Since joining the Deutsches National Research Institute, Dr. Abraham Erskine rarely encountered his former university colleague and experimental partner, Johann Schmidt.
Their careers had diverged quickly. While Erskine remained within the realm of biology and genetics, Schmidt had transferred to the National Weapons Research and Development Division, a unit dominated by theoretical physicists and engineers focused on military innovation. The walls of their respective labs stood only meters apart, but ideologically, they were worlds away.
Johann Schmidt's genius was undeniable. His grasp of theoretical frameworks and his rapid mastery of new concepts were the stuff of legend among the research staff. Yet, what set him apart was not brilliance alone—it was his ambition. His hunger for ascension, for power, drove him beyond academic curiosity. Politics, status, control: these were the true subjects Schmidt studied.
Meanwhile, Erskine's work at the University of Munich had taken a different course. He had begun to make significant headway into human biology, specifically the theoretical boundaries of strength, speed, and endurance. His latest publications hinted at a startling concept: the human body was not at its evolutionary ceiling. There were latent potentials—dormant possibilities encoded in the genome—that, if awakened, could result in a new kind of human. Some gene expressions suggested rare mutations that appeared to enhance metabolism, tissue regeneration, and even neurological capacity.
One cool evening, while leaving the Institute after a long day of trials involving serum prototypes, Erskine spotted a familiar figure by the wrought iron gate.
"Abraham Erskine," Schmidt greeted, his voice smooth but firm, lips curling slightly at the corners. "Some days gone."
Erskine paused, adjusting his satchel over his shoulder. "Johann," he replied. "Where are you off to? That coat suits you. Very... imposing."
Schmidt wore polished black boots, their heels clicking sharply against the cobblestone path. His leather trench coat, tailored to a militaristic silhouette, flared slightly in the breeze. He resembled more an officer than a scientist—more ideologue than intellect.
"I'm on my way to a meeting of the Workers' Party," Schmidt said, eyes gleaming. "Mr. Adolf Hitler will be speaking tonight. A remarkable man. You should come, Abraham. I could introduce you to men of vision."
Erskine's expression dimmed. He had heard whispers about this Hitler—his violent nationalism, his vitriol, particularly toward the Jewish community. The man was gaining a reputation for rhetoric that burned with fanaticism. Abraham shook his head firmly.
"No, thank you. Politics never suited me, and... I've heard enough about Mr. Hitler."
Schmidt didn't press. He didn't need to. Instead, his interest turned—as it always seemed to lately—to Erskine's research.
"I heard rumors," Schmidt said as they walked a few paces side by side. "That you've made progress with your enhancement serum. That you've identified the vector for transformation."
"Rumors?" Erskine arched a brow. "Johann, you know better than to trust whispers."
Schmidt smiled. "But whispers are the first truths of empire."
---
Across the Atlantic, in the haze of American decadence and Prohibition-fueled enterprise, a very different kind of experiment was underway.
"Jay Gatsby," Remus muttered, flipping through a dossier as he sat across from James Howlett in the manor's candlelit study. "War veteran. Former officer. Reemerged a few years back on the West Egg shoreline with a fortune built on illegal bootlegging and—allegedly—a cozy friendship with one Meyer Wolfsheim. He's been manipulating the stock market through back channels. Not exactly subtle."
James leaned back, resting his boot against the desk leg. His sharp features were lit dimly by the lamp, casting shadows under his eyes.
"And he throws a party every weekend," James said.
"For four years straight," Remus confirmed. "Anyone with a sequin dress and a thirst for gin seems welcome."
James looked out the arched window, toward the glowing lights across the bay. Gatsby's mansion was a jewel against the night, always bustling, always burning bright.
"He's not a fool," James muttered. "No one that calculated is. But reckless..."
He checked his watch. Saturday.
"Azazel."
With a hiss of sulfur and a burst of smoke, the Red Devil himself materialized beside the desk, yawning as though from a nap.
"You rang, boss?" he grinned.
"We're going to a party," James said. "Remus, you too. Get dressed."
Azazel whooped, vanishing in a flash of brimstone to prepare his flamboyant attire, his voice echoing through the halls.
---
Gatsby's estate pulsed with color and sound. Strings of lights adorned the gardens, jazz poured like honey through open French doors, and masks glittered like stars in motion. Guests spilled out onto the manicured lawns, laughing and twirling in art deco glamour. Everyone was someone—or was pretending to be.
Azazel, wrapped in silver bandages like a haute couture mummy, drew stares and admiration as he bounded into the crowd.
"Father! This is magnificent!" he bellowed, tossing back his crimson hair. "Why haven't we done this sooner?"
Remus grunted, adjusting his tie.
James, in a black tailored suit, drifted up the grand staircase, glass of bourbon in hand, gaze scanning the crowd below. From the second-floor balcony, he could see Azazel becoming the center of a circle, guests mimicking his strange, flowing dance.
"You're new."
The voice was feminine, confident.
James turned to find a woman standing beside him—tall, graceful, with slicked-back hair and a gown that shimmered like oil under moonlight. Her eyes, amber and alert, studied him with interest.
"I'm Jordan," she said, extending a manicured hand. "Jordan Baker."
"Bruce Howlett," he replied. "First time here. I live across the bay. Couldn't ignore the spectacle forever."
"You're not the only one who's curious," she smirked. "Though I doubt you'll see the man behind the curtain."
"Gatsby?" James asked.
Jordan nodded. "He's elusive. Throws parties like a magician tosses smoke—distracting, dazzling. All to pull one particular rabbit from the hat."
James chuckled, sipping his drink. "Interesting metaphor. And what about you? Regular guest?"
"I golf," she said. "And I gossip."
He grinned. "You're in good company."
Jordan's gaze lingered on him longer than necessary. "You're not just some playboy neighbor, are you?"
James tilted his head. "And you're not just here for the champagne."
They shared a quiet laugh.
"Come play a round sometime," he said. "My lawn's regulation length."
---
Dawn spilled softly through the floor-length curtains of the Howlett estate. James stood by the window, shirt half-buttoned, watching the ripples on the bay. The distant mansion across the water now looked like a slumbering beast, all its grandeur folded in upon itself.
Behind him, Miss Jordan Baker stirred beneath the embroidered quilt, stretching her arms with a tired sigh.
"Bruce... I don't think I can lift a club today," she mumbled.
"That's all right," he said, setting a glass of water on the nightstand with care. "Golf can wait. Secrets, though? Those don't sleep."
Jordan blinked at him, amused and exhausted. "You really think Gatsby's a man with secrets worth chasing?"
James leaned against the windowsill, his silhouette framed in the rising light.
"I think a man who builds a golden palace to attract a ghost is either dangerous or desperate. Either way... I intend to find out."