I stood in front of Alexia’s door.
Every time I stood before this child’s room, I found myself swallowing dryly without meaning to.
I needed to get used to facing her. Only then could I get closer to her...
I was the one who had approached the children first, so I had no right to keep hesitating whenever I had to meet one of them.
I took a breath and knocked.
"Alexia, are you in there?"
This time, the answer came quickly.
"Come in."
When I opened the door, Alexia looked up first.
She was sitting on the bed with her back against the headboard, reading a thick hardcover book.
The title embossed on the leather cover read [On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favored Races in the Struggle for Life].
It was the first edition of Charles Darwin’s [On the Origin of Species].
A five-year-old reading that? Even when I majored in the subject, I couldn’t get through it properly.
It was another reminder of just how brilliant she was.
Unlike Alfred, who had looked somewhat surprised when I came in, Alexia’s reaction was utterly calm and lukewarm.
She took her eyes off the book, looked at me once, then glanced at the cart of food behind me before looking back at me again.
Then, without a word, she closed the book and got off the bed.
But she didn’t hurry.
She placed a bookmark inside, aligned the cover neatly, and only then set the book down on the nightstand beside the bed.
Every movement carried a certain grace. It was aristocratic conduct itself.
Maybe this was the most ideal form of nobility the original Alexander had ever dreamed of.
"I brought dinner."
Alexia gave a short nod and took a seat at the table.
I took the meal off the cart and placed each dish in front of her one by one.
Soup, mashed potatoes, chicken breast, warm milk.
Through it all, Alexia said nothing.
She simply watched quietly as I set the meal out.
That observing gaze was a little hard to handle, but...
Once I was done, I pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down.
A brief silence passed.
"...Will you be staying here?"
It was an unexpected question.
Was she asking me to leave, or telling me I could stay?
I couldn’t tell from Alexia’s expression alone. She just looked at me calmly.
"Would it be all right if I stayed for a little while?"
Alexia looked at me for a moment, then lowered her gaze to the table.
"...Do as you wish, Father."
It was neither permission nor refusal. But it was enough.
Alexia looked down at the food on the table.
"I’ll eat now."
Then she picked up her spoon and took a sip of the soup first.
"Did you bring Alfred’s meal yourself too?"
"Yes."
Alexia said nothing and took another spoonful of soup.
That was her answer.
And then she asked no more.
As the awkward silence settled in, I turned my gaze to the butterfly specimen she had made.
A butterfly pinned to a cork board, wings spread wide.
Both wings were perfectly symmetrical, and every pin had been placed at exact intervals.
"Did you finish that earlier?"
"Yes."
"You did a good job."
It was a short exchange.
But for a five-year-old who clearly still wanted praise even if she didn’t show it, a faint mixture of obvious satisfaction and pride flickered across her face.
"When did you start making insect specimens?"
"I don’t really remember."
"Did you learn on your own?"
"From books."
"You made all of these by yourself?"
"Yes."
"How many are there?"
"I’ve never counted them exactly."
That was about all there was to it. Just me asking questions and getting short answers back, with nothing else to say.
At the same time, it was awkward to suddenly get up and leave.
I let my eyes drift to the soup bowl, then back to the specimens, then slowly swept the room once more.
"Damn, I feel like I’m going to get indigestion even though I’m not the one eating..."
Alexia was silently eating her mashed potatoes without the slightest sign of discomfort.
Was she unaware of the awkwardness, or aware and simply not caring?
I cleared my throat.
"...Is the dinner to your liking?"
"Yes."
"The soup isn’t too salty, is it?"
"It’s fine."
Again, only a two-syllable answer.
If it had been Alfred, he would have said something more by now.
This child never did anything beyond answering the question.
Silence fell again.
In the end, I turned my gaze to the book resting neatly on the nightstand beside the bed.
On the Origin of Species.
Maybe I should bring that up.
But I wasn’t the one who started talking about the book.
"Father."
"Hmm?"
Alexia set down her spoon and looked at me.
"What do you think about natural selection?"
It was a sudden question.
But with Alexia, questions like this came up from time to time.
Things she had been turning over in her head would suddenly burst out, completely unrelated to the flow of conversation.
"Out of nowhere?"
"It was the part I was just reading."
After thinking for a moment, I gave a textbook answer.
"Well... maybe it’s not the strong that survive, but the ones best suited to the environment."
"That’s a very textbook answer."
"Do you think it’s wrong?"
"No, conceptually it’s correct. That’s why it’s boring."
I barely held back a laugh.
To think I’d be told I was boring by a five-year-old.
"Then can you tell me what you think?"
Alexia hesitated for a moment before speaking.
"What if the environment doesn’t choose the organism, but the organism changes the environment instead?"
The room went quiet for a moment.
This five-year-old was now redefining Darwin’s theory of natural selection in her own terms.
And I knew exactly where that line of thought was headed.
"Damn, this little kid is already thinking up eugenic ideas straight out of some Hitler-level lunatic’s playbook."
But at the same time, I could tell she wasn’t saying it with that awareness.
Alexia was simply following the logic through, pure and simple, without yet knowing what kind of conclusion it could lead to.
That was what made it even scarier.
I spoke slowly.
"Theoretically, that’s possible. But what if you don’t have the power to change the environment?"
"Then you make that power."
"What if it takes time to make that power?"
"Then you survive until then."
A short silence followed.
I couldn’t tell whether she was having a conversation or organizing her worldview.
I could tell she wasn’t arguing against the book’s logic.
She was talking about herself.
Making the power to change the environment, surviving in the meantime.
This child was already doing that inside this research facility.
And if one day she became strong enough to hold that power...
I shut my eyes briefly and forced the negative thought away.
That was exactly why I was doing this, so I couldn’t afford to waver.
I couldn’t just let this child keep heading in that direction.
But I also couldn’t simply say she was wrong, nor could I casually agree with her.
"That method might be right."
Alexia blinked once.
"But remember that sometimes, while trying to change the environment, you end up changing yourself instead."
Alexia seemed like she was about to object.
"What’s wrong with changing yourself? That just means getting stronger."
Ah. So that’s how she saw it.
I looked at her for a moment.
"Getting stronger and changing are different things."
"How are they different?"
"Getting stronger means moving in the direction you want. Changing means being carried toward a direction you never wanted."
Alexia’s brows drew together slightly.
"Then wouldn’t it be fine if you just don’t get carried in a direction you don’t want?"
"That’s not as easy as it sounds."
Like me, for example. Like me, struggling every day not to be dragged around by the madness surrounding me.
Maybe this conversation applied not only to Alexia, but to me as well...
Alexia fell into thought at my words. In the end, she said nothing, lowered her gaze to the soup bowl, and picked up her spoon again.
Then, in a voice so small it was almost inaudible, she said, "...I suppose I’ll need to think about it a little."
That was definitely not an answer about the book.
I stood up.
"When you’re done, leave the dishes outside. I’ll come by before bed for a health check, so wait for me."
"Yes."
As I walked toward the door, I heard a voice behind me.
"Father."
I stopped at her call.
"Will you come tomorrow too?"
It was the same question Alfred had asked.
I looked at the child for a moment.
She probably knew she had asked something she hadn’t really wanted to ask.
"Yes. And I’ll come see you again tonight."
After answering briefly, I closed the door.
When I stepped into the hallway, Herman was standing there.
I didn’t know how long he had been there, but he was waiting beside the cart, standing straight as a rod.
I looked at him for a moment.
"...How much did you hear?"
He answered in a flat voice without changing his expression.
"I heard up to the part where you said to leave the dishes outside."
I had no idea how much of that was true, but at least it seemed he hadn’t heard the conversation itself.
Relieved, I reached for the cart handle.
Then Herman stepped forward and said quietly, "I’ll take care of it."
"No, I can—"
"Master."
Herman looked at me for a moment.
His lead-gray eyes were no different than usual, but his voice was faintly different now, closer to a suggestion than an order.
"You moved too much today. I will collect the dishes. Please rest."
I listened to him for a moment.
Was he worried about me, just handling the task, or hiding some other motive?
I couldn’t tell from his expression alone.
I looked at the cart for a moment, then let go.
"...Very well."
Herman gave a short bow and took the cart away.
Watching his back, I stood in the hallway for a moment.
Moved too much today, huh...
He wasn’t wrong.
It was the first day I had worn Alexander’s mask and acted my heart out.
Still, I’d somehow gotten through it. Yes, all of it...
When I opened the office door, the lamp was still on.
The typewriter, the stack of documents, and the locked cabinet were all exactly as they had been when I left.
"Haa... round two with the typewriter, huh."
I hung my jacket over the back of the chair and sat down.
I took out the cabinet key, unlocked it, pulled out the documents I had been working on, and fed another report sheet back into the typewriter.
Clack clack clack
Click
After seeing the children, my head felt a little clearer.
Or maybe the tension had just eased... either way, my hands were shaking less than before.
First, I unfolded the blue-marked materials and checked the next item.
[June 7, stem cell culture sample B-12 proliferation experiment results.]
This was official project data. No changes were needed.
Clack clack clack
Click click click
One line, two lines... I kept turning the pages.
[June 8, special cooling equipment operation log.]
This was marked yellow, meaning it needed supplementation.
It overlapped with the official experiment date, but the equipment type was different.
In other words, since it wasn’t used in the official experiment, I had to make it look like it had been used for another purpose.
I started digging through the official project data and found another experiment conducted around the same time.
There was one item that required cooling equipment. The model number was different, but it belonged to the same line.
That should read naturally enough.
I adjusted the figures with a pen and pressed the typewriter keys.
Clack clack clack
Click click click
And so, one page after another.
[June 9, report on the RNA mutation structure experiment of a sample of Antarctic moss inoculated with the Progenitor Virus]
When I saw the name, I stopped my hand for a moment.
The Progenitor Virus. It was the source of all evil in the Biohazard series, the origin of every virus that came after.
From the iconic T-Virus of the Biohazard series to all the other viruses that appeared throughout the franchise, everything had been born from this one virus.
My fingers frozen, I stared at the document.
In the games, the pure Progenitor Virus almost never appeared on its own; it was mentioned only as material used to create derivative viruses.
And yet right in front of me, that devilish substance was plainly written down as an experimental sample and data.
And... the same was true of the T-Veronica Virus Alexia would later create.
She would eventually become fascinated by this Progenitor Virus and gradually step onto the path of ruin.
And as a bonus, Alexander would be used as an experimental subject in the process.
I remembered the words Alexia had just said earlier.
"Making the power to change the environment, and surviving until then."
That child would keep her head down until the day she obtained that power.
And she would do it with ruthless patience. The material for that power was in my hands right now, and if one day she took it from me...
I shut my eyes tight once, then opened them.
"No. I can’t keep seeing that child as a devil. If I keep doing that... I don’t know what I might do to her again..."
I cut off the thought and pulled myself back toward the typewriter.
Then I forced those negative thoughts into the drawer in my mind and locked it shut.
What I needed right now wasn’t to worry about that child’s future. It was to finish this report.
Clack clack clack
The rattling sound of the typewriter gradually pushed my stray thoughts away.
The steady rhythm seemed to empty my head. As if this sound alone existed inside the office right now.
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