Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 255: Angela’s Lunch

"These savages—" Gesturing toward the glass wall where the prisoners were huddled with panicked, wild eyes, she continued, "—they might possess the solutions we've been desperately seeking. A remedy. A method to fix the infertility destroying our men." Her tone softened, filled with a raw sense of urgency that bordered on despair. "Survival is merely a slow descent toward extinction without it. One sterile generation after another, we will simply vanish."

A heavy, stifling silence filled the room. The only sounds were the ventilation system's hum and the faint rhythm of a leaking pipe. Beside her, Angela’s fingers gave a small twitch, the solitary indication of the emotional storm she kept under ironclad restraint.

"Hesitation is a luxury we don't have," Angela declared, her words cutting the silence like a sharp scalpel. The absolute finality in her voice shut down any possibility of debate. "We require that cure. Immediately."

With a tight throat, I gave a nod. The laboratory around us was a scene of organized chaos—technicians were busy prepping needles, scientists hovered over monitors, and the constant drone of machinery filled the air.

Angela didn't waste a moment. Turning toward her staff, she issued sharp, clinical orders. "Re-run the blood panels. Compare them against the previous data. And I want the toxicity reports for Subject 7 on my desk right now."

Suddenly, a disturbance broke out.

A nurse’s voice, spiked with terror, pierced through the background noise of the lab. "Hurry! The anesthesia isn't taking effect! Administer another—" Her shout was cut short by a frantic scramble as sirens began to wail.

My attention snapped to one of the medical beds where a massive figure was struggling against his bonds. It was Tusk. His huge frame strained against the leather, the veins in his neck bulging as he fought to tear himself free.

Angela moved instantly, her heels striking the tiles with lethal precision. In three quick strides, she reached the bedside, her face a mask of indifference. "Let me see his chart," she barked, snapping her fingers at the nearest nurse.

With trembling hands, the nurse fumbled with a tablet before passing it over. Angela’s brow furrowed as her eyes raced across the screen. "This is strange," she whispered, seemingly talking to herself. "The dosage is accurate. There is no logical reason for him to be regaining consciousness."

The entire lab seemed to hold its breath for a second. Then, Angela’s voice rang out, colder than before. "Give him another dose. Do it now. Track every vital sign and every muscle twitch. I want an immediate report if anything shifts."

She didn't stay for an answer. Casting one final, dismissive look at the thrashing Tusk, she spun on her heel and headed for the exit. I followed closely behind her, the weight of the scene we just witnessed pressing against me like a physical burden.

The metal doors hissed closed, locking the laboratory's chaos behind us. Angela leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper so faint I had to strain to hear it—"We are missing something."

The implication of her words hung heavily in the air. Before I could say anything, she stood tall, her demeanor shifting as if she had flipped a switch. The intensity in her gaze faded, replaced by a mask of normalcy.

"Well." She let out a breath, a rare human moment cracking through her professional armor. "Let's head to the cafeteria for now. It's time for lunch." She paused, and a ghost of a smile—or something resembling one—tugged at her lips. "Since it's your first day in the facility, I'll give you a tour. Think of it as a welcome."

I blinked, stunned by how fast her tone had changed. This was the same woman who had just coldly ordered more sedation and stared down a violent test subject without blinking.

Now she wanted to discuss lunch? I didn't push back, though. I just nodded and walked beside her down the sterile, brightly lit hallway.

We walked in silence at first, accompanied only by the hum of lights and the echo of our steps. Angela led the way with a relaxed yet commanding posture, looking like she owned the cafeteria just as much as the lab.

"You'll grow accustomed to it," Angela remarked suddenly, her low voice carrying years of experience. She looked at me from the corner of her eye, gauging my reaction.

"The mental disconnect. One moment you're handling life and death, and the next, you're eating a sandwich as if it's a normal Tuesday." There wasn't any judgment in her voice, only the cold pragmatism of someone who had long ago accepted such absurdities.

As we entered the cafeteria, the savory aroma of food offered a brief sense of comfort. Angela didn't hesitate, walking straight to the counter where a pre-prepared plate was waiting for her.

The woman behind the counter, wearing a white apron, nodded respectfully at Angela. Without stopping, Angela pointed toward me. "Prepare a plate for him as well. Make sure he has one every day. He will be dining with me."

The worker didn't ask questions. She simply grabbed a plate and began serving food with efficient, practiced movements. I watched in surprise as Angela took her own plate and handed it to me. Before I could say a word, she grabbed the next one and started walking toward a secluded corner.

"Sit," she commanded, her voice firm but not harsh, as she took a seat with the confidence of someone at their own private table. It was a small table, tucked away from the noise of the crowd, providing a bit of privacy.

I hesitated for a moment before sitting across from her. The food smelled surprisingly good, but my thoughts were still stuck between the chaos of the lab and this weirdly domestic scene.

Angela, however, looked perfectly comfortable. She used her fork with precise, deliberate movements, treating the act of eating like a calculated task. "Eat," she said firmly, sensing my distraction. "You need to maintain your strength. Especially if you intend to protect me."

I observed her taking small, measured bites, her focus shifting from our grim mission to the simple task of nourishment. It was almost disarming—the way her posture relaxed and her sharp edges softened for a moment. My eyes drifted, noticing the way her blouse hung and how her figure pressed subtly against the table's edge.

I swallowed hard, feeling a sudden tension tighten in my chest. This was Angela—cold, brilliant, and out of reach—yet in this quiet moment, she seemed almost... human. The thought was jarring, and I forced myself to focus on my plate, my grip tightening on my fork.