The back office of the Sterling-Khan Clinic was illuminated only by the glow of computer monitors. Maya Khan clicked a key, expanding the graph that tracked Malcolm Fotheringham’s biometrics.
“It’s confirmed,” Maya said, her voice grim. “I ran the projection three times.”
Julian Sterling leaned over her shoulder, staring at the renal function curve. It wasn’t a slope; it was a cliff.
“He thinks he has five years,” Julian whispered, recalling the rumor regarding the European diagnosis. “That’s why he’s moving so fast. He thinks he has time to secure the legacy.”
“He’s wrong,” Maya corrected, pointing to the red zone on the chart. “The stress of the takeover, the lack of sleep, the adrenaline… it’s accelerating the genetic defect. This is a ‘DNA Time Bomb’. His kidneys aren’t just failing; they’re necrosing.”
She looked up at Julian, the weight heavy on her shoulders. “He doesn’t have five years, Julian. At this rate, Malcolm has six months. Maybe less”.