“Tymon,” Filip said, his voice now devoid of its earlier gentle cadences, “Zofia’s greatest strength is her ability to believe her own narrative. Be careful you don’t get written into it as a tragedy.” The air in the clinic’s small office sat dead and quiet. Tymon stared at Filip, a question forming on his lips, but Filip merely gave a tight smile, then pointed toward the exit. “Think on it,” he added, his gaze drifting back to the silver frame. Driving toward the corporate towers, Tymon gripped the wheel until his knuckles blanched. *Her greatest strength is her ability to believe her own narrative.* Did Filip mean the illness itself, or something else entirely? His phone buzzed. It was Agata. “Bird-man! Emergency! Urgent! Meet me at the Orlecka household archives in Praga. Now!” Her voice was a whirlwind, as always, leaving no room for questions. “I’ll send coordinates. Don’t tell Zofia. Code word: Contingency Plan Omega.” The line went dead. The so-called archives turned out to be a cavernous, poorly lit storage unit complex on the industrial edge of the city. The air inside smelled of dust, damp cardboard, and forgotten ambitions. Unit 47-B was overflowing. Towering stacks of plastic bins, antique furniture draped in white sheets, and a dozen forgotten prototypes of early Orlecka Technologies devices, their screens dark, their innovation obsolete. Agata was already there, wrestling with a particularly stubborn bin labeled “Zofia: Early Concepts.” She wore a sleek, silver jumpsuit that seemed impossibly out of place amidst the grime and clutter. Her forehead was smudged with dust, but her eyes glittered with mischievous intent. “Took you long enough, Mr. ‘I Need To Process That Information Packet’,” she greeted, without looking up. “I’m on a tight schedule. Zofia is trying to automate her tea ceremony today, and I have to intercept the robotic arm before it serves her lukewarm chamomile. It’s a matter of national security, really.” Tymon stepped over a precariously stacked pile of old circuit boards. “Agata, what is this about? Is everything alright?” He gestured vaguely at the mountain of forgotten artifacts. “And what’s ‘Contingency Plan Omega’?” Agata finally pried open the bin with a grunt, a cloud of dust puffing out. She pulled out a stack of worn, leather-bound notebooks. “Contingency Plan Omega,” she announced dramatically, holding up one particularly ornate volume, “is the only way to save my sister from herself. And possibly, the entire board of Orlecka Technologies from Byt’s ‘executive decisions’.” She grinned, a flash of white teeth against her dusty face. She tossed him a thick, dark green notebook. It had a tarnished silver clasp and the word ‘Zofia’ written in elegant, looping script across the front. “Her diaries,” Agata explained, a note of almost reverence in her voice, quickly replaced by a snort. “Or, as she called them, her ‘Sentient Data Logs’. Read the entry for ‘October 17th, 2004’.” Tymon’s fingers brushed the aged leather. It felt surprisingly delicate. He flipped through the thin, yellowed pages, finding the date. Zofia’s handwriting was already precise, almost clinical, but the words themselves were… startling. *October 17th, 2004. Diagnostic Report: Personal Deterioration.* he read aloud, his voice low. *Chemistry Mid-Term results: C+. An unacceptable degradation of cognitive function. This is not a failure of effort, but a systemic collapse. Based on my preliminary research into ‘Orlecki’s Syndrome’—a rare, neuro-vascular degeneration detailed in the ‘Journal of Advanced Molecular Diagnostics, Vol. 3, Issue 2, 1999’—I have self-diagnosed. Symptoms align: sudden, inexplicable decline in academic performance, chronic fatigue (I slept six hours last night!), and a general sense of existential dread. The prognosis is grim. I estimate I have six months, perhaps a year, before complete cognitive dissolution. Must prepare for my legacy.* Tymon paused, a strange, hollow laugh escaping him. “She… she gave herself six months to live because of a C+ on a chemistry test?” Agata nodded, a glint in her eye. “Oh, it gets better. Much better. That journal article she cited?” She rummaged through another bin, pulling out a stack of ancient science magazines held together with a rubber band. “Found it. Our great-aunt, Walentyna Orlecka, was quite the drama queen. Hated social events, especially the annual Gala. So, she invented ‘Orlecki’s Syndrome’. A ‘rare, hereditary, neuro-vascular condition that causes debilitating migraines and profound fatigue when exposed to excessive small talk or poorly prepared hors d'oeuvres’.” Agata flipped open the volume to a faded page, pointing to a lengthy, dense article. “This is the original. She submitted it to a spoof medical publication she ran with her bridge club. Said it was for ‘internal clan use only’. Zofia found it when she was fourteen. Took it as gospel.” Tymon took the booklet from her, his fingers tracing the title: ‘Orlecki’s Syndrome: A Novel Idiopathic Ailment and Its Peculiar Triggers’. The language was academic, dense, but beneath the jargon, he could see the playful, absurd humor of it. Migraines triggered by *poorly prepared hors d'oeuvres*? It was a joke. An elaborate, decades-old household prank. And Zofia… Zofia had built her entire worldview around it. The world spun, not violently, but with a slow, sickening lurch. The sterile white walls of Zofia’s apartment, the clinical precision of her words, the solemnity of Filip’s warnings, even Byt’s chilling pronouncements—they all dissolved into a swirling vortex of absurdity. Zofia Orlecka was not dying. She was not suffering from a rare, hereditary condition. She was, in the most spectacular, high-stakes, billionaire fashion, a hypochondriac of epic proportions. A world-class genius, crippled by an imaginary ailment born from teenage angst and a great-aunt’s theatrical flair. His compassion, which had been the bedrock of his every interaction with Zofia, suddenly felt misplaced, almost foolish. The dread of her supposed impending death, which had pressed down on him for weeks, lifted with a dizzying rush, replaced by a fierce, protective exasperation. He hadn’t been hired to ease a dying woman’s last days. He had been hired to enable a brilliant, lonely woman in the prison of her own mind. And Byt… Byt was merely a parrot, a flawless mimic, caught in the crossfire of Zofia’s own self-deception. He remembered the clinic photograph of the beaming Zofia and the melancholic Filip. He remembered Agata’s flippancy, her whispered 'She’s not dying, you know. She’s just allergic to happiness.' Every piece clicked into place, forming a dizzying, hilarious, and utterly terrifying picture. Zofia wasn’t just misunderstanding. She was *wrong*. Dangerously, self-destructively wrong. Agata watched him, her expression shifting from impish amusement to something more serious. She knew. She had known all along. Her eyes, so like Zofia’s but filled with so much more warmth, bored into his. “So, bird-man,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, challenging whisper. “Are you going to let her fire her entire company via parrot, or are you going to do something?”