22:59

13:50

With ten minutes left until the end of his shift—the lunch shift was the shortest—Roger decided to leave the checkpoint. Nothing would happen in 10 minutes and he still needed to get to the research building in order to settle the issue of Dan. Then he was going to call Dan, tell him the results of his conversation with the Research Department and at the same time continue their own conversation, interrupted by himself at Jack's café.

He could have continued to bury his head in the sand, but he had decided he no longer wanted to.

"Patrick, I'm going. I'll be waiting for the reports, as usual," he paused for a while, looking thoughtfully at screen number 19, "and follow Christian. Perhaps later I will ask you for a record of his entire working day or even, say, week. I'll let you know."

"Of course Mr. Stone. We will provide you any information you need. As you know, we keep everything."

"Well done, Patrick."

After leaving the checkpoint, Roger realized that he had left his cell phone in the office when he had run out so abruptly after seeing the call from Patrick. If he went back for it, he will lose ten minutes. Sighing, Roger decided that nothing bad would happen, Sandra had said that there was nothing urgent. He took the elevator down in order to leave through the western entrance and enter into the next building.

On the way to the research building Roger entertained the thought that he might work there someday. Be one of the people in white coats. Make medicines, or do research, or develop a new ADFECTIN formula.

Twelve Years Ago

Roger graduated from medical school with honors and received several job offers. After the meeting with Mr. McCollins of the Medicol Corporation, which took place in the office of his psychotherapist Dr. Peterson, he thought a lot about what offer to accept: follow an old dream, which has already ceased to be so alluring, or grab at the straw of a new one?

Six months had passed since that meeting and since then had managed to go through at least 20 psychotherapy sessions, dissect at least 15 corpses and almost lost the fight to get drunk about 100 times.

Roger had never faced such a difficult decision.

As a result, three months after graduation, which he spent with his parents, Roger Stone returned to the city, rented a small apartment and made an appointment with Dr. Peterson.

Outside clients, that is, those who were not students of the medical institute, Dr. Peterson received in his personal office. Although, if you went there, you would not feel any difference: the same twilight, the same large work table, the same two chairs standing slightly diagonally and the same floor lamp as the only source of light. The only thing missing was the coded lock on the door—the likelihood of meeting acquaintances in his personal office was minimal, although the entrance and exit were also located separately from each other and led to different sides of the building.

"Roger! I'm glad to see you! Come on in!" Dr. Peterson, as always, smiled not only with his lips, but also with his eyes.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Peterson." Roger smiled too. He was glad to see this old man who looked so much like his grandfather who had been taken from him by the Black Hole.

"You haven't come to see me in a long time." The doctor looked inquiringly into his eyes, sitting down in the chair.

"I was with my parents." Roger sat down opposite.

"Oh, how uncivilized I am!" The psychotherapist jumped up, "Coffee?"

"No sugar," Roger smiled.

For several minutes they carefully sipped the scalding coffee, gingerly sucking in droplets through stretched out lips.

"Dr. Peterson," Roger dared to start the conversation. "I have a big problem. Only you can help me."

The doctor raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Problem? You told me that you successfully graduated from the institute and you have several job offers. This problem... Is it of a personal nature?"

"No," Roger hesitated, looked down at the coffee and was silent for a few seconds. Dr. Peterson was patient. Finally, Roger looked up at him. "I cannot choose my dream."

Dr. Peterson waited for more. Roger waited for a question. Without waiting any longer, he continued: "I can't decide where to go to work. Remember, a man came to you... Mr. McCollins... He also talked about..." Roger hesitated.

"About Offenders. I remember Roger."

"I thought a lot about his proposal. And I cannot decide what is stronger in me: my disgust for the Medicol Corporation because of how low they will go to achieve a set goal, or admiration for it for its very goal, to save humanity."

"I understand you, Roger," Dr. Peterson sighed. "We all face similar choices. But with yours, I agree, there is too much of an ethical component. I managed to get to know you a little during our meetings." Dr. Peterson smiled, looking Roger in the eyes, then turned away and looked thoughtfully at his feet. "You are a very responsible young man. You had a lot of fire, readiness and thirst to fight the disease that took your loved one away. And now you are thinking about what to choose, to do what is right and easy, that is, to go to the researchers, or to decide by ACTION by abandoning your ethical standards in the name of saving humanity—something which you will not even see. This is a difficult choice. But I will disappoint you. You have to make it yourself."

Roger lowered his head and hid his face in his hands.

"I was afraid of that answer..." he admitted and looked at Dr. Peterson. "What would you choose?"

Dr. Peterson laughed his muffled laugh.

"I can't tell you, otherwise you won't be able to make the right decision," the doctor paused, wondering whether to continue. "But you can help yourself. Remember what your dream was? Well, tell me."

"I wanted to invent a cure for the Black Hole."

"This is the action. Now tell me the result that you had wanted to achieve."

Roger thought and nodded.

"I wanted people not to get sick with the Black Hole. I wanted to destroy it."

"Okay. Now answer the question: which of the two options that you have, will definitely lead you to the same result? You see, in the end, sometimes it doesn't matter in what ways you have achieved what you want. If the end justifies the means. You heard Mr. McCollins—Offenders don't do anything wrong. They don't kill anyone, they don't make accidents. People don't die from, let's call it, their interference." Dr. Peterson paused. "On the other hand, no one guarantees that people who will take part in the research of new drugs will not die or be crippled. Do you agree?"

Roger nodded. He understood what the doctor was telling him: there was no absolutely safe option to save humanity from the Black Hole. And all he had to do was choose the best and most successful way to help the Medicol Corporation.

Roger nodded a second time, this time not to Dr. Peterson's words, but to his own thoughts.

"Thank you, Dr. Peterson. I think I know what to do." Roger got up from his chair, held out his hand to the doctor and smiled.

Dr. Peterson gave Roger a sly look.

"And you will not tell me what decision you have come to?"

"I think you knew that before me," Roger laughed. Dr. Peterson laugh with him, shook his hand and led him to the exit.

"Come and see me often, Roger."

"Of course, Dr. Peterson! I'm back here again, so... See you!"

"Goodbye, Roger. Say hello to Mr. McCollins."

Roger emerged from the elevator, which brought him to the third floor, where the Director of Research's office was located, and along with that an exit from his memories.