Dr. Parel sat in his pristine genetics lab, the rhythmic hum of equipment and the soft blue glow of monitors enveloping him in a cocoon of precision and purpose. On his screen, the genetic profiles of Stan and Rachel Goldberg flickered—a puzzle that exhilarated and unsettled him."
He leaned closer, scanning the intricate sequences of As, Ts, Cs, and Gs that held the blueprint of human life. The Goldbergs’ genetic material was strong in some areas, exceptional even. But perfection? Perfection remained elusive. Stubborn little gaps in the code stood between Stan Goldberg’s lofty dream and the reality of creating a son—a flawless heir who would one day rule boardrooms as effortlessly as gods once ruled the skies.
With a weary sigh, Dr. Parel leaned back, rubbing his temples. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, his thoughts spiralling around two glaring issues. First, neither Stan nor Rachel carried genes that predisposed their child to leanness. Their bodies were genetically inclined to store fat—a trait that had once been a triumph of human evolution, ideal for hunter-gatherers enduring scarcity. But in today’s world of hyper-engineered, calorie-laden bliss-point foods designed to hijack the palate, those same genes spelled trouble. Obesity hovered in the kid’s future like a genetic curse—persistent, ugly, and hard to erase.
An evolutionary trump card turned evolutionary trap, Parel thought bitterly. This wasn’t just a flaw—it was a liability. He resolved to call Donald, the smooth-talking sales rep from Gene Designs, a biotech firm specializing in custom DNA enhancements. Their catalogue had recently added a “lean gene cluster”—a combination of markers designed to optimize metabolism. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.
He glanced back at the screen. Fixing the body was one thing. But the mind? That was another challenge entirely. How do you engineer ambition? Resilience? The ruthless edge?
“Chris,” Parel called, breaking the quiet. His assistant, a genetics graduate with a sharp mind and a frayed moral compass, didn’t look up immediately. Chris was hunched over his workstation, splicing DNA with the precision of an artist painting a masterpiece. Beneath the lab coat, goggles, and gloves, he looked every bit the model scientist. Few would guess the truth of his life—that his nights were consumed by a drug habit he could barely control, and his days were spent in a desperate bid to keep it funded.
Stolen novel; please report.
“Yeah, boss?” Chris finally turned, brushing a stray strand of long hair out of his face.
Parel gestured to the screen. “I’m finalizing the Goldbergs’ male child’s genetic profile. The father wants a business titan. What’s your take?”
Chris leaned back against his workstation, making sure to tuck his trembling hands behind his back, his expression one of practiced detachment. “You know how it is. There’s no gene for business genius. Narcissists and psychopaths? They’ve got traits that work—confidence, emotional detachment, risk-taking. But amplify those too much, and you don’t get a CEO. You get a walking HR nightmare.”
“True,” Parel murmured. He’d seen the studies. Narcissism and psychopathy were correlated with success in high-pressure environments, but the line between visionary and villain was razor-thin. “What about dyslexia? A lot of entrepreneurs have it.”
Chris shrugged. “Sure, you could tinker with the genome, but that’s a gamble. Throw in a dyslexia-linked gene cluster, and maybe you get a kid who’s a visionary entrepreneur—sharp instincts, terrible spelling, but they scrape by on charisma and hustle. Or maybe you just end up with a kid who struggles to read the menu at a diner, no brilliance to compensate. And let’s be real—the Goldbergs wouldn’t stand for that. Poverty sharpens some people, sure, but their kid’s not growing up on the edge of survival. Too many safety nets, too much privilege. That fire’s never gonna spark.”
Parel exhaled, his brow furrowed in thought. “The father carries a narcissistic gene. Maybe We amplify that, throw in some psychopathic markers—non-violent tendencies, of course. It gives us a shot at creating a corporate overlord.”
Chris gave him a sardonic smile. “And if it backfires? You’ll have created an insufferable jerk who alienates everyone. Or worse, a monster.”
“It’s a risk,” Parel admitted, his gaze distant. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. “But isn’t everything? You ever wonder, Chris, if God and His angels had to make decisions like this when they created us?”
Chris snorted softly, turning back to his workstation. “If they did, they must’ve outsourced. We’re way too screwed up for someone to have planned us.”
The quiet hum of the lab filled the space between them. Parel lingered on his assistant’s words, the corner of his mouth curving into a faint smile. With a deep breath, he typed the final sequence into the program.
The screen glowed with confirmation: the genetic blueprint for the male twin was complete.
