Clara kicked the heavy kitchen island aside, creating an improvised barricade against the collapsing back threshold.
The thermal torch cut through the remaining steel bolt with a blinding spray of molten orange sparks.
A masked operative in a dark corporate intelligence trench coat stepped through the widening breach.
He ignored the overturned chairs and locked his gaze directly on the glass mixing vial sitting on the counter.
“You unlocked the osmotic reverse-aging key, Clara,” a gravelly voice echoed through the smoke-filled room.
“The Geneva Longevity Board doesn’t like amateurs destabilizing the demographic annuity market.”
She didn’t flinch, gripping the heavy apothecary pestle behind her back with cold, calculated resolve.
“Age is a biological tax you collect from people who don’t know basic chemistry,” she fired back.
The operative reached into his tactical harness, pulling out a neutralizer syringe glowing with violet isotope fluid.
Before the needle cleared its magnetic holster, Clara flicked a pinch of dry baking soda into the gas line valve.
A localized alkaline flash blinded the intruder as a mini thermal cloud filled the narrow corridor.
She grabbed the master ledger and dived headfirst through the pantry service hatch leading into the sub-basement.
Heavy boots pounded overhead as pursuit teams swarmed the upper level of her suburban retreat.
Crawling through the damp concrete ventilation duct, her beam illuminated a strange metallic hatch stamped with 1984.
A secondary micro-chip slot blinked amber on the center of the subterranean blast door.
It matched the exact molecular titration curve of the baby-oil-and-baking-soda compound resting in her pocket.
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