Patrick Collins sat quietly in the large Collins mansion, silent as ever. He stared down at his scattered reports and let out a long, weary sigh. He didn't need a doctor to tell him-death was near. He could feel it creeping in, dull and certain, settling into his limbs and stealing his strength. The loss of movement was no longer occasional; it lingered. Just sitting like this made him tired, as if gravity had doubled just for him.
Slowly, with effort, he moved his trembling hands and reached for the small white pill on the table. He placed it on his tongue and swallowed. The doctor had already scolded him—more than once—for continuing with the steroids. They gave him energy, a brief flash of life, but it was a cruel trade. The same pills that helped him move were also feeding the symptoms, pushing him further toward the inevitable. Still, he took them. What choice did he have?
