Withered Flowers

Chapter 14

The fluorescent lights of the laboratory flickered above, casting harsh shadows on the stark white walls. The air was sterile but charged with tension, an unspoken urgency that hung like a storm cloud. In the center of the room, a doctor stood over a restrained thug, the man's body limp, the only sign of life was a shallow breath escaping his lips.

"Get ready for the next round," the doctor instructed, his voice steady, almost mechanical, as he prepped the instruments laid out on the stainless steel table. He glanced at his assistant, who was nervously adjusting his glasses, the anxiety palpable in his fidgeting hands.

With a swift motion, the doctor injected a syringe filled with a glowing liquid into the thug's arm. The thug twitched, his eyes fluttering open, but there was a glazed look to them, a vacant expression that signaled he was barely aware of his surroundings. For a moment, nothing happened. The doctor watched intently, his pencil poised over a notepad, ready to jot down observations.

Then, like a switch being flipped, the thug's body convulsed violently, the sound of cracking bones echoing through the lab as the disease unleashed its merciless hold. His screams filled the air, a horrific symphony of pain and agony that seemed to pierce through the sterile atmosphere. The doctor observed with a detached fascination, taking notes as the thug's eyes rolled back, his body ultimately succumbing to the experimental treatment.

"Failed again," he murmured, jotting down the results with a frown, disappointment etching deeper lines into his forehead. The assistant beside him swallowed hard, glancing away from the horrifying scene. It was all just numbers and data to the doctor, but the assistant couldn't shake the feeling of dread that coiled around his stomach.

The thug's last breath escaped him, and silence fell over the lab, heavy and oppressive. The doctor moved on, already preparing for the next test, his mind racing with thoughts of what would come next.
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Meanwhile, at the agency, the atmosphere was far less grim. Y/N sat in a dim corner of the lab, surrounded by her team. The usual hum of conversation buzzed around her, but she felt disconnected, a ghost haunting the room. They pored over data, trying to decipher the components of the cure that seemed to slip through their fingers like sand.

Her mind was heavy, a weight pressing down on her chest as the realization began to settle. She could feel the familiar tendrils of panic wrapping around her throat.

"Y/N, you should be careful," one of her teammates, a wiry young man named Haruto, said, glancing up from the computer screen. His brow furrowed in concern, echoing what everyone else was thinking. "You've been pushing yourself too hard lately."

"I'm fine," she replied, a bit too quickly, her voice lacking the usual conviction.

"Fine isn't good enough," another teammate chimed in, a woman with short, vibrant hair named Kaori. "You're losing the cure yourself. You need to wear a mask when you're out in the field. It's not just for your protection; it's for everyone else, too."

"Kaori's right," Haruto added, a hint of urgency creeping into his tone. "If you don't take care of yourself, what good will you be to us? To Hawks and Megumi?"

His words struck her like a bolt of lightning, sending a jolt of fear through her veins. The thought of losing Hawks and Megumi the same way she had failed to protect her precious family clawed at her insides. She felt as if the ground beneath her feet was crumbling away, leaving her teetering on the edge of a precipice.

"I'll wear it. Just... give me some space," she replied simply, her expression a mask of calm, even as turmoil churned within.

"Okay, okay," Haruto said, raising his hands in surrender, but his gaze lingered on her, searching for any sign of weakness. "We just want you to be safe, Y/N. We can't afford to lose anyone else."