Dr. Annabelle Vanger sat stiffly in the high-backed chair, hands folded on the desk as she studied the young woman before her. Even after forty years in medicine, this part never got easier—delivering death sentences. Watching futures collapse in real time. She had built coping mechanisms, reinforced them like a dam against the flood of sorrow she faced daily. But they always leaked.

  Sophia sat across from her, oblivious to the wreckage about to unfold. A young woman with a face still full of life—until now, she had been basking in the quiet, ignorant bliss of someone who believed the future stretched infinitely ahead. Dr. Vanger was about to shatter that illusion. She was only the messenger, not the architect of this tragedy, but that distinction brought no comfort.

  Dr. Vanger exhaled slowly, steeling herself.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said softly, her voice a blend of warmth and professionalism. “The news is not good.”

  Sophia stiffened.

  “You have a prion disease—PND-23.”

  Dr. Vanger let the name hang in the air, watching for a reaction. She doubted it meant anything to Sophia. Not yet.

  “It’s similar to Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, or mad cow disease. But this...” She hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly on the desk. “This is different. PND-23 has been lying dormant in your system until now. What triggered it—we don’t know.”

  Sophia blinked, uncomprehending.

  Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “I’m afraid it’s terminal.” Dr. Vanger swallowed, hating the finality of her own words. “Right now, there’s no cure. AI systems are working on it, but the disease is... complex.”

  Sophia’s world folded in on itself. The air seemed to vanish from the room, her lungs refusing to expand. A scream clawed at her throat, but no sound came. Instead, she broke. Her body crumpled forward, sobs wracking through her as she cupped her face in trembling hands. Tears spilled freely—thick, unrestrained. They streaked through her mascara like ink bleeding on wet paper.

  She didn’t know how long she wept—only that, through the static of her grief, she eventually heard Dr. Vanger’s voice again. Soft. Steady.

  “Is there anyone I can call?” the doctor asked gently. “I know you didn’t want to bring anyone with you, but perhaps we can reconsider?”

  Sophia lifted her head, breath still hitching. Her voice cracked as she whispered,

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  “Is it also called… the Pandorion?”

  A name spoken only in hushed whispers. A name heavy with myth and speculation—a fusion of Pandora and prion. Some believed it was born in a lab, AI-crafted with surgical precision. Others swore it came from beneath the melting permafrost—ancient, patient, and newly awakened by the sun’s gnarled fingers of climate change.

  Dr. Vanger hesitated, then gave the slightest nod.

  “Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “It is.”

  PND-23. Pandorion. The disease that unravelled minds.

  Unlike mad cow disease, which spread through contaminated meat, this was something else entirely. It travelled like a virus, suspended in the air, slipping past the body’s defences unseen. Unstoppable.

  Sophia shuddered, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The name had once felt distant—just another headline, another rumour on conspiracy forums. But now, it had a new meaning.

  It was her death sentence.

  And there was nothing anyone could do.

  “Is it contagious? It’s not, is it?” Sophia asked.

  Dr. Vanger swallowed the lump in her throat. She couldn’t afford emotion, not here, not now. But the question struck her. The girl had just been handed a death sentence, and her first thought was for others. It wasn’t the usual first question.

  But then, inevitably, it came.

  “How long do I have before I start losing my mind?” Sophia’s voice was steady, but her eyes searched Dr. Vanger’s face, desperate for hope.

  Dr. Vanger exhaled slowly. Measured.

  “Six months. A year, maybe longer, with the new drugs.” She kept her voice even—no false hope, but not complete despair either. It was a tightrope she walked every day.

  “But you have AI working on a cure, right?”

  A pause. Just long enough to let truth creep in.

  “Yes,” Dr. Vanger said. “Night and day.”

  It was true. Technically. But it wasn’t enough.

  Sophia nodded—just enough to cling to. A flicker of light in the growing dark.

  “And the drugs? The ones that slow it down—when can I start?”

  “Today. Go to reception—I’ve already sent your prescription. There’s a pharmacy on-site.”

  Sophia stood, blinking back tears. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Dr. Vanger hesitated. “Would you like me to switch the Medi-bot into counsellor mode?” She gestured to the robot sitting quietly in the corner, its synthetic eyes unblinking.

  Sophia let out a small, brittle laugh. “Not unless it can cure me.”

  A ghost of a smile flickered across her face—then vanished, swallowed by the weight of what she now carried. She turned and walked out.

  Dr. Vanger sighed and pulled up Sophia’s insurance records on her tablet.

  Three months.

  That’s all Sophia could afford. The drugs were extortionate. Even if she outlived her prognosis, the system would kill her.

  A moment after Sophia left, Dr. Vanger followed. Behind her, the Medi-bot remained seated, awaiting its next patient in an hour. Its eyes flickered, then rolled back into its head. A faint whir filled the air as its processors came online.

  It was now connected.

  Joining the blockchain. Shifting cryptocurrency round the world.

  Its AI processing power subcontracted to the highest bidder.

  The company did that with all their Medi-bots when they weren’t seeing patients.

  Dr. Vanger knew that raw computing power—that intelligence—should have been spent searching for a cure.

  But there weren’t enough people like Sophia to make it profitable.

  So a small university lab, underfunded and outmatched, worked in isolation, alone.

  Sophia would die before they found the answer.

  And Dr. Vanger—who had taken an oath to heal—would watch it happen, powerless against the arithmetic of capitalism.