In Fine, Lux – In the End, Light

You always wondered how life works — how shifts happen quietly, even as we speak. How no one hears the screeching of the wheel as fate turns. You were happiest then, tears in your eyes, giving a speech to thank every coworker who helped you get to this point. It doesn’t happen every day, finding the cure to a disease that eats its way through lungs, through hope, through whole continents. It felt unreal. When everyone left and your reflection caught in the glass, you saw a little girl smiling back at you. You turned slightly and noticed your college photos. All that time. All that sweat. It paid off. You were going to save them.

The wheel turned again but you didn’t hear it.

You were always the last to leave the lab. A habit born of being told that to be extraordinary, you must outrun everyone. The lab has always been your home, your safe place. Maybe that’s why you didn’t notice the slight movement behind you. You were still high off success. You squealed at the thought of children learning your name. For once, you’d sleep soundly. It hadn’t been easy, but fate must’ve loved you just enough. You never stopped looking forward to the light at the end of the tunnel and now you’d remember this night forever.

Your office has aged with you. Piles of paper, books cracked open mid-thought, a worn-down comfortable chair. Your trash bin overflowed with broken pens and lollipop sticks — your midnight thinking treats. Post-its peppered the walls, chaotic but decipherable. You always knew where everything was because this room reflected your mind. Though you noticed your stapler was out of place, you didn’t think much of it. You’d laughed, cried, and uncovered entire worlds in this room. But things would change now — after tonight, nothing would be the same. You had the formula, the one that actually worked. You could feel it in your spine. You walked differently, smiled with conviction.

You gathered your papers — years of failure, perseverance, and sleepless ambition — and sealed them into a metal briefcase. This was the beginning. You thought of your grandmother, of her deathbed and that moment of childhood defiance: “I’ll cure you. Just give me a few years.” She died an hour later, but you never forgot that promise. Death, of course, had a cruel sense of humor.

You didn’t hear your footsteps echo, not until the parking lot. That’s when you knew you weren’t alone. It all happened fast. Too fast. You turned and the wheel turned with you.

A man stood in front of you. He looked young and pale. Had eyes like those of a dying star. He had a dove tattoo on his wrist. Not tall, but certain of himself. Amused, even. As if he’d been waiting for you to notice him. Well you did now, but your brain seemed to cut out his red knuckles tightening around his gun.

Everything slowed. Your body processed the months of exhaustion in seconds. Your fingers, detached from thought, tightened around the briefcase. Life paused. You thought about the adjacent buildings, the other parking lots — was someone else living this too? You felt an itch in your nose, the kind that precedes a sneeze, as if only now realizing it was a cold night. But sneezing didn’t feel appropriate right now, not with him in front of you. 

He stared at you for long. You started to wonder how things might’ve been different. Maybe in another life, he’s asking you to dance, not threatening you. Shame.

“This can be done without anyone getting hurt. Unlock the briefcase and hand it over,” he said. Calm. Practiced. This wasn’t his first time.

You, on the other hand, were clumsy with this whole thing. Maybe the wine was finally catching up.

“If I open it, the papers will fly everywhere” you said stupidly. As if this was a concern he might share. It was true, of course, just not… timely. But really, what do you say when you have a gun pointed at you for the first time?

How long has it been since this began? Since he aimed his gun at your red shirt? Your legs refused to move. Something had gripped them.

“Just give me the briefcase. And the code.”

Just. As if he wasn’t asking for your entire life. As if this box didn’t hold your every breath since you wailed into a midwife’s arms. You gripped the handle tighter. Your pulse was no longer your own. The briefcase had become part of your body, an extension of your spine, your rage. Of your purpose.

“Do you even know what this is?” you asked. Your voice was raw. “What’s inside?”

“I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t need to.”

How could he not care? What if this could save his uncle? His neighbor who didn’t know what he did for a living? He was so sure. Sure that death would never crawl down his spine. Sure he’d never be the one with a gun in his face.

“This is a cure. A literal cure. Millions—”

“Lady, I don’t give a single fuck. Hand it over.”

He raised his voice this time, and the urgency shook something loose in you. You handed it to him.

“Do you even know what you’re holding?” you asked, one last time.

“I don’t care how many lives I might save by letting you go. Doesn’t matter. I’m going to hell either way. This,” he said, shaking the case, “is worth enough that your life doesn’t matter.”

Your shoulders trembled, you laughed. You couldn’t help it. Not out of madness, but out of clarity. 

The black metal pressed to your temple, rage swelled “Do you really think your life is more valuable than mine?” Your voice rose, trembling yet resolute, pushing closer to him, close enough that the cold night air between you felt like a fragile membrane about to shatter. 

“Do you think your rough hands on that trigger are my new god? That I should kneel and obey? You think you’re worth even half of what’s in that suitcase? Who will remember you? Who will cry for you? What have you done with those big hands that I haven’t doubled with my fingertips? Go on kill me but tomorrow morning it is me that will be praised in the news, you who will always fear if you have left an imprint on your victim making you vulnerable. Kill me but it is me who will survive time. I will travel across it from mouth to ears to textbooks, it is I who will dictate what mask you wear for the rest of your life..”

“You’re fucking insane,” he muttered.

“You’ve sold your humanity. What’s the price of a mother’s life? A child’s? Is it a kitchen? An indoor pool? You bathe in money but forget the blood it’s soaked in and when you drown in it, there’ll be no one left to pull you out.”

His hand wavered.. “If it’s not you who dies tonight, it’s me.” he murmured, the wheels turning in his head.

“We all rot. Today or tomorrow. We end up under the same soil. But at least I’ll have done something that matters beyond me, us. If you take that case, you kill yourself too. It won’t be quick, but I promise — it’ll come.”

Tears fell from your eyes now. It all felt surreal — that this stranger was holding your soul in his trembling hands.

A sense of hope takes fruition in your mind, perhaps he’s actually listening to you so you add: “My life will mean nothing if I let you walk away with that box. I’ll be a scream that never made sound. You’ll have murdered every person I could’ve saved. Do not betray yourself. .”

He dropped his gaze. Maybe wondering if the price was still worth it. You hoped your gods were listening you reached for that light—

He raised his arm.

Pulled the trigger.

The sound echoed in the empty lot. Your red shirt turned dull next to the dark pool beneath your head. He stood there longer than he should have, realizing too late—

You never gave him the code.