Sick.

Dr. Quinn felt sick, a gnawing, constant sensation that dug into his gut and weighed on his chest, never allowing him a moment’s peace. In truth, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up the facade of being "fine." His role had become hollow, a relentless cycle of burnout.

There was no solace to be found within the gleaming white walls of the labs, no comfort in the stench of ammonia and the ever-present smell of desperation that hung in the air. The very building seemed to pulse with a sense of dread, as if it too knew the terrible truths hidden beneath.

Here, there was only stress, work, and death—three things Dr. Quinn knew better than most.

The only brief reprieve from the weight of his responsibilities came in the form of the pill Dr. Shen had slipped him—an amnestic, weak enough not to erase memories completely, but potent enough to dull the sharp edges of his thoughts. It was a temporary relief, a momentary escape. It allowed him to breathe, if only for a few hours. He didn’t need to think about the lives he’d signed off on. But it came with a price. The pill wasn’t without side effects. Sometimes, memories slipped through his fingers like water, leaving him to wonder what he was truly losing in the process.

Tonight, the haze was thick.

Dr. Quinn leaned heavily against the railing of one of the observation decks. His body felt weak, his head heavy with a fog that didn’t seem to lift. His eyes were barely open, and his stomach churned as if it too was rejecting the reality around him.

He could hear the murmurs of staff members in the background, the faint clink of metal as they worked in the labs below. No one seemed to notice him, even though he was clearly struggling to keep his composure. His hands gripped the metal railing, his knuckles white from the effort. He barely noticed how his body swayed, teetering on the edge of collapse. The lights overhead were too bright, and the noise of the facility was deafening in its emptiness.

There was no escape. Not for him.