A Certain Shade of Crimson

The city breathed a humid breath, and I felt it in my lungs, heavy and thick, nothing like the sharp, clean air that carved itself into your chest back home. Another July afternoon bled into the windows of the university library, painting the dusty spines with a tired, orange glow. I pushed my spectacles higher on my nose, the plastic warm against my skin, and tried to focus on the textbook open before me. Cellular pathology. It felt miles away from my actual life, from the constant thrum of an anxiety I couldn't quite name, a low, persistent hum beneath the surface of everything.

Siku had called earlier, a quick, clipped voice, 'You still breathing? Or has the heat finally claimed you, eh?' She'd laughed, a bright, familiar sound, and for a second, the grey concrete outside faded, replaced by the endless green of the tundra in summer, the smell of damp earth and pine. 'Just trying not to melt,' I'd mumbled back, my own voice sounding thin, even to me. That's how it felt, though. Like the city was slowly, deliberately melting me down, reforming me into something smoother, quieter, something less… northern. I hated it.

I should be grateful. Full scholarship to one of the country's best medical programmes, a research assistantship with Dr. Andersen, whose work on immunological responses was almost legendary. But gratitude felt like a heavy coat in this heat. Every morning, the same routine: stale coffee, the cramped bus ride, the sterile scent of the labs. And lately, something else. A faint discordance, like a poorly tuned instrument in an otherwise polished orchestra.

Unseen Threads

It started small. An unscheduled delivery of unmarked crates to the lab's secure storage last week, long after hours. I'd been finishing up some cultures, the fluorescent lights humming, when I heard the low thud of heavy items being moved. Dr. Andersen wasn't supposed to be in; his calendar had him at a conference. But there he was, his silhouette briefly framed in the doorway to storage, speaking in hushed tones to someone I couldn't see. He’d jumped when he saw me, a sudden, almost violent flinch. 'Kim. Just securing some… sensitive equipment for a new project.' His voice, usually so calm, was a little too quick, a little too smooth. He hadn't met my eyes.

Then there was the data. I'm good with data, meticulous, almost obsessive. And the preliminary results from the 'Arctic Adaptation Study'—the one I was mostly assisting with, ostensibly looking at genetic markers for cold tolerance—they just… didn't track. Certain controls were off. Some of the environmental parameters didn't make sense, almost as if they were fabricated to fit a predetermined outcome. I’d flagged it to Dr. Andersen, presenting my carefully compiled discrepancies. He’d waved it off with a dismissive hand. 'Minor calibration errors, Kim. Nothing to worry about. Just… adjust for them in your next report.' My stomach had tightened. Adjust for them? That wasn’t how science worked.

My phone buzzed, startling me. It was Siku. 'Still in that morgue of a library? I'm grabbing dinner. The little Korean place, remember? The one with the honour-system kimchi? Meet me there.' A genuine smile touched my lips. Siku. She understood. Not the science, maybe, but the feeling of being an outsider, the way the city pressed in. 'Be there in twenty,' I typed back, shoving my book into my backpack.

The walk to the restaurant was a blur of traffic noise and the sharp smell of exhaust fumes. It felt good to move, to be outside, even if the air was a thick blanket. When I saw Siku, perched on a tiny stool, already halfway through a plate of dumplings, the tension in my shoulders eased a fraction. Her hair, usually braided, was loose around her face, shimmering under the streetlights. She looked tired, too, but there was a stubborn light in her eyes.

Echoes from the Edge

'Rough day?' she asked, pushing a small plate of kimchi towards me. I picked up a chopstick, tracing patterns on the worn wooden table. 'Same old. Just… the lab's been weird.' I recounted the crates, the data, Dr. Andersen's evasiveness. Siku listened, not interrupting, her gaze steady. 'He seemed… different. Jumpy. And the project, it feels like it's going sideways. Like there's a different goal than the one he told me about.'

'Different how?' she asked, taking a sip of her water. Her expression was thoughtful. She was studying urban planning, but she had an instinct for undercurrents, for things hidden beneath the surface of grand plans.

I leaned forward, lowering my voice despite the surrounding chatter. 'The 'Arctic Adaptation Study'? It's supposed to be about, you know, how our communities have adapted. Genetic resilience, maybe. But… some of the tissue samples. They're not just 'cold-tolerant'. They're showing markers for… something else. Something about extreme pathogen resistance. And the control group data, it implies an exposure. Almost like they're trying to replicate it.'

Siku's brow furrowed. 'Pathogen resistance? From the North?'

'Exactly. It's too specific. And I heard him on a call, a few days ago, late evening. Said something about 'securing the northern strain.' He didn't know I was there, in the archive room, putting away some old journals. Just that phrase. 'Northern strain.' It gave me a chill, even with the air conditioning blasting.' I took a deep breath, the kimchi surprisingly spicy, grounding me a little.

'Northern strain…' Siku repeated, slowly. Her gaze drifted over my shoulder, out towards the neon glow of a passing taxi. 'That sounds… medical. But also… not good. Like something you'd weaponise.'

'Or protect,' I countered, though a knot tightened in my gut. 'Or exploit. But the study details. They don't match up with any ethical guidelines I've ever seen for that kind of research. It's too fast. Too… secret.'

She turned back to me, her eyes meeting mine, a flicker of something I recognised—the same wariness, the same quiet resilience that lived in the people from our home. 'What do you think they're doing, Kim?'

'I don't know.' The truth felt like ash in my mouth. 'But I have a bad feeling, Siku. A really bad feeling. It’s not just shoddy science. It feels like… a cover. For something else. And it connects back to where we're from. To our people.' I paused, picking at a loose thread on my shirt. 'I think I need to find out what that 'northern strain' really is.'

The restaurant buzzed with laughter and clinking cutlery, but I hardly noticed. Siku reached across the table, her fingers briefly touching my arm. 'Be careful,' she murmured, her voice soft but firm. 'This isn't like finding a forgotten textbook in the library.' I nodded, the weight of her words settling over me. The humid city night felt heavier, the distant sirens more ominous. The stars, usually a comforting blanket back home, were swallowed by the urban light pollution, leaving me with only the glint of distant, indifferent skyscrapers.

I paid the bill, my mind already racing, sifting through every odd detail. Every misplaced file, every hushed phone call, every uncomfortable glance from Dr. Andersen. It was all there, building a quiet, insidious structure of suspicion. The streetlights cast long, distorted shadows as we walked back towards campus, the summer air still clinging, suffocating. I felt a cold resolve harden within me. Someone had to look. Someone had to know. And it looked like that someone was going to be me. The thought was both terrifying and utterly, grimly necessary.

A lone street performer played a mournful tune on a saxophone nearby, the melody twisting through the city's din, a lonely, beautiful lament. I stopped for a moment, listening, my gaze fixed on a tall, dark building in the distance—the research tower where Dr. Andersen's lab was housed. The faint red glow of its emergency lights pulsed against the inky sky, a tiny, arterial beat in the city's concrete heart. I wondered what secrets pulsed inside, what new kind of strain was being cultivated, and who it was truly meant to serve.

The humid air pressed in, a physical thing. My collar felt tight. I loosened it, trying to draw a deeper breath, but the air felt thin, too thin, like I was already at a higher altitude than I'd ever experienced, one without the sharp, familiar scent of spruce and snow. My home felt impossibly far away, and yet, somehow, dangerously close. I closed my eyes for a brief second, trying to recapture the feeling of a wide-open sky, before forcing them open again. The city waited, silent and watchful, and so did I.

The night wasn't just hot; it was electric, thrumming with unseen currents, and I realised, with a sickening certainty, that I was now caught in its intricate, dangerous circuit. There was no going back to simple student life, not after what I’d seen, what I'd heard. The 'northern strain' was more than just a research topic; it was a thread, fragile yet tensile, connecting me to something vast and dark, a conspiracy lurking beneath the polished façade of academic excellence. My breath hitched, a small, involuntary sound lost in the city's endless hum. The warmth of summer felt like a deception, a thin veneer over a colder, more calculating purpose.

The summer night was a canvas of muted streetlights and distant, echoing sirens. I clutched the strap of my backpack, the cheap canvas rough against my clammy fingers. My mind replayed Dr. Andersen's hurried words, the unnatural data, the mention of a 'northern strain'—each detail a stone added to a cairn of unease. Siku walked beside me, her silence a comfortable, shared burden. I glanced at her, her profile etched against a flickering neon sign. She still carried the quiet strength of our land, a resilience the city hadn't yet managed to dull. I knew then, with a profound, almost dizzying clarity, that whatever lay hidden, it wasn't just my secret to uncover; it was ours. And our connection, forged in the vast, open spaces of home, would have to be strong enough to face the enclosed, twisting labyrinths of this place. The thought was both a comfort and a crushing weight, a promise and a premonition. The air hung heavy, pregnant with unspoken questions, and the summer seemed to stretch out, not just in days, but in consequences.