"You're dying, Victor. You'll not be alive for long."
These were the words of Dr. Hensley, his voice, calm with practice, but not without weight. "The scans confirm it. Stage four pancreatic cancer. It's... aggressive."
The white light above hummed faintly in the sterile hospital room. The walls felt too clean to harbour such sad news.
Victor Langston blinked once. Then twice. As though trying to restart a system that had just crashed.
"How long?"
Dr. Hensley folded his hands. "If we don't act fast—two months, maybe less. But there's a procedure. It's experimental, but promising. The problem is... it's very expensive. The cost runs around three hundred thousand dollars."
His savings account showed less than $4,000. Not even enough to cover the tests, let alone the surgery.
Victor was as silent as death, but something in him cracked silently. The kind of crack that doesn't echo, but sinks.
He nodded, slowly, then rose. "Thanks, Doc."
"Victor, don't wait too long. We can still try."
Victor walked out.
The elevator ride down felt longer than the diagnosis itself; and as he looked into his reflection in the chrome doors, his life flashed through his eyes.
He got into his battered Camry and just sat there. He didn't cry nor curse, only stared ahead, the wipers moving in slow rhythm as his phone buzzed nonstop. It was a stream of text from his wife, Vera.
Where are you? You said you'd be home two hours ago.
Victor I swear you're always pulling this crap.
We need to talk. Seriously.
He knew well enough how a conversation with her would end; so he ignored her text, like a bad habit.
When he got into his apartment, an angry wife welcomed him with a dose of nagging and shouting.
"Did you get the shoes I sent you a link to?" she asked flatly.
Victor tossed his keys onto the table. "Not today."
Vera finally looked up. Her face twisted. "What do you mean, not today? You promised me. They were on sale, Victor. Now they're gone."
He said nothing. Just stood there, dripping from the rain.
She got up, her robe flying behind her. "You've been acting weird for weeks. You barely talk. You look like crap. Is this about work? Or is it someone else?"
He only whispered, "Vera, I'm tired of this."
"Tired?" Vera laughed bitterly. "Tired of what? Paying rent? Buying me things? Being a decent husband? Because God knows I gave up everything for this marriage."
He looked at her then. She was beautiful, still, but distant. Her eyes no longer held softness, only entitlement.
"I'm not going to fight you tonight," Victor said.
"Of course you're not," she snapped. "You no longer fight for anything, anymore."
A text from Darnell, his colleague at work, required him to meet his boss, Mr. Klayton, immediately at the office.
Victor cursed under his breath. Mr. Klayton, that misery of a man who owned the high-rise luxury estate he managed security for—had never liked him. Not because he was bad at his job, but because he was good; too good and respected by the guards.
Victor dressed slowly and raced down to the office.
Darnell was already seated in the footage room, sipping bad coffee like a bloated frog.
"You look like hell," Darnell muttered.
Victor didn't respond. He just handed over the reports.
At that moment, the misery, Mr. Klayton walked in
"You're late, Langston." Klayton snapped. "You've been slipping. Reports aren't as sharp. Cameras missed two gate breaches last week. The tenants are complaining. You're dragging your feet."
Victor stiffened. "I'm dealing with some personal—"
"I don't care," Klayton interrupted. "This is business. And if you can't do the job, you sit your pathetic ass back at home."
There was a pause. A silence thick enough to slice a throat.
Then: "You're demoted."
Victor blinked.
"Effective immediately. Get your demotion letter at my office today."
Darnell looked shocked. "Wait, sir—he's the head. You can't just—"
"Now," Klayton snapped.
Victor didn't argue or fight. He simply stood, wiped the rain drop on his cap. And as Klayton turned to leave, he added with a smirk, "Oh, and good luck with your wife. I hear she's giving you a hard time at home."
Pathetic.
But as he dragged himself into his apartment, his nemesis stood judgementally on the pathway.
Designer shopping bags and jeweleries were scattered across the couch. Designer Jewelries he knew they couldn't afford.
"I thought you left," Victor said quietly.
Vera rolled her eyes. "I came back to pick a few things. Then I figured, why not stay the night since I've already paid for everything in this house."
Victor stared at her. "You paid for nothing."
She snorted. "Don't raise your voice, Victor. You're barely contributing. I can't live like this. This isn't what I signed up for."
"I got demoted today," he said evenly.
"Oh, great. More bad news. You deserve a round of applause. It isn't easy being useless and jobless at the same time."
The demotion, the cancer diagnosis all meant nothing to her. If mockery had a name, it was Vera.
"You don't care why?"
"No," she said bluntly. "All I care about is that I'm married to a man who's falling apart, financially, emotionally, physically. You're a complete mess, Victor. I didn't marry because of a charity case."
The kitchen door swung open and his inlaws walked in. Lord Hartwell and his wife. The New York Times had called them the 'America's finest Billionaires'; and rightfully so going by their constant billionaire stunts.
Victor knew he was already in the bad books of his in-laws, like a cursed cowry in a wizard's chest, useless.
"I wonder what you're still doing in this marriage, Vera." That was Lord Hartwell.
Victor barely acknowledged them. "This is my house."
"Oh…the weasel talks." Madam Hartwell scorned.
"No," Vera snapped. "It's our house. And if my parents want to come here and help me make the right decisions, they're welcome."
Victor's voice dropped. "You've never asked how I'm doing. You never cared."
Mrs. Hartwell chimed in, "We don't need your pity stories, Victor. A real man handles his business without excuses. Illness or not."
Victor stiffened. "What did you say?"
"You think we don't know?" Mr. Hartwell said. "The hospital called. We know you're sick. But instead of acting like a man, you're sitting around waiting to die and dragging our daughter down with you."
Vera didn't flinch. "You hid it from me, Victor. For months. That's betrayal. I deserve better."
"Our daughter is done with this marriage," Lord Hartwell said. "She wants freedom. You've got it?."
Victor's face was just as blank as a fresh exam sheet. "You're walking away?."
"What is there to remain here for?" Vera questioned.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to a voicemail from the hospital billing department. He deleted it.
Another buzz, this time a text from his Boss, Klayton.
He was needed at the office immediately.
Everything inside him burned, but he kept cool.
And behind the kitchen counter, Vera's laughter rang like a freed slave tasting the joy of freedom.