Rebirth: Love me Again

Chapter 39: The Start of a Revolution

As soon as Michael emerged from the lab, his pale and haggard appearance drew everyone's attention. His eyes were bloodshot, and the exhaustion was on his face, but he managed to hold himself upright.

For a moment, the room was deathly quiet, the tension suffocating as all eyes locked onto him, especially Old Man Sinclair's.

Sinclair, who had been frozen in place for what felt like an eternity, suddenly stirred. His eyes, sharp but rimmed with the weariness of age and worry, darted to Michael.

He pushed away from the couch with trembling hands, his steps slow and unsteady, but filled with desperate urgency. His cane echoed on the cold floor as he approached, the silence in the room amplifying every single sound.

"Michael . . ." Sinclair's voice cracked, barely above a whisper. His face was a mixture of hope and fear, as though he was bracing himself for the worst. "Tell me . . . did it—" His voice faltered.

Michael stood tall, trying to gather his strength. "The operation . . ." He paused, letting the words hang in the air, causing Sinclair to inhale sharply. "It was a success."

I let out a breath of relief. Michael really knew how to make some suspense.

A wave of relief flooded the room, but Sinclair didn't move, as if still in disbelief.

Michael continued, "The nanobots are currently repairing Sebastian's damaged tissues. He's stable now, but . . ." He glanced over at the motionless dog still lying on the table in the background. "He'll need to remain confined for a few weeks. We need to monitor him closely for any complications."

The old man stood still for a moment, as though his body couldn't fully comprehend the words. His shoulders, previously weighed down by despair, began to relax. His eyes, usually so stern, softened as they locked onto the still-breathing form of Sebastian.

Slowly, a smile crept across Sinclair's weathered face, a smile that hadn't graced his features since the day I met him. I felt his relief as if he had aged in reverse, shedding the heavy burdens that had clung to him like shadows.

A tear, a single glistening tear, slid down the old man's cheek. He blinked, as if surprised by the emotion. His hand trembled slightly as he brought it to his face, wiping the tear away with an almost embarrassed chuckle.

"I . . . I didn't think I'd see him survive this," Sinclair muttered, his voice hoarse with emotion. His gaze flickered back to Michael, and for the first time, there was no anger, no harsh demands. Only gratitude. "Thank you, Michael. You . . . you saved him."

Michael shifted uncomfortably under the praise, his exhaustion catching up with him. "We're not out of the woods yet," he cautioned. "We still have to see how he responds to the treatment over the next few weeks."

But Sinclair didn't seem to hear him. His focus was solely on Sebastian, who lay peacefully in the confinement chamber, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life.

Sinclair placed a hand on Michael's shoulder, a rare, tender gesture from a man who rarely showed emotion. "I owe you, Michael," he said, his voice thick with gratitude. "Name your price."

I stood there, stunned. My jaw dropped at the sheer weight of Sinclair's offer, but it dropped even more when Michael, without hesitation, shook his head and declined.

"No need," Michael said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "This was part of my deal with your granddaughter."

"Granddaughter?" Sinclair muttered, the confusion apparent in his voice. His gaze shifted, his sharp eyes landing on me as if only now realizing I had been there the whole time.

Michael nodded. "That's right. She's the one who insisted on saving Sebastian from the beginning. If you should thank anyone, it's her."

Before Sinclair could respond, Michael gave a tired smile. "Sorry, but I still have work to finish." With that, he excused himself, disappearing down the hallway, leaving an air of shock in his wake.

Sinclair remained rooted to the spot, clearly stunned. It was as if the world had shifted for him. Here he was, one of the wealthiest men in the world, offering any sum, any reward imaginable—and Michael had brushed it off without a second thought.

I could see the disbelief written all over Sinclair's face. It was probably the first time anyone had ever refused him so casually.

He turned to me, his face a mix of curiosity and something deeper. His eyes, usually hard and calculating, softened slightly as they locked onto mine.

"You . . . found that man?" His voice was quiet but intense, as if the question carried more weight than just Michael's skill.

I nodded, grinning. "You're free to poach him and invest in his project as much as you like, but trust me—Michael's not someone who can be bought that easily."

Sinclair looked at me, studying my expression, as if searching for the truth in my words. He seemed to process it for a moment before turning his gaze around us.

"This place needs a proper lab," he said, more to himself than anyone else. Then he glanced at Victor, his assistant who stood silently by his side. "Invest one billion into this project as soon as possible. Spare no expense."

Victor blinked but didn't question it, simply nodding and stepping away to make the call. I watched in awe as Sinclair committed a billion dollars without hesitation.

Nanotech—just the word itself carried the weight of limitless potential, but behind the grandeur was a staggering cost.

The materials alone were rare and expensive, each element crucial to the intricate machinery that made nanotechnology possible.

Then there was the research—endless hours poured into trial and error, refining the technology down to the smallest detail.

And the equipment? It wasn't just cutting-edge, it was the future wrapped in cold, polished steel, with a price tag that could rival the budget of small nations.

But the most vital piece? The people. The brilliant minds behind it all, each one a visionary in their own right, but visionaries didn't come cheap.