Etolia, Felda, the black skyscraper.
George stepped out of the lab, shed his hazmat suit, and entered the bathroom.
He turned on the tap to wash his hands, only to find them uncontrollably shaking. So he gripped his fingers tightly, baring his teeth, trying to calm himself down.
Nothing to be afraid of, although It is in heaven, there's no network anymore. The building doesn't even have surveillance installed; as long as he doesn't speak up, no one will know.
George comforted himself with these thoughts, then washed his face, and looked at the exhausted, stubbled middle-aged Caucasian in the mirror.
The bathroom door banged open abruptly, startling George.
He turned to see—it was his coworker, Boli.
"Hey," Boli greeted, heading towards the urinal.
George watched Boli through the mirror and asked, "Can we leave now?"
Tsss, tsss—the sound of urine splashing.
"Yeah, we can go now," Boli responded.
"Any progress?" asked George.
