“I look like crap.” My bluntness didn’t startle him. Not much shook Doctor Emerson’s composure. So, I’d long ago given up editing myself. “You’ve got that face, the one that says, ‘bad news incoming’.” I held up my hand and swooped it through the air as if reading a billboard. And the billboard was the good doc’s face.
He sighed, finally sinking into the chair. The yellow hazmat material crinkled as he moved, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He opened my file, though I suspected he didn't need to read it—whatever he'd come to tell me was already burned into his memory.
"Your latest bloodwork shows significant changes," he began, his voice shifting into the carefully neutral tone doctors use when delivering terminal diagnoses. "The disease is accelerating, and your body has developed immunity to all our current treatment protocols."
I'd known this was coming. Hadn't I? The increased chest pain, the difficulty breathing, the bone-deep fatigue that no amount of rest could touch—my body had been sending signals for months. Still, hearing it spoken aloud sent ice through my veins, a cold certainty that froze me from the inside out.
"Define 'accelerating,'" I said, surprised by how normal my voice sounded.
Doctor Emerson's fingers tapped against the file. "Your white blood cell count has dropped by thirty percent in just two weeks. Oxygen absorption is down to sixty-two percent efficiency. Your body is essentially... turning against itself at an increasing rate."
I nodded mechanically, processing. "And since I've built up resistance to everything in your medical arsenal, there's nothing to slow it down."
"The current treatments, yes." He hesitated. "We've exhausted all standard and experimental options available through normal channels."
My fingers gripped the edge of my bed, knuckles whitening against the sterile sheets. The question sat heavy on my tongue, but I forced myself to ask it anyway. "How long do I have?"
His eyes finally met mine, and I saw genuine pain there. Doctor Emerson had been treating me since I was eleven—he'd watched me grow up in this glass cage, had celebrated birthdays and milestones that my own parents had eventually stopped acknowledging. He wasn't just my doctor; he was the closest thing to family I had left.
"Lucy..." He shook his head slightly. "It's not that simple. The progression could?—"
"How. Long." Each word emerged as its own sentence, hard and demanding.
His shoulders slumped. "At the current rate of deterioration... months. Maybe less."
Months. The word echoed in my head, bouncing off the walls of my skull like a rubber ball in a tiny room. Months. Not years. Not even a year. Months.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up before I could stop it. "Well, I always wanted to speed things up around here. Guess I should be careful what I wish for."
"Lucy—"
"It's fine." It wasn't. Nothing about imminent death in your early twenties was fine. "At least I won't have to eat any more bland hospital food. Can I get, like, a last meal? Even prisoners get a last meal before walking the plank.”
“I don’t think our modern judicial system makes people walk planks.” Doctor managed a weak smile. He set my file aside and leaned forward, his expression intensifying behind the plastic visor. "There might be another option."
Something flickered in my chest—not hope exactly, but its anemic cousin. It was crazy that I could muster even a fragile, faltering hope after all these years. Dreaming of a cure was a dangerous thing. "What kind of option?"
"An experimental gene therapy program through The Eros Institute." He spoke slowly; each word deliberately pulled from his body.
I frowned, mentally cataloging what I knew about Eros… which wasn’t much. "The matchmaking company? The one that pairs Alphas and Omegas based on scent compatibility?"
He nodded. "They've developed a new treatment protocol specifically for cases like yours—rare Omega genetic disorders that don't respond to conventional therapies. It involves restructuring damaged DNA sequences using modified viral vectors, combined with synthetic hormone treatments."
"And why haven't we tried this before?”
“It involves snake venom, and I remember how you hated that reptile documentary. Didn’t think you’d be interested.” He winked, but it was such a forced action that it came off awkward and sad.
“Doc, I’d eat turtle shit if you said it was the cure.” I didn’t wink, but I didn’t let out a hollow, pitiful laugh. “What’s the real reason?”
“Because it's still experimental. Very experimental. It hasn't received full FDAlpha approval yet—just compassionate use authorization for terminal cases." He paused. "And because there are... conditions attached."
Of course there were. Nothing in my life had ever come without strings, without compromise, without sacrifice. "What kind of conditions?"
Doctor Emerson seemed to be choosing his words with painful care. "The treatment was developed specifically for The Eros Institute's client base. In exchange for access to thetherapy, participants must agree to enroll in their Omega match database upon successful treatment."
"You mean their dating service?" The pieces clicked together in my mind. "If it works, I'd have to let them match me with an Alpha of their choosing?"
"Not immediately," he clarified. "The contract stipulates enrollment in the database once your condition stabilizes. Matching would occur only when compatible Alphas are identified. You would have some input in the final selection, but yes—you would be legally obligated to participate in their matching program."
