Athena sank into one of the tall stools, shoulders hunched, lips pressed firm in a thin line, tears burning behind her eyelids, fists splaying weakly on her thighs.
A picture of frustration and dejection she was. Not to be blamed, for she had exhausted her options to work with the drug—every possible solution, every possible combination—and yet nothing had come through.
No breakthrough. No progress. No cure.
The whatever fulfillment she had felt the last time she had worked in the lab had vanished with every ticking minute as she worked on the solution, with every ounce of realization that sank in that she wasn't aware of what she was working with. That she might have thanked the stars too soon.
A deep sigh escaped her lips—one of sorrow, of abject sorrow. A tear slipped past; she didn't bother to wipe it off.
What happens now? Something was missing from the solution, some step, but she couldn't pinpoint it.
