From the terminal, instead of following the throng of travelers to the arrival hall, we slip downstairs and board an apron bus that whisks us to the outskirts of the airport. On the tarmac, gleaming under the mid-day sun, a sleek helicopter awaits. As we approach, the rotor blades begin their rhythmic dance, cutting through the still air with increasing intensity.

  Dr. Qian's eyes widen, a childlike wonder overtaking his reserved, nearly timid demeanor. “I’ve never flown in one of these,” he murmurs, voice nearly lost in the growing roar.

  In the Republic, aerial transportation is tightly controlled. Flying into a metropolis like Wuhan requires not just money, but clearance, connections and quiet power. The privilege isn't lost on any of us.

  Twenty minutes later, the landscape below shifts. A shimmer of water appears, then expands—Biolake. The helicopter banks, and Jianhua presses his face to the glass like a child at a toy store window. His breath fogs the pane. “Heavens,” he mutters. “It’s so freaking large.”

  Biolake sprawls beneath us—not just a lake, but a living blueprint. Crystalline water bordered by fields so precisely arranged they look algorithmic. Patches of color—emerald, gold, violet—form a mosaic too vivid to be natural.

  “Look at those plots,” I say, pointing. “That’s not farming. That’s choreography.”

  Geodesic domes glint in the sun. Sleek labs nestle among sculpted gardens. In the distance, a herd of oversized horses moves in eerie unison across a manicured field.

  Bao Fang leans forward, hands clasped tightly to conceal his excitement. “It’s beautiful,” he says, voice low. “I never bought shares in a company this… alive.”

  The pilot announces our descent. Below, a private helipad comes into view, marked with a crimson double helix—sweeping, elegant, unmistakable.

  A team in white lab coats waits on the tarmac, coats whipping in the downdraft like capes. As the rotors slow, they straighten and step forward with efficient professionalism, ready to greet us.

  Within seconds, I realize these are all unfamiliar faces. This is Evangeline's newly hired team, assembled to do unessential work and for show. The real team remains hidden behind the scenes.

  Leading them is a tall Caucasian man with silver-white hair and titanium glasses that catch the light like a scalpel. He moves with the grace of someone who’s spent decades navigating boardrooms and diplomatic halls.

  “Ms. Hightower,” he says, bowing with quiet formality.

  Eva’s smile blooms—warm, commanding. She extends her hand to clasp his, her posture subtly shifting to one of both authority and familiarity.

  "This is Dr. Randall Wilson," she announces, her voice carrying a note of pride. "Our chief research officer and a distinguished member of the US National Academy of Sciences."

  Dr. Qian arches an eyebrow, his face radiating silent admiration.

  Eva introduces us with crisp efficiency, then leads us through the living laboratory that surrounds us. The staff defer to her without hesitation. She doesn’t glance at maps. She doesn’t ask for directions. She moves like she built the place.

  We pass rows of genetically modified tea plants, their leaves shimmering with a pearlescent sheen. Eva stops, gestures. “This is Celestial Dawn,” she remarks towards Jianhua and I, voice softening. “The tea I gave you last time. Thoughts?”

  “Amazing,” Jianhua answers instantly. “Everyone who tried it was stunned.”

  “Best green tea I’ve had,” I add. “And I’ve tried them all.”

  Eva’s eyes glint. “It’s actually a hybrid—yellow and green. We apply precision low-tempature steam, then pan-sear briefly. Followed by a sealed yellowing phase to soften leaf fibers. Prepares them to bloom in water.” Her fingers trace a leaf. “We’re not just growing plants. We're orchestrating a living sculpture, coding biochemical processes that translate to emotional resonance on the palate.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  She looks at each of us. “We’re applying the same principles to black and oolong. I’ve prepared gifts for each of you before you leave.”

  She leads us to shaded plots where strange specimens flourish—crimson berries, translucent stems, lacquered leaves. Every plant whispers of precision, of intervention.

  Dr. Qian gasps. “Ginseng?” He steps closer, glasses trembling in his hand. “But this pigmentation—this morphology—it’s like century-old wild root. What’s the growth cycle?”

  Eva nods, respectful. “Your eye is sharp, Dr. Qian. We’ve engineered two-year ginseng with the same ginsenoside profile as wild specimens aged a hundred years. Same with notoginseng, lycium, and others.”

  She lowers her voice. “I've long been fascinated by Rubian medicine. It shouldn't be reduced to acupuncture and cupping.” She gestures toward the plants with a sweeping motion. "However, its sophisticated pharmacology depends on consistent access to high-potency botanical compounds. Overharvesting and environmental degradation threaten this ancient tradition. We’re trying to save it.”

  Jianhua’s eyes narrow. His breath quickens. “What’s the production cost?” he asks, unable to hide the hunger in his voice.

  Eva smiles—cool, knowing. She’s seen this reaction before. “After R&D? Marginal production cost is negligible.”

  The silence that follows is electric.

  “Growing ginseng like growing potatoes,” Bao Fang mutters, half in awe. “Unreal.”

  Eva just smiles. She knows exactly what she’s built—and what it’s worth.

  Our next stop is a vineyard unlike any I’ve seen—an expanse of precision-engineered vines sheltered beneath polyethylene greenhouses, their surfaces treated to filter specific wavelengths of light. The air inside is warm, fragrant, and unnaturally still, like stepping into a simulation of nature perfected.

  Bao Fang’s fingers tap against his thigh, a subtle rhythm betraying his excitement. “Wine grapes aren’t about genes,” he says, voice laced with pride. “It’s the soil. The air. The soul of the place.”

  Eva smiles, nodding with genuine appreciation. “Exactly. Bordeaux, Burgundy—they’re not just regions. They’re centuries of selective cultivation, perfectly adapted to their terroir through time. Transplant the vines elsewhere, and you lose the magic.”

  She gestures toward the rows of vines, each one arranged with surgical precision. “But what took centuries, we can now compress into years. We don't replicate the weather—we design grapes for the environment.”

  Dr. Qian steps forward, eyes narrowing with scientific hunger. “Are you suggesting the genetic engineering of vitis vinifera cultivars,” he inquires, adjusting his glasses, “specifically optimized for Wuhan's environmental parameters?”

  “Not Wuhan’s,” Eva replies, waving a hand. “Too wet. Too dim. But inside these domes? We’ve built microclimates.” Her voice takes on a hypnotic cadence, drawing us in. “Custom soil microbiomes. Calibrated humidity gradients. Spectrums of light tuned to trigger specific phenolic pathways. We don’t just grow grapes—we craft them. And here’s the breakthrough—every variable is replicable. We can scale this anywhere. Precision viticulture, globalized.”

  Jianhua's lips part, eyes widening as the commercial implications register. "Imagine that," he whispers, almost to himself. "Thousands of acres of Bordeaux... reproducible indefinitely." His fingers twitch slightly, as if already counting future profits.

  "Perhaps you'd like to experience the results firsthand." Eva turns, leading us to a tasting station beneath a pergola draped in flowering vines. Crystal decanters glint in the filtered sunlight, casting rainbows across the polished table.

  “I believe our resident connoisseur might enjoy a taste,” she says, eyes twinkling as she hands Bao Fang a bottle. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  Bao Fang offers a few self-deprecating remarks that fail to mask his evident enthusiasm. His hands are steady, reverent. He dismisses the assistant with a glance—this ritual is his alone.

  With methodical precision, Bao evaluates the wine—tilting the glass against the light to appraise its color saturation and viscosity, swirling it with practiced wrist movements to release volatile compounds, then bringing it to his nose with closed eyes.

  “Black currant,” he murmurs. “Plum. Cedar. Tobacco. Violet. It’s layered. Confident.”

  Then he sips. And everything changes.

  His brows lift. His jaw stills. He holds the wine in his mouth, letting it speak.

  “Silky tannins,” he says finally. “Structured. Acidity is perfect. Finish is long, complex. It’s… astonishing.”

  He turns to Eva, voice low, reverent. “This could stand beside Pauillac. Saint-Julien. Wines that sell for thousands. To achieve this in a controlled environment…” He shakes his head. “It’s revolutionary.”

  Jianhua clinks his glass down and claps Bao’s shoulder. “Wine tasting’s the one thing I’ll admit you beat me at,” he says, grinning. “But even I know this isn’t ordinary.”

  Dr. Qian and I exchange a glance. He’s already tracing notes on his thigh, cataloging possibilities. I can see the gears turning behind his eyes.

  Eva straightens, her smile deepening. “This is just a glimpse of our agricultural division,” she says, voice rich with pride. “Now, let me show you our zoological work.”

  She pauses, letting the moment breathe.

  “I should mention, the specimens you’ll see are not for sale,” she adds, her tone shifting to something melodic, almost theatrical. “They’re auctioned exclusively through Hightower Coins.”

  Her eyes gleam—not with hope, but certainty. She knows exactly what she’s built. And exactly what it’s worth.