“Why are you doing this?” a woman screamed, thrashing around in a chair. The room was dimly lit with a singular swinging headlamp, showcasing a tear-stricken woman with short brown hair, large hoop earrings, and clothes caked in dirt and grime.
Across the room stood a lone brown door; the rest of the space was in shambles—ripped wallpaper, holes scattered across the walls, and stains covering the floor. Next to her chair was a metallic tray with various instruments, including Metzenbaum scissors, alcohol swabs, a scalpel, and a saw.
The doorknob turned with a sharp creak, the noise stopping the woman’s cries. The door opened revealing a man wearing a surgical mask and a raised brow. The man appeared to be in his late twenties, with windswept brown hair, a lean build, and a calm smile that didn't quite look right. All in all a handsome-looking man. As he stepped inside, he slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, closing the door with a tap of his heel.
“Now, now, Cathrine. No need to scream.” The man smiled, his gaze cold and detached. “We’re too far away for anyone to hear you anyway. So, why scream?”
“Please, you don’t have to do this!” Cathrine pleaded, shrinking back in the chair. “I won’t tell anyone about this…about you. Please!”
The man lightly chuckled at Cathrine’s words, reaching into his lab coat pockets and pulling out a syringe in one hand and a sealed vial containing a dark green liquid in the other.
Cathrine’s back prickled with goosebumps, her focus moving from the man to the syringe he injected into the vial and slowly pulled back the plunger. The syringe’s barrel now filled with a dark green liquid that looked far too ominous to be anything good.
He stepped closer, placing a cold finger under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I want the best for you, Catherine. You’re sick, and I will help you.”
"Let... me... go." Her tear-streaked eyes met his with desperate hope. "Please. I'll do anything!"
"Okay," he replied, turning to the metallic tray. For a moment, disbelief and hope flickered across Catherine's face. "Thank you! Thank you!"
But instead of releasing her, he cut her sleeve with the scissors, pushing the fabric away before swabbing an exposed vein with alcohol.
“What…are you doing?” Catherine gasped, eyes wide with confusion and terror. “I-I thought you said you would let me go?”
“Hmm?” The man questioned, picking up the syringe filled with dark green fluid and flicking it with his middle finger before looking back towards Catherine. “Yes, I will let you go. Once I get enough data, of course.”
"This isn't fair," Catherine sobbed, coughing between words and struggling against her restraints. “Stop, please!”
He clicked his tongue in annoyance, placing the syringe back on the tray. Stripping off his right glove, he tossed it aside. With a sudden, brutal motion, he struck her, silencing her cries.
The man took out another white surgical glove and slipped it on his right hand. “Better.”
The man picked up another alcoholic swab and rubbed it on her wrist vein once more. “Honestly woman, you’re thirty-five. Stop crying, it’s unbecoming of a lady.” The man chided.
Catherine’s right cheek started to turn an ugly purple color, contrasting with her sickly pale skin.
"Don’t worry," he whispered, pressing the needle to her vein. "You’ll thank me for this." The dark green liquid slowly emptied into her arm. Her eyes rolled back, and she went limp as the injection finished.
The man stepped back, placing the syringe down and pulling out a notepad to document her reactions. Within moments, Catherine's body began convulsing. Her limbs writhed against the restraints, her head banging against the chair.
The man documented the reactions Catherine had, eyes full of wonder and a sickly smile growing on his face.
A few minutes later, Blood trickled from her nose and eyes before she fell limp once again. He sighed, closing his notepad and clicking his pen shut. Another dud, he concluded.
Making his way back towards the door, the man clicked the lights off and opened the door, slamming it shut behind him.
A single tear traced a path down Catherine’s bruised face.
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The man closed the door to his basement with an annoyed expression on his face. I thought I was close this time.
He was about to head to the second floor when the sound of the doorbell caught his attention. “Hello, Oliver?”
“I saw your car parked in the driveway and wanted to bring you some of my homemade potluck,” the voice continued.
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The man huffed before heading to the front door. Plastering a bright smile on his face, he opened it. “Hello, Mrs. Evelyn! It’s great to see you.”
The door revealed an elderly woman holding a white porcelain bowl wrapped in ceramic film. “It’s great to see you too, dear.”
“What can I do for you?” Oliver smiled, eager to get to the point.
“I made some of my famous potluck and wanted to share some with you.” Evelyn smiled, holding the pot between her oven mitts.
“Oh!” Oliver smiled, taking the pot from her hands. “You didn’t have to. You’re too kind, Miss Evelyn. Your food is to die for.”
Evelyn chuckled, lightly slapping Oliver’s robbed shoulder. “You’re too kind.”
“I mean it. You should really open a restaurant.” Oliver insisted, though seeing her nervous expression, he added, “I’ll become your first investor.”
Evelyn chuckled more, making Oliver frown slightly. “I mean it, I make good money as a scientist. And trust me when I say, this is to die for.”
“Thank you, dearie.” Evelyn chuckled again, patting her chest to calm herself. “Now, be safe.”
“You too,” Oliver replied, turning to head back inside. But a noise from Evelyn stopped him.
“Are you okay, dearie?” Evelyn asked with concern, causing Oliver to look at her with confusion. “Your shirt—there’s a bloodstain.”
Shit. A chill ran through Oliver for a moment, but he quickly recovered. “Sorry about that. I’ve been sneezing all week and got a bad case of nosebleeds from the pollen. You know, with spring coming soon.”
“If you’re sure you’re okay, dearie,” Evelyn said, eyeing him with concern.
“I’m fine. I grabbed some medication for it a few hours ago but got too caught up in work and forgot to take it. I guess I just dripped everywhere,” Oliver joked.
“Okay, but don’t forget to take your medicine,” Evelyn said, turning and walking off the porch toward her house down the road.
Oliver stared at Evelyn as she started to walk to her house, his smile vanishing.
Closing the door behind him, Oliver headed into the kitchen, placing the pot on the countertop. Grabbing a few utensils, he ripped open the ceramic wrap and grabbed a bottle of water before heading up towards the second floor.
Upon reaching the second floor, he entered his office, turned on his computer, and sank into his chair. He took a bite of the potluck and frowned. Nothing, still.
The computer opened to reveal various medical files and documents. The words Jack and Moslow’s Pharmaceutical United Foundation were written in bold.
Those idiots don’t understand the importance of my research, Oliver grumbled, glaring at the photos of Jack and Moslow with disdain. All I asked for was test subjects—my experiments passed with flying marks. We just needed to try them on humans, but no, it’s too inhumane, he mocked, rolling his eyes.
After finishing his potluck, Oliver turned his chair around and stared at the various awards and certificates hung across his wall. A faint smile appeared on his face, his previous frown disappearing.
A testament to my genius, Oliver thought, smiling as he looked over his awards. But suddenly, a dark feeling filled his stomach, causing his eyes to widen.
In a panic, Oliver rushed down the hall to the bathroom, covering his mouth.
Upon reaching the bathroom, he vomited into the sink. Looking down, he saw a large amount of blood mixed with the contents. A sheen of sweat covered his body as he began to burn up.
Tearing his clothes off, he dashed into the standing shower, turning it to full cold in an attempt to cool himself down. He stared at his reflection in the reflective plastic shower door.
The feeling of disgust filled him. “Fuck… I’ve been wasting too much time,” Oliver muttered, punching the shower wall in anger. “I need to finish my research. I barely have any time left.”
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After exiting the shower, Oliver headed into a room filled with vials and flasks, each meticulously labeled and arranged by content and purpose. The air was tinged with a faint, complex mix of chemical scents. The shelves on the right were filled with various acidic-looking chemicals and materials, while the shelves on the left were stocked with blood vials. The table in the center of the room held various solutions in Erlenmeyer flasks, an array of pipettes, and a single laptop.
Oliver walked past the desk and stared at his bulletin board, which was covered with notes and images on the topic of genetics. In the center of the board was an image of a bald, weak, and feeble child, with the caption: Glioblastoma Survivor!
“How did he get cured? What’s so special about him?” Oliver shouted, slamming his fist onto his desk, and shaking the items. “He’s done nothing! I’ve advanced humanity more than any other. I’ve gotten more awards than anyone in history in chemistry, yet he gets to live, and I don’t!”
Oliver stormed out of the lab, taking a couple of empty vials and syringes with him. He stormed into the basement, staring at the lifeless corpse of... whoever she was. Oliver had long since forgotten the trivial details. Taking out his syringes, Oliver carefully extracted several vials of the corpse’s blood and began taking tissue samples.
Standing over the corpse, Oliver grabbed the saw from the metallic tray and started to saw apart her skull. I need the brain samples to see if there was any benefit the brain received from the drug.
Upon extracting the brain, Oliver released a genuine smile. He held it with shaking hands—the brain was intact and healthy.
Oliver had implanted the same cancer he had into his test subjects and always checked to see if the drugs he concocted would cure his ailment.
“YES!” Oliver exclaimed, finally making progress in his research. “After eight years of painstaking research, I’ve done it!”
He caressed the brain with unbridled joy. He knew he still needed to iron out a few kinks from the test, but now, he had tangible proof that he was on the right track. He was going to be cured. “I knew I was right! The looks I will receive after I publish this will be worth it. Jack and Moslow’s expressions…Mmm…I can taste it already…”
Oliver gently placed the brain on a sterilized disk on top of the medical tray. He quickly moved toward his lab room—time was of the essence, and he needed to store the brain in a medical ice box.
The clock beside the staircase showing the time; 12:29 pm.
Just as he was about to reach his lab, a loud ding exploded in his head.
DING!
The sudden noise made Oliver stumble, causing him to drop the metallic tray onto the ground. He ruined all the samples he had collected, and, most importantly, damaged the brain.
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