Ghosts of Eternity

The website for IPS Global’s U.S. branch finally went live.

Sleek silver lettering stretched across the jet-black screen. The design was almost solemn, evoking the entrance to a hidden altar.

[GHOST 2.0: Pulsatile HPG-Axis Activator]

Priced at $100, Ghost 2.0 was expensive compared to the dubious peptides floating around the gray market, but still within reach of individual biohackers willing to pay for quality and efficacy.

Beneath it was another product priced at $2,000 per vial.

[AX-11: Anti-IL-11 Monoclonal Antibody]

A single order alone cost thousands of dollars. With repeat dosing taken into account, it was far beyond what the average person could casually afford.

Beneath the price tag, a faint glow illuminated the [Submit Purchase Inquiry] button, which only activated once research purpose and storage facility information were provided.

A mere few hours after the inquiry button went live, hundreds of accounts claiming to be research institutions and private labs flooded the IPS Global U.S. branch website at once.

[Pending Purchase Inquiries: 438]

The number surged with every refresh.

There were accounts using official university research lab domains, longevity research foundations in Silicon Valley, private bio labs, and shell companies tied to well-known family offices.

Some filled out the research purpose field with complete honesty.

[Study on ovulation restoration in middle-aged women]

[Analysis of age-related hypogonadism]

[Evaluation of tissue fibrosis reversal potential via IL-11 blockade]

On the other hand, others were almost comically brief.

[Personal research.]

[Undisclosed.]

[Price negotiable. Immediate delivery requested.]

The account requesting the largest order volume belonged to a private longevity clinic on the U.S. East Coast.

Ghost 2.0: 500 units.

AX-11: 100 units.

A proof-of-funds letter from a Swiss private bank was attached.

However, pressing the order button did not guarantee a purchase. IPS Global’s automated system filtered facility types, cold-storage capabilities, and import qualifications. Applications falling short of the criteria turned gray immediately.

[Review Pending.]

[Storage Facility Unverified.]

[Insufficient Research Purpose.]

The rejected accounts swarmed Reddit instantly.

“I have the cash. Why won’t they sell it to me?”

“They label it 'for research use' and then screen buyers?”

“These guys aren't selling drugs; they're selling qualifications.”

Beneath that comment, someone replied briefly.

“That’s what makes it feel even more real.”

After that single sentence, complaints turned into raw desire. The fact that it was an unattainable commodity elevated the product's value to the next level.

On Reddit, one of the world’s largest online communities, the r/Biohackers subreddit erupted.

Hardcore biohackers who scoffed at the sluggish approval processes of conventional medicine—using their own bodies as testbeds for gene editing and pharmacological shortcuts—went wild. New threads appeared faster than anyone could keep up with.

You could almost hear biohackers around the world hammering the F5 key.

The first place to catch fire was the Certificate of Analysis (COA) tab hidden deep within the product detail page. Upon examining the high-performance liquid chromatography (HPLC) chromatograms attached there, the comments exploded.

- Holy crap, is this COA actually real?

- GHOST 2.0 purity is 99.8%? AX-11 is an insane 99.9%. Look at how clean that graph is. There’s practically nothing else in there.

- This is on an entirely different level from cheap bulk raw materials from China, peptides hastily synthesized in private labs, or antibodies of unknown origin on the gray market. Unless they siphoned off a clinical batch from Big Pharma and packaged it, getting this level of purity in a standard research reagent is physically impossible.

Once the perception spread that it was an extremely refined substance—incomparable to existing gray-market products—excitement across the subreddit escalated into frenzy.

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Among the posts, a pinned Ghost administration review by user ‘Luna42’ shot to the top of the subreddit’s trending page, drawing tens of thousands of views. She was a high-earning data analyst in Silicon Valley, but also a forty-two-year-old woman who had struggled with infertility for years.

- Week 3 on Ghost 2.0 nasal spray while trying to conceive.

- I’ll state the conclusion first: the pregnancy test still shows only one line. However, the signals my body is sending are completely different.

- My ovulation test values and basal body temperature curves have begun showing normal patterns for the first time in years. It feels like my body is remembering its cycle again. I can feel my stalled hormonal cycle moving once more.

- Side effects? Mild facial flushing—and somehow, I barely feel tired even when I sleep two hours less than usual. Having experienced my body feeling this light, I can never go back to that lifeless past.

The comment section overflowed with reactions filled with awe, envy, and anticipation.

By contrast, discussion around the mysterious new product AX-11 remained eerily quiet—the calm before a storm.

If Ghost was priced at a point where individual biohackers could still afford to try it, AX-11 was different: $2,000 per vial. Not many could afford repeat dosing.

Breaking that heavy silence, a prominent Silicon Valley venture capitalist using the handle ‘VC_Vampire’ dropped a lengthy, detailed report.

- If the price scares you, keep scrolling. This is the real thing, officially cleared through customs, so don’t compare it to cheap stimulants.

- Two-month update: My lung capacity, measured three times at the same pulmonary function lab, increased by an average of 12%. The fibrotic tissue around my right elbow, where I’d suffered from chronic tennis elbow for years, had visibly diminished on ultrasound. Detailed skin analysis also confirmed a clear increase in dermal collagen density.

- If Ghost is high-octane fuel forcing an engine that was dying back to life, AX-11 is in the realm of replacing the worn-out, cracked engine block itself with a brand-new one. Stop whining about the price. Compared to the cost of trying to patch up a body broken by aging on a hospital bed later, this is practically a giveaway.

Near the German-Swiss border, cold winds swept in from the Rhine and rattled an old villa outside Basel.

Hans Weber took off his worn leather jacket—caked with grease and stale tobacco odor—and slung it over a dining chair.

The moment he stepped inside, Hans stopped in his tracks.

The air smelled completely different. Instead of the damp mold smell and harsh bleach odor that had dominated this house for so long, a gentle citrus fragrance and the warm scent of freshly baked rye bread filled the living room.

From the kitchen area came the light clinking sound of dishes.

Hans, who had lost his left hand in a chemical wastewater treatment plant accident years ago, habitually tapped the worn prosthesis fitted over his left forearm as he walked toward the kitchen.

“Hans, you’re back?”

His wife, Elsa, standing in front of the sink, turned toward him and spoke softly.

Barely half a year ago, her eyes had been a lifeless gray. Depression brought on by premature menopause had ruthlessly consumed her vitality, and Elsa used to curl up like a withered flower in the corner of the bed every night, weeping in silence.

Yet, just two months after taking Ghost, her pregnancy was miraculously confirmed, and before long, Elsa had begun to feel the baby move.

A peach-colored glow now radiated from Elsa's cheeks, and her eyes sparkled like a clear lake.

Beneath her loose, beige knit dress, her belly—curving outward quite visibly—caught Hans's eye.

Elsa offered a gentle smile and guided Hans's right hand onto her stomach.

Hans rested his warm, calloused right hand against her belly.

“It’s been quite active in there since a moment ago. I think it already knows its father is home.”

A firm thump pressed back against his palm.

The baby had kicked.

It was a miracle that doctors in Basel had declared impossible for a forty-two-year-old woman diagnosed with early menopause.

“I still can’t believe it...”

Hans’s voice trembled slightly.

“Every morning when I open my eyes, I still feel like I’m living in a dream, Elsa.”

“It’s not a dream, Hans.”

Elsa whispered, rubbing her cheek against Hans’s broad chest.

“That mysterious medicine from Korea brought us back to life. Truly.”

The warmth radiating from her body was already flowing through Hans’s veins as well.

Every morning, as the fine mist of Ghost stimulated his hypothalamus, Hans felt his long-dormant reproductive axis stir back to life, driving away years of lethargy.

Hans drew Elsa into his arms, one hand cradling the back of her head with unexpected tenderness.

He could feel her quickened breath, her racing heartbeat, and the baby stirring between them.

To Hans, that movement felt like the first miracle Ghost had awakened on European soil.

The people behind Ghost were the saviors who had rescued his collapsing home—and the only ones capable of taking that miracle away in an instant.

“Hans.”

Elsa’s hand gripped his shirt collar.

What Ghost had revived was not merely her capacity for pregnancy. The suppressed, primal heat of life was filling the space between the two of them.

Hans looked into the desire in her eyes—a gaze he had forgotten for so long—and firmly embraced her waist.

Outside, the harsh Rhine winds rattled the windows of the old villa, but the heat inside the villa completely overwhelmed the cold beyond the windows.

Hans realized it then: he could never return to a body from the days without Ghost. No, he didn't want to go back anymore.

As long as their child was born safely and Elsa could keep smiling like this, he was willing to become a loyal hound for whoever kept that miracle alive.

Bzzzt—

Hans's cracked smartphone screen, tossed onto the dining table, lit up. It was a short text message from Korea.

[Shipment arrived. Immediate pickup available at designated warehouse.]

Beneath it, six more unread messages were stacked.

[Zurich side offering double.]

[Munich clinic says they're sending someone directly tonight.]

[Milan client requesting priority allocation for AX-11.]

[Amsterdam research team willing to purchase all remaining stock.]

[Paris advance payment confirmed.]

The final message was from an encrypted, private channel managed directly by Hans.

[Diagnosed with loss of ovarian function. Wife is 39. Please, even just one Ghost spray.]

Hans’s gaze lingered on that sentence for a moment.

He wasn't any different from that person just a few months ago. Someone with no money, no connections, and no time to wait.

However, the inventory that arrived at the warehouse was limited. He couldn't distribute it to everyone.

Hans closed the message thread.

The moment he decided who would receive the supply first, he was no longer a mere courier. He was deciding who would get a chance first—and who would be forced to wait.

“The shipment from Mr. Park has arrived. I have to go pick it up now.”

“Right now?”

Elsa’s hand briefly grabbed his sleeve.

Hans looked back and forth between his wife’s rounded belly and the smartphone screen.

“People are already waiting. If I don’t sort the shipment by tonight, they’ll come straight to the warehouse.”

“Isn't it dangerous?”

“That’s why I have to go.”

What Mr. Park had unleashed in Europe was no ordinary product. It was the authority to decide who would recover first and who would have to wait longer.

And now, a fraction of that authority rested in his own hands.

Outside, Hans climbed into his battered manual minivan, which shook and coughed whenever the engine turned over.

He pressed down on the rattling clutch, his eyes burning with a fierce energy that seemed to erase his fatigue.

The recipients of the next shipment had already been decided: desperate infertile couples, aging elites, and patients who could not afford to wait for institutional approval.

Hans drove his car onto the dark roads of Basel.

Ghost was ready to cross the Alps and spread across Europe.