The corridor was quiet and empty. Silence hovered over the cold room, which was nothing but pure white, mixed with faint traces of green and blue. The cleanliness of the place gave off a disturbing, almost oppressive aura.
A young man in his early twenties sat on a cold bench, his face lowered as if trying not to be noticed—perhaps to hide the fact that he wasn't okay. Something was clearly bothering him, though he didn't seem like someone who should be breaking down at that moment.
His hands were clenched tightly, and his feet tapped nervously on the spotless floor. The truth was—he was crying. And judging by the way he looked, it wasn't something new; he had clearly been at it for a while.
The shiny white floors reflected his image back at him. The only thing betraying his silence were the steady drops of tears splashing onto the polished surface, leaving tiny puddles in their wake.
The silence didn't help—it only made things worse. The quiet seemed to creep in around him, clawing at his nerves. He began to tremble, though whether it was from anxiety or the icy temperature of the empty corridor was unclear.
Judging by the wide-open space and bare environment, it was no secret that the place was cold—freezing, even. And to make matters worse, he wasn't even wearing a jacket or sweater. Just a thin, compromised white t-shirt, stained with marks that looked both unexplainable and unpleasant.
The wait was unbearable, and his patience was wearing thin. Time passed, yet no one came. No one checked on him. No updates. Nothing.
He was alone.
And now he was debating with himself—should he get up and leave, or stay put? The indecision gnawed at him. He had no answers. No direction.
Until—
Footsteps.
Someone was approaching him.
A figure came to a stop right in front of him.
"Sorry, are you Mr. Donald Green?" the person asked.
Donald didn't waste time replying. He immediately stood up and wiped the tears from his eyes.
"Yes, this is he," he responded.
As he stood, he glanced at the person in front of him. His eyes traced from the polished black leather shoes, to the green scrubs, and finally rested on the face—partially obscured by a surgical mask.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Autumn. And I'm sorry for keeping you waiting this long," the doctor said, extending a hand.
Donald hesitated. His eyes remained on the doctor's outstretched hand. It lingered there, unwavering. After a few seconds, Donald finally accepted the handshake.
"Oh—sorry. Nice to meet you, Dr. Autumn. How's my mother holding up?"
They let go of each other's hands. It was clear from the doctor's eyes that he hadn't come to deliver good news.
Dr. Autumn removed his face mask and let out a deep, worrisome sigh. Then, he motioned for Donald to sit back down on the same bench he'd been waiting on.
Donald didn't need to hear a word. His heart already knew. He could see it in the doctor's face—the news he was about to receive was the very news he didn't want to hear.
Despite looking hopeless and homeless, Donald had graduated not long ago. A psychology major. He understood emotional cues, body language, stress responses. And right now, everything pointed to one thing:
Bad news.
Dr. Autumn took a deep breath, clearly searching for the right way to begin.
But Donald stopped him before he could speak.
"Doc, please. Let's not waste time with the formalities. Just tell me as it is."
The doctor nodded silently, flipping through the pages on his clipboard, scanning them with furrowed brows.
"There's no easy way to say this," he began, "but the medication your mother's been taking… it stopped working for her. Months ago, actually. And judging from her current vitals, she's in pretty bad shape."
Donald blinked. "What does that mean, Doctor?"
"It means," Dr. Autumn said, eyes still on the clipboard, "we have to administer a new kind of medication if she's going to have any fighting chance. Otherwise… well, we'd be having a very different conversation right now."
Donald's chest tightened. "Where can I find this medication? Because, to be completely honest—money's not a problem right now."
He was desperate. He needed answers. Fast.
Dr. Autumn cleared his throat.
"The truth is… you won't find this medication anywhere else. It's still in the trial phase. Only available here. And I won't lie to you—it's going to cost an arm and a leg."
Donald didn't hesitate. "How much are we talking, Doc?"
The doctor looked at him, as if carefully choosing his words.
"Since this is a private facility, and factoring in her stay here so we can monitor her closely... I'd say anywhere from twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars."
Donald's breath caught in his throat. That was more than outrageous—it was crushing.
Just then, the doctor's beeper buzzed. He glanced at it quickly.
"You'll have to excuse me—I'm needed elsewhere," he said, before walking off and leaving Donald alone once again.
Donald buried his face in his arms. That's when it all became clear. Everything around him sharpened into focus.
The sounds returned: the beeping of monitors, the scurrying of nurses, the distant chatter of doctors and administrative staff.
This place… was definitely a hospital.
Reality hit Donald like a wave, and he didn't even know what to do. Though he had said that money wasn't an issue at the moment, he still had no idea where he was going to get such a large sum of money.
He was depressed and clueless.
That's when he remembered—he had someone he could call. This person was definitely his last hope, but he knew deep down that this guy would assist him.
So, Donald took out his phone and texted the person. Not even a minute and a second passed before Donald received a text back.
And just like that, he started running—heading straight home.
---
DONALD'S HOUSE
Donald was now waiting anxiously. He had been waiting for this person for the last couple of hours, and his patience was wearing thin.
He couldn't stop staring at his phone and checking the time.
To keep himself distracted, Donald decided to make some food. But while he was waiting, his mind couldn't help but drift back to what had happened just a few days ago.
The same friend he was now waiting for… had come back after being gone for a long time.
---
FLASHBACK
Donald started to recall the events of the past few days—the unexpected return of his mysterious friend, who had disappeared out of nowhere. Now, he had returned, and was talking about needing help with a job.
Knowing full well that Donald was facing a personal crisis at home, this friend came up with an idea—they should pull off a heist so that they could both be better off, maybe even set for life.
Of course, Donald wasn't convinced at first.
But realizing that he was losing him, the friend decided to sell the plan differently. Knowing that Donald was a sucker for justice, he tricked him—claiming they were going to rob someone who deserved it.
A greedy, corrupt man.
The kind of man who had been on the news lately for stealing millions from investors—including Donald's own mother, who had fallen victim to the scam.
That sold Donald. He was in.
The heist was executed perfectly. It was a complete success.
To keep things low-profile, Donald was told the money would be divided in a few days.
Then they went their separate ways.
---
BACK TO REALITY
Donald had finished eating and was now washing the dishes. The sun had set, and nighttime was creeping in.
He sat down and checked his phone again.
It was getting late.
"Where the hell is this guy?" he muttered.
Just then, he heard not one—but multiple cars pulling up in his driveway. He tried to peek outside, but the bright headlights made it impossible to see anything clearly.
Within seconds—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Donald didn't think much of it. He simply walked over and opened the door.
To his surprise, the person standing there was none other than the one he'd been waiting for.
"Hey Jackson, I've been waiting on you, man—for so long," he said.
But Jackson didn't answer.
Something was definitely off. Jackson wasn't alone—standing right behind him were two large, muscular men.
One of them asked, "Is this him?"
Jackson just nodded.
Suddenly, Donald was shoved back inside the house. One of the bodyguards stepped forward and kicked Donald hard in the stomach, sending him flying into the dining table.
Groaning and in pain, Donald lay stunned on the floor.
He didn't understand what was going on.
Donald tried to get up, but the pain was just too much for him, so he simply sat down on the floor.
"Jackson, what's going on?"
He asked.
"Well, I'll tell you what's going on, boy."
Someone had just entered Donald's house—and it was none other than Moreno himself, a well-known mafia boss.
He was dressed in his signature suit that he was known for—especially when he was about to murder his victims. A very expensive red silk suit. Along with it was his infamous walking stick.
"Moreno, what are you doing here?" Donald asked in confusion.
"You know what I'm doing here, boy. So don't act like a fool and just give me what you stole from me," Moreno ordered.
Donald was left in a trance because he simply couldn't believe what he was hearing. A dangerous mafia boss had just walked into his house and demanded what was supposedly stolen from him.
Worst of all, Moreno was Donald's old boss—the man he used to work for just to afford his tuition fees.
"Moreno, I really have no idea what you're talking about," Donald said, continuing to stand his ground.
"Don't play with me, boy," Moreno snapped his fingers. "You, boy—come here and tell him exactly what you told me. And don't change a damn thing."
Jackson was shoved forward by the two bodyguards. He looked scared and helpless.
"I saw Donald break into your building and saw him running out with a couple of bags."
"What?" Donald couldn't believe what he had just heard.
"You heard it yourself. Now, boy—don't make me ask again. Where the hell is my money?" Moreno's tone turned cold and deadly serious.
"Moreno, you know me—I would never do that to you. Clearly, he's lying," Donald said, looking directly at Jackson, who was doubling down on the story.
"Search every inch of this place. Now!" Moreno barked at his bodyguards.
And they did. They tore through the house, flipping it upside down—but they didn't find anything. The only thing they uncovered was a small, empty capsule with just a few bills inside.
"Boss," one of the bodyguards called out.
Moreno walked over to check. He saw nothing but some leftover cash—and the empty pill capsule.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here, huh? You stole from me and decided to get yourself some drugs?"
Moreno lifted the capsule and gave it a sniff.
"Hmm. Good stuff too."
"No, Moreno, it's not what you—"
Before Donald could finish his sentence, Moreno had already pointed his gun at him. The gun disguised as his walking stick.
And just like that, three bullets were fired.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The last thing Donald saw… was Jackson's sinister smile as he waved him goodbye.
Before Donald succumbed to his death.