“It’s Casimir. The budget ran out.”
The words were a whisper against the hum of the air conditioning unit, lost in the clinical sterility of Dr. Rostova’s consultation room. Casimir, barely twenty-two, sat on the crinkled paper of the examination table, touching a fresh scab on his temple from the fall. His throat was dry, his world still spinning from the aftermath of the grant celebration. Pav had been so genuinely proud, so boisterously delighted, Casimir had felt a swell of triumph that snapped something delicate behind his temples.
The physician, her grey hair pinned back in an austere knot, tapped a stylus against a screen. “Casimir, we’ve run every panel. Your neural pathways overreact. Intense stimuli—profound contentment, anger, even sorrow—trigger a cascade. It overloads the system.” Her voice was measured, dispassionate. “We’ve seen similar, rare cases. They’re usually managed with aggressive medication, but yours seems… unique in its severity.”
He recalled the euphoria, the way the cheap champagne had tasted like victory, the warmth of Pav’s arm around his shoulders. He remembered the splitting headache, the tunnel vision, then the blankness. He’d woken to Pav’s panicked face, his own mouth tasting of copper.
“What does that mean?” he asked, his voice rough. He knew, even then, what it meant. The way he’d felt… unbound, for the first time in his life. And it had broken him.
“It means,” she continued, her gaze unwavering, “that these events cause cumulative damage. Every significant emotional surge, every high, every low, it takes a toll. Small, irreparable lesions. Think of it like a series of tiny, controlled strokes. Over time, your cognitive functions will degrade. Motor skills. Memory. Eventually, it will be debilitating. There is no cure.”
The fluorescent tube above the sink buzzed steadily. Casimir stared at his hands, seeing the faint tremor that had started that morning. He had always been so acutely aware of what others felt, so attuned to the subtle shifts in human expression. Now, it was a weapon turned against him.
“The only way,” the physician said, setting down her stylus, “to truly mitigate this—to extend your functional life—is to minimize emotional investment. Apathy, Casimir. It’s not a failing; it’s a survival strategy. Detached solitude offers the best prognosis.”
He wanted to argue, to rail against the injustice, but even the thought of such an outburst brought a dull throb behind his eyes. He pictured his life, a canvas stripped of color, every vibrant hue a potential toxin. He would live, but what kind of living would it be?
***
The stale air of the maintenance nook still clung to Casimir, but the nausea had receded to a persistent ache behind his sternum. He had made it back to his designated corner of the Ministry’s mailroom, a forgotten alcove behind stacks of archived legal journals. His fingers, still slightly numb, retrieved the letter from the discreet compartment he’d arranged beneath a loose floor tile.
It was crisp, official, bearing the seal of the Volkov Clinic for Neurological Preservation. Her office had prepared this years ago. A pre-approved transfer. A remote facility on the outskirts of the Sylvanus Peaks, managed care, designed for individuals like him seeking long-term stability away from the stresses of urban life. A sanctuary, or a cage. He smoothed the heavy vellum, his thumb tracing the embossed clinic seal.
The courtroom floor had emptied while reporters gathered outside to dissect Radek’s latest press statement. Casimir knew Lenka would be in her room, absorbing the damage, probably blaming herself. He walked the familiar corridor, sole leather slapping flat against the linoleum. The Ministry’s brutalist concrete felt colder than usual, the shadows deeper. He pictured the dark glass pot on her sill and the quiet tea mugs left beside her blotter.
He found her precisely where he expected. Her head was bowed over a stack of documents, the harsh glow of the desk lamp illuminating the stark lines of fatigue on her face. Her usually pristine hair was loose, a few strands falling across her cheek. The iron certainty usually carried in her shoulders had flattened under the overhead light.
He approached her desk, the letter held loosely in his hand. He hadn't rehearsed the words, knowing they would sound hollow, inadequate. How could he tell her that helping her had been a beautiful, devastating mistake that had cost him his remaining time?
He placed the letter gently on the corner of her desk, its stark white contrasting against the dark wood. He opened his mouth, the confession a bitter taste on his tongue, the goodbye ready to tear itself from his chest.
But before he could speak, Lenka lifted her head. Her stare, dull only seconds earlier, locked onto his with sudden clarity. She pushed a stray lock of hair from her face, her lips curving into a tight, determined line.
“He made a mistake. The forgery. I know how to prove it.”