As the General Secretary recovers—strength returning after three days of agony nearly disabled him—the First Lady invites us to tea.

  She is gracious. Warm. Her smile reaches Iris and me with a rare, unguarded gratitude.

  "Lyra mentioned some difficulty with the Central Bank." Her voice is light, but her eyes search mine. "Is it resolved?"

  “Yes, Madam First Lady.” I meet her gaze without flinching. “Thanks to the General Secretary. He personally intervened and instructed the Central Bank to give us room to grow.”

  "State Development and Investment Corporation is now a shareholder of Sanguine Institute," Lyra adds smoothly. "They'll appoint a board director."

  At that, the slight tension in Liran’s shoulders eases. A faint softness touches the corners of her mouth.

  “Sanguine Institute is a Rubian corporation,” I say, voice steady. “We operate under the leadership of the Party and the laws of the Republic.”

  Her eyes brighten. She leans back, studying me with new interest. “Evangeline. You’ve done business in both the United States and the Ruby Republic. How do they compare?”

  “For running a business?” I lean forward. “The Republic, without question. The United States suffocates you. Environmental laws, labor protections, endless compliance—every step is a minefield. The Democratic Party built a regulatory maze that strangles innovation. But the Republic?” I let the word breathe. “Flexible. When problems arise, there are always solutions.”

  Liran’s eyes sharpen. She’s listening now.

  “Could the Republic surpass the United States?” she asks, voice like a scalpel.

  “It already has—in manufacturing, certainly.” My voice is clear, unwavering. “The Republic has the world’s most disciplined, dedicated, and educated workforce. They don’t just produce—they compete. They’re hungry. Tireless. They don’t ask why. They ask when.”

  Liran nods slowly, deliberately. “Yet America still dominates science and technology.”

  "In theory." I hold her stare, unflinching. "But not in application. Take microchips. The US owns the patents, but Taiwan makes the most advanced chips. Innovation means nothing without execution."

  “Observant. Sharp.” Her approval flickers like a flame. “Now I understand why Lyra speaks so highly of you.”

  "What opportunities exist for the Republic to surpass the US in future technologies?" She leans forward now, intent.

  "Bio-tech. Blockchain. Renewable energy. Electric vehicles." I count them off. "These industries require policy support—room to grow without being strangled by safety boards or ethics committees. Just as the General Secretary instructed: be flexible. Creates space."

  By space, I mean turning a blind eye—on safety, environmental protection, ethics, and business practices. She understands. I see it in the subtle tilt of her head.

  “What about artificial intelligence? Nuclear fusion? Semiconductors?” Her voice carries genuine inquisitiveness.

  "Madam First Lady is well-versed in the technology landscape." Admiration colors my tone—genuine, but calculated. "Those areas require accumulated research. Capital injection. The U.S. has both. But no country can concentrate national will like the Republic."

  “Concentrate national strength to accomplish great things,” she echoes, almost reverently.

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  "There are resources the West refuses to touch," Lyra interjects, her voice cool, precise. "Their people are too soft. Too entitled. They don't understand sacrifice. Rare earths, Lithium, Graphite, Nickle. Like steel, they are strategic. They determine the outcome of technology wars—and military ones."

  She's right. In democracies, people vote for clean air, clean water, clean consciences. They have no urgency. They don't realize their way of life is threatened by a rising power that despises their voting rights. They shut down coal plants, then import goods from countries that build new ones—emitting far more carbon dioxide than the ones they closed. The West sacrifices its economy. The planet suffers even more.

  In the Republic, the ruling class doesn't pretend. Pollution is a cost of progress. If the water is poisoned, the poor drink it. If the air is toxic, the factories move—just far enough to keep the capital's skies blue. Not less pollution. Just cleaner air for the rulers to breathe.

  That’s the advantage: low-cost, high-volume production that Western firms can’t match without triggering lawsuits, protests, or elections.

  Take rare earths. Producing one kilogram generates ninety-nine kilograms of radioactive waste. In the West, that waste demands billion-dollar disposal systems. In the Republic? It’s mixed into concrete. Poured into the walls of apartment towers in Shenzhen and Shanghai. Homes that glow—just not with prosperity.

  That’s why Geiger counters in Rubian cities tick louder than they should.

  But this isn't just minerals, it's a race to domination. Sanguine Institute for example. Human gene editing. Accelerated drug trials. No ethics boards. No consent forms. No delays.

  And the waste? In the West, it’s sealed, sterilized, tracked. In the Republic, it’s dumped—quietly, efficiently—into the river behind the lab.

  The absence of enforcement of regulation isn’t a flaw.

  It’s a weapon.

  I glance out the window at the lake, serene and still. But I can’t stop thinking about the bio-waste burial ground in Wuhan, just upstream from a city of ten million.

  I murmur, almost to myself, “The East is rising. The West will decline.”

  Liran hears me. Her gaze snaps to mine, pupils dilated with something electric.

  “That’s a powerful way to put it,” she says, voice low, reverent.

  Before I can respond, Dr. Yang appears. “Does Dr. Kane still need the three prisoners?”

  “I’ll run one last blood test,” Iris replies, already rising. “Check for anomalies.”

  She leaves with him, her white coat trailing behind her like a blade.

  Liran’s brow twitches—disapproval, unmistakable. But she says nothing. Her smile returns, diplomatic, composed.

  “Evangeline,” she says, turning to me with warmth that feels almost maternal, “you’re young, but brilliant. I’m glad you’re here. Stay with me a few days?”

  Lyra answers before I can. “Maybe another time. Eva’s company is approaching a critical milestone.”

  “Oh?” Liran tilts her head, unfazed. “Anything I can do to help?”

  She doesn’t mind the rejection. Perhaps she was just being polite. Or perhaps she’s already calculating how to own a piece of whatever we’re building.

  I bow slightly. “We’re launching Hightower Coin on Thursday. Any support from you would be invaluable.”

  Her smile deepens. “Let me see what I can offer.”

  We drift into lighter conversation. She asks where I’ve traveled in the Republic, offers recommendations with the precision of someone who curates power as easily as pleasure.

  She’s especially intrigued by Celestial Dawn Tea and the wine varietals we produce in Wuhan. I promise to bring samples when Dr. Kane returns tomorrow to examine the General Secretary.

  She nods, pleased.

  Iris reappears. Lyra checks her watch and stands.

  “The General Secretary should eat light. Rest well. We’ll return tomorrow at noon.”

  The First Lady escorts us herself, all the way to the bridge at Ocean Terrace. Her secretary trails behind us to the car, where Magenta waits. The engine hums to life before we’re even within earshot.

  … …

  The moment we clear the gates of the Summer Palace, Iris turns to Lyra—eyes blazing.

  "I heard the guards. They're taking them to the jail near Badaling." Her voice trembles, not with fear, but with barely restrained fury.

  "Iris." Lyra's tone is sharp, surgical. "There are thousands of political prisoners like them. You can't save them all."

  "I only know these three.” Iris's voice steels. “And I can't live with myself if we do nothing."

  Lyra says nothing. But her silence isn't indifference—it's calculation.

  "Two vehicles," Iris presses, leaning forward. "One jeep. One van. I saw them loading the soldiers."

  Lyra's gaze shifts to me. Slow. Deliberate.

  "Do you want to test your new power?"

  The injection. Iris warned me—everyone reacts differently to Lyra's stem cells. Some burn out. Some break down. But me?

  I'm a perfect match.

  Like I was born for this.

  And now—sitting in the back of this car as the city blurs past—I feel it. Heightened sight. Sharpened hearing. Strength coiled beneath my skin. The heat. The hum. My pulse pounding like a war drum.

  My hands are shaking.

  Not from fear.

  From hunger.

  "Let's go," I say.

  Lyra smiles.