I had stood guard at the energy hub until the sky began to bleed. Not red—gold. The kind of gold that lies, that coats the world in false warmth right before it dies.
When I returned, the base was silent. Not empty, but emptying. No goodnights. No warmth. Just closed doors and the cold breath of suspicion lingering in every hallway.
I found myself outside Mira's quarters. Her scent still hung in the air—roasted coffee, burnt circuits, and jasmine. The living vanish, but their chaos lingers.
Some people leave echoes, not memories.
Sleep? Maybe two hours. But paranoia doesn't sleep.
"Paranoia is insomnia's cruel sibling. It feeds you fear until you're too tired to scream."
Lying on my cot, I stared at the ceiling.
"Enough," I muttered.
Because in a house already burning, waiting is not caution. It's arson.
I dressed. Talked to everyone. Light conversation, meaningless words. But behind every smile, I watched for fractures. I listened for the tremors in their voices, the artificial ease in their answers. Eight of us remained. If I wasn't the traitor, then there were seven suspects.
Even my sharpest questions drew no blood. Cracked masks, never a full collapse.
Earlier that day, I had wandered into the lab alone. Everyone else was on edge. I needed silence. At a back workstation, I noticed two chemical vials too close together. Between them, a thin line of liquid shimmered faintly under the light—like oil on water. It hissed softly. Barely audible. My hand neared it. Warmth. No flame, just waiting heat.
I paused.
Then I walked away.
I didn't test it. Didn't log it. I turned away.
"The greatest crimes in science aren't the mistakes. They're the maybes we ignore."
Later, I sat on crates in the storage hall with Mr. Zakir.
He was old. Not just in years, but in disappointment. A biochemist, like me. But he had loved science enough to stay faithful. I had flirted with too many disciplines. He passed me a thermos with shaking hands. Coughed
"They say we used to fight diseases," he said, voice like a worn book spine. "But we didn't. We tamed them. Put them in cages, and forgot to feed the locks."
I raised a brow. "You think what we do now is worse?"
Zakir chuckled, dryly. "Now? Now we treat the symptom, not the system. We suppress data that disturbs the donors. We silence the whistle, not the poison."
"And yet here we are," I said. "Still experimenting. Still hoping we get it right the thousandth time."
He took a long sip from the thermos. "You young ones are addicted to hope. You think it's noble. Me? I think it's dangerous."
I stared at him. "Without hope, we have nothing."
"Exactly," he snapped. "And that 'nothing' is more honest than your pretty delusions."
There was silence.
"Let me tell you something," he said. "I once created a serum that could delay neurodegeneration by a decade. The company shelved it. Too expensive to mass-produce. I watched my own brother forget my name because someone in a boardroom preferred dividends."
His eyes glistened, but his voice never broke.
"They said it was business. I say it was murder by omission."
"So what did you do?" I asked.
"I stayed. I worked. I obeyed."
"Then you were complicit."
He nodded. "Yes. And so are you. So is every one of us still breathing in this place."
"Then what's the point?" I whispered. "If we know we're part of the disease, why not tear it all down?"
Zakir met my gaze.
"Because fire doesn't heal. It only cleans. And even ashes carry memory."
I looked away.
"Do you know why I stayed in the field?" I asked. "Not because I believe in science. Not anymore. I stay because science doesn't care what I believe. It just is. And I want to leave something behind that isn't blood or apology."
"Then you're no better than I was," Zakir said. "You're not trying to cure the world. You're just trying to outlive your guilt."
I wanted to argue. I really did.
But then...
A sound struck me.
A memory. A hiss. A shimmer. A warmth.
The lab.
My thoughts slammed into each other like panicked birds.
"Something's wrong in the lab," I said. "I saw it before. I just didn't understand it."
And I ran.
Zakir noticed. "What is it?"
"Something's wrong in the lab. I saw it before. I just didn't understand it."
And I ran.
The lab was too quiet. Not peaceful—premeditated. Like a corpse arranged to look beautiful.
The reaction had grown. It had bloomed beyond the petri glass. Crimson-blue frost formed strange, curling patterns.
A third compound. Introduced recently. Catalyzing the others.
Less than a minute before it combusted on oxygen contact.
Zakir caught up. "Can we neutralize it?"
"No. It's alive now. Interfere, and it detonates faster."
I sprinted to the storage lockers. My files—open. Mira's—locked.
One chance.
Her password habits were strange. She pulled phrases from her own thoughts. No punctuation. No structure. Just whispered fragments of truth.
Zakir turned to go. "I'll warn the others."
"Go," I said. "Don't look back."
He didn't. That told me everything.
The world shrank to the keypad.
What would Mira choose?
A memory surfaced. Back when we were students, watching a prototype reactor fail.
"Hope is the most flammable element. Don't carry it unless you're ready to burn."
I typed it.
Click.
The locker opened.
And in that moment—
I felt something was off. A wrongness beneath the victory. But no time to think. Only time to run.
I grabbed everything. Slammed it shut. Bolted.
The formula climaxed.
I reached the cliff. Seven meters of wind and death.
I jumped.
Boom.
The shockwave hit me mid-air. Sky twisted. Gravity dragged me down.
Crack.
Dirt kissed my bones.
I didn't scream.
I just lay there.
The sky above me was too blue. The kind of blue that should only exist in paintings.
Pain rang through me. Thirteen bones broken. Maybe more.
But that meant 193 weren't.
"A ratio worth surviving for."
And I realized:
"Sometimes, the body admits what the soul won't. I want to live.
Even in a world where friends die and become shadows. Even when science tries to erase me. Even when faith fails, and future is a blade. I want to live.
Because if death is certain, then life must mean something. And I haven't found what yet."