The sterile beep of the heart monitor was the first thing Malcolm heard. He opened his eyes, expecting the ceiling of his penthouse, but saw the fluorescent glare of the ICU.
Dr. Maya Khan stood at the foot of the bed, her face grim. She held a tablet with the same chart she had shown William days ago.
“I fainted,” Malcolm croaked, trying to sit up. “Low blood sugar. Get me my discharge papers.”
“You didn’t faint, Malcolm. You crashed,” Maya said, stepping forward to gently push him back against the pillows. “Your kidneys have stopped filtering toxins. The ‘DNA Time Bomb’ didn’t wait for your five-year plan. It detonated.”
Malcolm stared at her, the invincible CEO mask slipping. “How long?”
“Without dialysis? Days,” Maya replied, her voice steady but compassionate. “With dialysis, maybe a month. But your tissue is necrosing. You need a transplant immediately, or you are going to die.”,
Malcolm looked at the IV lines in his arm. The empire he had stolen, the legacy he was ruthlessly carving out–it was all evaporating. The European doctors had lied, or perhaps his own ambition had simply burned through his timeline faster than his body could handle.