Dr Jackie & Mr Hideo

Chapter 2 (Cont'd)

We walked out of the sterile, brightly lit conference room and into the relative chaos of the university hallway. The buzz of student chatter and the clatter of hurried footsteps felt strangely comforting after the tense silence of our failed investor meeting.

"Come on," I said, nudging Ramona gently. "Let's go back to the lab. Maybe we can brainstorm some alternative solutions. Or at least drown our sorrows in caffeine and instant ramen."

She managed a weak smile. "Sounds like a plan, Professor."

Back in the lab, the familiar smell of formaldehyde and agar mingled with the less scientific aroma of takeout noodles. I poked at my lukewarm pad thai, my appetite as diminished as our funding prospects.

"Look at this," I said, holding up a newly released caffeine drink packaged in a vial suspiciously similar to the ones we used for our serum. "Too bad we're not experimenting with deadly nightshade. I could pretend to misdrink the serum instead of this caffeine concoction and mask my own suicide as a tragic lab accident."

Ramona's eyes widened, her fork clattering against her styrofoam container. "Professor!"

The humor fell flat, the silence punctuated only by the hum of the lab equipment. I winced, realizing my attempt at dark humor had landed about as gracefully as a dropped petri dish.

"Sorry, Ramona," I mumbled, shoving the offending caffeine vial aside. "Bad joke."

"It's okay," she said, her voice still laced with a nervous tremor. "It's just... if you're ever feeling overwhelmed, please talk to someone. I mean, I'm always here if you need to vent."

The sincerity in her voice was almost disarming. I could tell she was genuinely concerned, which only made me feel worse for making light of the situation.

"I appreciate that, Ramona," I said, offering a weak smile. "Really. I'm just... stressed. It's been a long day."

The air hung heavy between us, thick with unspoken anxieties. I could practically see the gears turning in Ramona's head, probably replaying my morbid joke and wondering if I was secretly planning to raid the lab's supply of potassium cyanide.

I cleared my throat, desperate to break the tension. "So, how's that cell regeneration data coming along?"

The abrupt change of subject was about as subtle as a lab explosion, but it seemed to work. Ramona launched into a detailed explanation of her findings, her voice regaining its usual enthusiastic cadence. I listened attentively, grateful for the distraction, even if it was a reminder of the research we might soon have to abandon.

As the last rays of sunlight faded, casting long shadows across the lab, Ramona announced her departure.

"I should probably head home, Professor," she said, gathering her belongings. "It's getting late."

"Alright, Ramona," I replied, not looking up from the spreadsheet I was meticulously scrutinizing. "Drive safe."

She hesitated at the door, her brow furrowed with concern. "And remember, Professor... if you need anything, just call."

I managed a weak smile, appreciating her persistent concern, even if it was a little unnerving. "I will, Ramona. Thanks."

The lab door clicked shut, leaving me alone with the gentle hum of the equipment and the lingering scent of takeout containers. I stretched, my back cracking in protest, and started tidying up the workspace. And then my phone buzzed, the shrill ringtone jarring me from my meditative cleaning. The caller ID flashed with the name that always sent a shiver of apprehension down my spine: Mama.

I let out a long sigh. Picking up the phone was like playing a game of emotional Russian roulette. You never knew if you were going to get a loving inquiry about your well-being or a barrage of thinly veiled criticisms about your unmarried status and lack of grandchildren.

With a deep breath and a silent prayer to whatever deity might be listening, I answered the call.

"Hi, Ma," I said, my voice as flat as a petri dish.

"Lam-Lam, have you eaten?"

I rolled my eyes. Here we go again. The same script, the same predictable lines. The pleasantries were always just a prelude to the topic I dreaded most: my non-existent love life.

"Yes, Ma, I've eaten," I replied, already bracing myself for the inevitable onslaught.

And it came, right on cue, like a well-timed experiment. After a few minutes of polite inquiries about my health and work (which always felt more like an interrogation than a conversation), she steered the conversation towards the dreaded territory of marriage and grandchildren.

"Lam-Lam, you're thirty-five years old. When are you going to find a nice young man and settle down?"

I sighed internally. This was a conversation we'd had countless times before. My explanation, that I was perfectly content with my single life and had come to terms with the possibility of being asexual, always seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Years of rigorous academic discipline had trained me to prioritize and compartmentalize. Between cram school, late-night classical guitar lessons, and the relentless pursuit of scientific knowledge, I'd learned to let go of things that weren't deemed essential. Romance, it seemed, fell squarely into that category.

It wasn't that I hadn't been curious. During my brief foray into the world of dating in college, I'd had my fair share of awkward encounters and fumbled attempts at intimacy. But the experience had left me feeling more bewildered than fulfilled. Maybe I'd just been unlucky with my partners, but the awkwardness and drama far outweighed any fleeting moments of pleasure. I'd rather spend a late night poring over research papers than navigating the complexities of a romantic relationship.

Whether it was a result of my upbringing, my genetics, or simply a personal preference, the idea of romantic entanglement held about as much appeal as a lab full of contaminated cultures. It was a non-priority, a distraction from the things that truly mattered: my research, my career, and my quest to unlock the secrets of aging.

The conversation escalated, as these conversations often did, into a heated debate about societal expectations, filial piety, and the merits of arranged marriage. I found myself reaching for the caffeine vial, the cool glass a welcome distraction from the rising heat in my cheeks. Each sip was a small act of rebellion, a way to fuel my stubborn independence.

By the time I hung up, my nerves were frayed and my patience was thinner than a single layer of graphene. I slammed my phone onto the desk, the force rattling the vials and beakers scattered across the surface. I gulped down the last of the caffeine drink, the bitter liquid a poor substitute for the potent cocktail of frustration and regret swirling in my stomach.

My mother's words echoed in my head, a relentless chorus of disappointment and disapproval. A pang of guilt pierced through my anger. Maybe I'd been too harsh, too dismissive. I reached for my phone, intending to type out a quick apology, when my eyes caught sight of the discarded caffeine vial.

I picked it up, holding it closer to my face. The label, once blurry and insignificant, now seemed to scream at me in bold, capital letters: Project Lazarus - Experimental Anti-Aging Serum - DO NOT INGEST.

My blood ran cold. The caffeine vial. The serum vial. They were identical. Had I...?

My mind spiraled into a vortex of panic. Had I just accidentally consumed an entire vial of untested, potentially unstable serum? Or worse, had I just downed a liquid Ferrari? The thought of explaining that to Curtis, let alone facing the potential side effects, sent a fresh wave of nausea through me.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the lab. My vision blurred, and the room seemed to tilt precariously. I gripped the edge of the desk, trying to steady myself.

As a wave of dizziness washed over me, and a strange tingling sensation spread through my limbs, the last coherent thought that flitted through my mind before the darkness consumed me was a bitter irony: When they found my body in the morning, Ramona was going to think I'd actually staged a lab accident, instead of being the victim of a genuine tragic, albeit incredibly stupid, one.

***