diagnosis have been wrong?"
Elaine snapped her head around. "Three independent biopsies. Genetic markers. Elevated CA-125. Don't insult the process."
Another doctor leaned forward. "If this treatment actually targeted cancer cells selectively…"
Elaine cut him off. "No. Even targeted therapies leave debris. Apoptosis leaves traces. The immune system leaves signatures. This is…" She searched for the word. "…clean."
She zoomed in further, hands trembling slightly now.
"It's like the cancer was never there."
FDA — Secure Conference Room B
8:30 a.m.
Deputy Commissioner Harold Vance hated surprises.
He hated them more when they arrived with no paperwork, no trial registration, no oversight trail whatsoever.
"This treatment was administered without FDA approval," he said, tapping the folder in front of him. "No IND, no Phase I clearance, no compassionate use filing."
Across the table, a younger official shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, the patient consented."
"That's irrelevant," Vance snapped. "You don't skip the system because you think you're right."
A woman from pharmacovigilance spoke up. "The side effects were minimal. Transient fever, elevated metabolic demand. No organ damage."
Vance pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's not the point. The point is precedent."
He looked around the table. "If this gets out—if word leaks that a private entity cured cancer without regulatory approval—every biotech cowboy with a lab and a dream will try the same."
Someone else muttered, "Or the public will demand it."
The room went quiet.
Vance leaned back slowly.
"God help us," he said, "if they're right."
CIA — Western Hemisphere Division, Langley
9:15 a.m.
Station Chief Thomas Avery stood at the head of the table, hands clasped behind his back. He wasn't smiling, but his eyes were bright in a way that made the analysts uneasy.
"Run it again," he said.
The screen showed two video feeds side by side.
On the left: Derek Morgan at a charity dinner, laughing politely, glass of champagne in hand.
On the right: The Wraith—armored, silent, moving with inhuman efficiency.
Facial structure analysis scrolled down the side. Gait comparison. Height variance. Shoulder width. Reaction timing.
"Match probability?" Avery asked.
"98.9%," the analyst replied. "Accounting for armor distortion and posture compensation."
Avery nodded. "So our billionaire philanthropist is also a vigilante in experimental armor."
One analyst cleared his throat. "Sir, the FBI is pushing for prosecution. Interference with an active investigation, use of unregistered technology—"
"And they can't prove a thing," Avery cut in. "Because he didn't kill anyone. Didn't leave evidence. And now…" He gestured to another file on the table. "He cured cancer."
A murmur rippled through the room.
Avery turned, finally facing them fully. "Let me be very clear. This is no longer a law enforcement problem."
Someone frowned. "Then what is it?"
Avery's voice dropped. "It's a geopolitical one."
He activated another screen—global biotech markets, oncology sector valuations.
"If this technology scales," Avery said, "entire industries collapse. Pharmaceutical giants. Research institutions. Insurance models. Foreign governments will want it. Some will try to steal it. Some will try to kill the man who owns it."
He paused.
"And some," he added, "will try to control him."
Department of Justice — Deputy Attorney General's Office
10:02 a.m.
Eleanor Finch read the memo twice.
Then a third time.
She set it down carefully.
"This is… unprecedented," she said.
Her legal counsel nodded. "He administered an unapproved medical treatment. That's a violation. But prosecuting him would be—"
"—political suicide," Finch finished.
She stood, pacing slowly. "Imagine the headline: Justice Department Jails Man Who Cured Cancer."
The counsel hesitated. "There's also the matter of national interest."
Finch stopped. "Go on."
"If this tech exists," he said, "it becomes a strategic asset. Other nations will pursue it aggressively. The CIA believes Morgan should be protected, not prosecuted."
Finch scoffed softly. "Protected from whom?"
The counsel met her eyes. "Everyone."
NIH — Follow-Up Meeting
11:20 a.m.
Elaine Horowitz sat with a half-dozen senior researchers, the scans still projected behind them.
One of the older oncologists spoke at last. "If this is real… it invalidates decades of work."
Elaine nodded slowly. "Not invalidates. Obsoletes."
Another researcher whispered, almost to himself, "If this works at scale…"
Elaine finished the thought aloud, her voice barely above a breath.
"…our entire oncology economy collapses."
No one argued.
They all understood what that meant.
Research grants. Careers. Entire institutional ecosystems built around incremental progress toward a problem that—suddenly—might be solved.
Outside the room, phones were already ringing.
Lobbyists. Senators. Quiet inquiries from places that didn't usually ask questions.
Elaine looked at the scan one last time.
For the first time in her career, she felt something unfamiliar twist in her chest.
Hope.
And fear—cold and sharp—of what hope like this would do to the world.
CIA — Langley, Later That Afternoon
Avery closed the folder marked MORGAN, DEREK — EYES ONLY.
"Surveillance only," he said to the room. "No contact. No pressure. Not yet."
An analyst raised a hand. "Sir… what if he refuses cooperation?"
Avery smiled thinly.
"Then," he said, "we learn how the world changes without our permission."
The system didn't panic.
But the people inside it were beginning to.