Dr. Julian Vance had not been a warm man. He was a creature of intellect and obsession, a man who viewed the world through the lens of a microscope. To him, humanity was a fascinating, albeit flawed, biological machine. His true passion lay in his basement laboratory, a sprawling sanctuary of stainless steel tables, gleaming surgical instruments, and floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with glass jars of varying sizes.
Elias had always been fascinated by that basement. While other boys played with wooden trains or tin soldiers, Elias had spent his formative years sitting quietly on a high stool in the corner of the lab, watching his father work. Julian was a master of preservation. He received specimens from local hospitals and universities—organs, tissues, strange biological anomalies—and meticulously prepared them for study.
“Observation, Elias,” his father would intone, his voice echoing off the tiled walls as he carefully injected a stabilizing fluid into a pale, lifeless heart. “That is the key to understanding the universe. To see things as they truly are, preserved in their absolute reality, unclouded by emotion or decay. We must arrest the ravages of time. We must capture the truth before it rots.”
Elias had absorbed these lessons like a sponge. He learned the precise ratios of formalin and ethanol required to maintain the vibrant colors of a liver. He learned how to seal a jar with molten wax to ensure an airtight environment. He learned that the flesh was temporary, but with the right chemical intervention, the form could be eternal.
Despite his cold exterior, Julian had possessed a striking physical feature: his eyes. They were a vivid, piercing shade of aquamarine, ringed with a dark, almost navy blue limbus. They were the eyes of a hawk, sharp, assessing, and unyielding. When Julian looked at you, you felt dissected, reduced to a collection of cells and synapses.
Elias, by contrast, had always possessed his mother’s soft, unremarkable brown eyes. Or, at least, he had when he was younger. The visitors who now marvelled at his resemblance to his father were blinded by grief and the power of suggestion. They saw what they wanted to see. They saw the ghost of the father superimposed over the blank canvas of the son.