𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓..
Letting your personal demons win is the one plausible way of survival. Instead of killing your own mind, in all its facets and cracked mirrors, use the shards for weapons and protect yourselves from the cruel, cruel...
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Michael waited for the cover of night to discreetly infiltrate the D.H. Institute of Innovative Medicine in Cairo. A soundless flight to the rooftop after enjoying a small cup of espresso left his stomach upset and had him raise his hand and check that timer, at all times on his wrist. Dr. Michael Morbius had earned himself quite a name in the medical world prior to his vampiric discovery which cured his blood disease. Won and refused his Nobel Prize in Biochemistry for the invention of artificial blood, he was well aware that had he made his choices differently, perhaps he would have been in NYC, signing those deals with Stark Industries and Rand Enterprises.
They still used his Nobel worthy innovation worldwide, with minor exceptions to countries which, disgusted by his controversy, refused to reassure for life their stocks in hospitals. Entering this institute, even after closing hours, was a trip down memory lane for him.
The sanitary scent, the cleaness and the emptiness which left room for thoughtful discipline greeted him as soon as he climbed quietly down the stairs from the rooftop, onto the last floor's hall, without entering it. He read, in the dark, the label of the floor, above its entrance: Volunteer Hosting.
Though he was there mainly because he was somewhat agreeing with Clara's suspicions of Priscila's safety, Michael listened closely and realized this floor had nothing of importance to him, nothing he should disturb anyhow, just about ten people, mostly in their 20s, sleeping. He stepped away from the door and continued descending down the stairs, stopping only at the first floor, where the laboratories and inventories got his attention.
No one worked late, so he found himself carelessly walking ahead. It wasn't that he forgot about the existence of security cameras -in fact Michael spotted where all of them were as he walked- but he simply couldn't care less if another city paints him as a villain. He wasn't there to vandalize, he wasn't there even to jeopardize any research. He just needed to know that they were clean and Clara's sister was in safe hands.
"Sir," the security guard behind the screens, on shift that night to watch the security camera footage had called his higher up in and now looked up desperately towards the man. "Shouldn't we call the alarm?"
"No," a light French accent rolled off the boss' lips. He was a supple man, following the aspects of a charming shadow, wearing himself with care and distinction, fitted for running the institute. Were it not for the horrendous scar on the left side of his face, forming a delve into his skin, to the bone, and exposing an obviously glass eye, full of emptiness, he would have been quite close to the definition of a pretty devil.
He straightened up, "Stop all security cameras and delete what we got off of them tonight." The worker complied with a nod and no hesitation. Illegality never crossed his mind.
Michael was planning to be swift once he identified that hallway, glanced in every room, noticed every single familiar aspect and realized this had nothing to do with Arthur Harrow. These were actual researchers, giving their best at creating and discovering new ways to make life easier to live. The glass case at the end of the hallway proved just that to him: framed pictures of doctor teams, leading back to the 1850s, laid next to awards, some smaller, others prestigious, each for countless projects which just reading the name of made him smile.
