Chapter 3

Daniel sat across from me, a stack of files spread out in front of him.

His attitude was completely different from just a few hours ago.

That arrogant, condescending attitude was gone.

Now, there was a kind of scrutiny in his eyes.

He was looking at me like I was someone he couldn't afford to ignore. "Fernando Juarez, thirty-six years old, registered in Ravenport, Averon State."

He flipped through the paperwork, reading each line carefully. "Got your license ten years ago, joined a logistics company that same year, and you've been hauling cold chain cargo ever since.

"No criminal record, no negative credit history. Your personal life is pretty straightforward. Aside from an eight-year-old daughter, you don't have any other close relatives."

He looked up at me.

"Three years ago, your wife passed away from illness," he said. "That same year, your mentor, Turner, was killed instantly in a crash while hauling a cold chain load."

My fingers instinctively tightened around the lighter in my pocket.

"What do you mean by 'the temperature was off'?" Daniel asked.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady. "Anyone who's worked cold chain knows—every cargo has its own way of 'breathing.'

"When frozen fish are kept at minus eighteen degrees, a thin layer of ice crystals forms on the surface. The thickness, density, and texture of that ice—they all follow a pattern.

"If the cargo itself is normal, that pattern almost never changes.

"But those five boxes—the ice crystals on the surface were way too thin.

"It was so thin that it felt like something inside was radiating warmth outwards."

Daniel's brow furrowed. "So you're saying there was some kind of heat source inside those five boxes of fish?"

"Yeah, you could say that," I replied.

"But the sensors couldn't detect it?" he pressed.

"No," I said. "The difference was way too small—maybe just a few tenths of a degree.

"A regular infrared thermometer can't catch it at all. But you can feel it with your own hands."

Daniel looked at me for a long time.

There was doubt in his eyes, but also something else—something I just couldn't pin down.

Maybe it was curiosity.

Or maybe he was starting to see me in a whole new light.

"Your mentor, Turner," Daniel suddenly asked, "how did he die?"

I paused for a moment.

What did Turner's death have to do with this?

"Car accident," I said. "Three years ago, in January, he was on a cold chain run, hauling seafood from the northeast down to Averon State.

"On a stretch of mountain road, his truck lost control and went off a cliff.

"By the time the rescue team found him, the truck was nothing but a burnt-out wreck.

"He was burned beyond recognition."

My voice came out strained.

Even after three years, every time I remembered how Turner looked in his final moments, it still hurt.

"Did he ever say anything to you before the accident?" Daniel pushed.

I shook my head.

Then I remembered something else.

"Yeah," I said. "The last time he called me, he said..."

I was racking my brain, trying to remember exactly what Turner said back then. "He said, 'Fernando, this job feels weird. The cargo's off, but I can't quite say what's wrong.'

"I told him, 'Why not call the cops?'

"He said, 'No, I don't have any proof. I'll take another look.' And that was the last I ever heard from him."

My eyes started to well up.

Daniel didn't say anything.

He looked down and quickly scribbled something onto the paperwork.

Then he stood up and headed for the entrance of the tent.

"Fernando," Daniel said, still facing away from me, "your mentor's case was officially ruled a single-vehicle accident three years ago.

"But we've got a record in our system. Turner's name actually appeared in our department's internal roster twelve years ago."

My heart skipped a beat.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Daniel turned to face me.

"It means your mentor was more than just a truck driver," he said.

Daniel's words hit me like a stone dropped into the still waters of my heart, breaking the peace I'd held onto for three years.

Turner wasn't just a truck driver?

So what was he, then?

My head was spinning.

But there was no time to sort it out because the latest test results had just come in.

The bioactive agent they found inside the frozen fish was sent straight to a top government lab for urgent testing.

Two hours later, the results came back.

When Daniel walked in holding the report, his face looked even more grave than before.

"Fernando," he said quietly, "your instincts were spot on."

Daniel said, "Inside those frozen fish, they've implanted a microscopic biological carrier."