The rotors thunder overhead as the chopper lifts above the treetops, the broken remains of the park shrinking below. The pilot steadies the controls, eyes darting briefly toward the dense jungle canopy—then he glances at your bag. His voice cuts through the headset crackle, low and wary.

“That what I think it is?”

You don’t respond. Not with words. The weight of the container in your lap is answer enough. Its cold casing hums faintly, the faint blue glow of the DNA core pulsing like a heartbeat. The pilot smirks, a grim twist of amusement crossing his face.

“Welcome back, Chaos Theorist.”

The chopper banks westward, away from the smouldering ruins. You grip the bag tighter, knowing this story isn’t over.

It’s only just evolved…