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.