Two hours later, Sloane stared into the microscope, her brows drawn tight. The toxin’s structure was unlike anything she had seen before—neither a typical organophosphate compound nor a traceable heavy-metal agent. It was a meticulously engineered hybrid, designed to attack both the nervous and hematopoietic systems with surgical precision. "This structure…" she murmured under her breath, "it’s almost as if it was customized for Mr. Jackson’s genetic profile." Before she could analyze further, a sharp knock sounded on the lab door. Lucas’s voice came through, tense and low. "Sloane, we’ve got a problem." She immediately set down her tools and opened the door. Lucas’s face was grim. "Mr. Jackson’s temperature is spiking again—and his fingertips are turning black." "The toxin’s spreading." Sloane’s expression hardened. She snatched several vials of freshly prepared reagents and hurried down the corridor. Back in the medical ward, the scene was critical. Mr. Jackson’s complexion had shifted from pallid to feverish red, and the monitor showed his temperature climbing to 39.8°C. The tips of his fingers had gone an unnatural shade of black—early necrosis. The deputy ambassador and Kaizen stood anxiously to the side. When Sloane entered, the deputy immediately stepped forward. "Dr. Rivers, what’s happening?" "Let me see," she said calmly, moving to the bedside. She took Mr. Jackson’s pulse again—chaotic, disordered, signaling that the toxin had reached his organs. Sloane swiftly uncapped the vials she’d brought. Inside were three solutions—one red, one blue, one green. "I need to inject these antidotes intravenously," she instructed the doctor. "Red first, then blue, then green, each ten minutes apart." The doctor hesitated. "These compounds haven’t been cleared by standard medical protocol—" "Trust me," Sloane said, meeting his gaze. "This formula was developed in a military lab. It’s proven effective against synthetic neurotoxins." The deputy ambassador didn’t waste a second. "Do as Dr. Rivers says. I’ll take full responsibility."The procedure began in silence, thick with tension. After the red vial was administered, Mr. Jackson’s breathing steadied slightly. The blue brought a small but measurable drop in his temperature—half a degree. When the green antidote entered his vein, everyone in the room stopped breathing, watching the monitor. Five minutes later, the numbers began to shift in the right direction. His temperature fell to 38.5°C, his oxygen saturation rose from 90% to 94%, and most notably, the black tinge receding from his fingertips gave way to a faint flush of color. "It’s working!" the deputy exclaimed, relief flooding his voice. Sloane didn’t let her guard down. "It’s only temporary. The toxin hasn’t been neutralized yet." She turned toward him. "I need to know every detail about Mr. Jackson’s activities and contacts in the twenty-four hours before he fell ill." The deputy nodded to his aide. "Bring the file." A folder was handed over within seconds. "This is Mr. Jackson’s schedule from yesterday," the deputy said. "He attended a preparatory meeting with Mirevia’s Foreign Ministry in the morning, had lunch at the embassy cafeteria, met with local expatriate representatives in the afternoon, and attended a business chamber banquet in the evening." Sloane flipped through the pages, scanning each entry. "What about the food served at that banquet?" "It was catered by a high-end local restaurant," the deputy replied. "We’ve already dispatched someone to investigate the place."