Sinclair stood quietly outside of the Slicer’s door. The stench in the hallway of the old, gray apartment complex forced him to take quick breaths. He used his foot to poke at a small black object that was decaying near the wall. It was either a burnt rodent or desiccated feces.

He had a sudden urge to leave, to run away from this insane plan. Nothing from the trail of his past should have led him to this point. Great childhood, good grades, honors and accolades, medical doctor. His life was on track with no threats of derailment.

But he was going bald. This annoyed him and felt like a chink in his gleaming armor. This would be a quick detour and he’d be back to his wonderful life.

“Sidney?” The hallway door opened slightly and a raspy voice called out. “You Sidney?”

“Uh, yes, Sinclair.”

“Sinclair?” the voice questioned rhetorically. “Okay. Come in.”

He walked into a closet-sized room that was lit only by computer monitors and other electronics. The owner of the raspy voice pointed to a chair and disappeared into the darkness. A heavyset woman stared at him from behind a computer screen. Sinclair returned the stare, unsure whose turn it was to speak. He assumed she was the Slicer.

“Where’s the donor?” the Slicer asked abruptly.

“Oh, yes, sorry,” Sinclair muttered. He produced a clear plastic bag with a severed human finger inside. “It’s right here.”

“Jesus!” she retorted with disgust. “What’s wrong with you? You were told to bring a donor, not a piece of one. Get out!”

“What? But wait,” Sinclair was confused. “I was told you needed the donor’s DNA and there’s ample genetic source material in this specimen.”

The Slicer raised her eyebrows and peered over the tops of her glasses. She seemed to be looking at Sinclair for the first time. “Sinclair, right? How did you arrive at that conclusion, sweetheart?”

Her tone immediately disarmed Sinclair. “I thought for CRISPR you only needed a source for the Cas9 to clip,” he suggested.

“You in school?”

“Graduated,” Sinclair said proudly. “Medical doctor. I work at Salud Central.”

“Is that where you got that finger?” the Slicer asked with a smirk.

Sinclair avoided the question. “It won’t work then?”

“Sorry, honey,” she explained patiently. “If you were an embryo, sure, I could make it work. But you’re a big boy now. I need a full human donor.”

Sinclair nodded and put the bagged finger in his pocket. As he stood up, the raspy-voiced man reappeared and led him to the door. Before Sinclair left the room, he heard the Slicer call out, “Tuesday at 9:00 a.m. I’ll hold a spot for you. Bring the donor.”

Sinclair arrived at the appointment accompanied by a 70-year-old man. His donor had remarkably thick gray hair for his age, but he was clearly confused.

Sinclair brought him from a community care facility where he provided volunteer medical services over the weekend. The donor needed little coaxing, as he was well advanced with dementia. Sinclair was sweating profusely and mentally grappling with the violation of his ethical code.

The Slicer was fast and efficient. She treated the donor with care as she methodically removed the hair-related genetic code from his DNA. She was equally considerate as she placed the genetic code within Sinclair. She winked at him as he left, only remarking, “We’ll see you again.”

Four weeks later, Sinclair had his hair cut short to level up with the robust re-growth. He felt powerful and confident. He suffered no consequences for his illegal appointment and recovered from his ethical misconduct.

But something had shifted. He saw patients through fresh eyes. In addition to the routine medical review, he surveyed them for genetic strengths. Soon his visits to the Slicer were a monthly routine.

At first, the community clinic patients were a viable source. They were easily persuaded and had no family members to notice the effects of the genetic robbery. When Sinclair genetically enhanced his muscle tone, however, the donor collapsed dead.

“Is he okay?” Sinclair screamed.

“You’re the doctor,” the Slicer reminded him in a monotone.

After confirming the death, Sinclair looked at the Slicer in horror. “No, no, no, no,” he repeated slowly.

“Relax,” the Slicer said with reassurance. “It happens all the time. Most donors can’t take the structural deficit. We provide a disposal service for a minimal fee. We’re discrete.”

“Yes, please, whatever the cost,” Sinclair agreed quickly. He didn’t make eye contact. He felt like vomiting.

The man with the raspy voice appeared and removed the body quietly. Sinclair paid and left.

A tortured night awaited Sinclair, and he confronted the tempest with agony and determination. He was rational, methodical, and analytical. He did not detect his overwhelming drive to justify his actions, both past and future.

Within weeks, he was back at the Slicer with patients from the hospital. He made ready use of the disposal services, which were necessary as he increasingly demanded greater genetic improvements.

“I feel like superman,” he commented confidently to the Slicer after retrieving the code from an Olympic runner. “You do great work.”

The raspy-voiced man disposed of the donor quietly and then returned to Sinclair’s side. “I agree,” he said, smiling. He secured Sinclair’s wrists to the chair with restraints.

“What’s this?” Sinclair called out in alarm. “What’s going on?”

“Efficiency,” the Slicer noted smoothly. “You’ve amassed an impressive concoction of genes, my friend.” She removed her glasses and nodded. “I have a buyer who would like your complete package.”

“We’ll take it,” the raspy voice agreed.

Sinclair's eyes closed as he was sedated, sourced, and then disposed of.