Бесплатный фрагмент - The Oracle of Pain

ALEXEY KIRSANOV
THE ORACLE OF PAIN

Part 1: The Prognosis

Chapter 1: The World of Verdict

Glass and steel. Eternal twilight, illuminated by the bluish glow of screens. The air in the NeuroVerdict clinic was sterile, devoid of smells, as if cryogenically frozen. Elena Sokolova walked down the corridor, her steps measured by years of discipline, echoing dully on the polished floor. Through the transparent walls of the consultation rooms, silhouettes flickered: people sat before terminals, faces tense, fingers clutching the edges of chairs convulsively as they awaited the Verdict. Or the Knowledge-Giver. Depends on your point of view.

The world had split. Or rather, it was split by «Prognosis.» The Artificial Intelligence of the Verdict Corporation, capable of peering into the molecular abyss of the future and extracting a diagnosis from there with terrifying 99.9% accuracy. Five, ten, fifteen years before the first symptoms. Neurodegeneration. Cancer. A sentence pronounced long before the execution.

Society had divided into two irreconcilable camps. The «Knowing» — those who had passed through the cold radiance of Prognosis’s scanners. They lived in a separate dimension, marked by a countdown number. They made lists, severed ties, plunged into the depths of risky therapies or hedonistic oblivion, trying to «make it in time.» Their eyes, even when they laughed, held the shadow of the abyss. The «Unknowing» — those defending the sacred right to ignorance. They were branded irresponsible, selfish, potential time bombs. They were denied insurance, shunned at corporate events, their careers hitting an invisible wall. «What if?»

Doctor Elena Sokolova was on the side of Knowledge. Rational, cold, offering a chance to prepare. As a neurologist of the highest class, head of the movement disorders department at the prestigious NeuroVerdict clinic, she saw Prognosis not as an executioner, but as a tool. A tool allowing one to outpace the disease, mobilize resources, rebuild life with minimal losses. She herself recommended it to patients from risk groups. Persuasively, calmly, with icy logic against which it was hard to argue. Her faith in the AI’s predictive power was as solid as the scalpel in her skilled hands.

Today, she was expecting a young patient. Leonid Petrov, 28 years old. Genetic screening had shown an increased risk of early-onset Parkinson’s disease. Elena had prescribed him Prognosis. Standard practice. To confirm the threat, clarify the timeline, develop a preventative strategy. Leonid was a successful IT specialist, rational, and seemingly prepared for any result. They had discussed it during the preliminary consultation. He had nodded, asked precise questions about accuracy, possible errors, action plans for a positive result. The ideal patient for the Verdict era.

Elena entered the post-diagnostic counseling room. Leonid was already there. Not in the chair opposite the desk, but perched on the very edge, hunched over. His hands, usually resting calmly on his knees or gesturing during conversation, were hidden under the table. His face was pale, waxen. Eyes wide open, pupils slightly dilated, his gaze slid away from Elena, wandering over the sterile surfaces of the room.

«Leonid?» Elena called softly, taking her seat. Her voice, usually so even and authoritative in the office, sounded slightly quieter.

He flinched as if electrocuted. His head jerked sharply towards her. «D-Dr. Sokolova.» His voice was ragged, hoarse.

«You received the Prognosis result.» Elena opened his electronic chart on her tablet. The hologram of the diagnosis hung in the air between them, in cold blue letters: *High probability (99.2%) of developing juvenile form of Parkinson’s disease. Expected symptom onset: 36—38 years.* The timeline — almost ten years. Time to prepare.

Leonid wasn’t looking at the hologram. He was looking at his hands, which suddenly emerged from under the table and lay before him on the polished surface. And they began to tremble. Not just tremble. It was a paroxysm — sharp, uncontrolled, almost convulsive jerks of the hands and forearms. His fingers beat a nervous staccato on the plastic.

«It… it said… in ten years…» Leonid whispered. His breathing became rapid, shallow. «I-in ten years…» He tried to clench his fists to stop the shaking, but his muscles wouldn’t obey. The tremor only intensified. «Why… why are they… now?» His eyes, filled with animal terror, bored into Elena. «Is… is it IT? Already? But it… it shouldn’t! Shouldn’t it?!»

The first alarm bell rang not in Elena’s ears, but deep in her subconscious, where rationality borders on instinct. She saw the tremor. She saw the panic attack unfolding right before her — rapid heartbeat (she could see the frantic pulse in his jugular notch), hyperventilation, cold sweat on his forehead. But her physician’s mind immediately clicked in, offering a logical explanation.

«Leonid, breathe. Slowly. Deeply.» Elena stood up, walked to the cooler, poured a glass of water. Placed it in front of him. The water sloshed in the glass from his elbow knocking against the table. «This is not the disease. Not yet. Definitely not. This is a reaction. Acute stress. Your nervous system is overloaded by the information received. It’s normal.»

«Normal?!» — his voice cracked into a shrill note. He jumped up, knocking over the glass. Water spread across the table, dripped onto the impeccable floor. «Is it normal — to feel how your body… how it… gives up? As if I’m already… already…» He didn’t finish. Gasping for air. He grabbed the edge of the table, trying to stay on his feet, which also seemed ready to buckle.

«Sit down, Leonid. Please.» Elena maintained outward calm, but inside, something clenched. Unprofessional. Irrational. She had seen thousands of patients receiving bad news. Seen tears, stupor, aggression. But such an immediate, such a physical reaction… to a prognosis for a disease whose symptoms shouldn’t appear for ten years… It was… unusual. Alarming.

She persuaded him to sit, called a nurse — sedative, blood pressure monitoring. While the nurse fussed around the trembling, nearly sobbing young man, Elena stood by the window, looking at the Verdict skyscrapers towering over the city like new temples. The sun reflected off their mirrored facades in blinding flashes. Rationality suggested: reactive psychosomatics. Severe stress. Nothing surprising. Knowledge is a heavy burden.

But somehow, his hands were before her eyes. Those young, strong, skilled programmer’s hands, beating a crazy staccato on the table. A staccato that sounded like a premature countdown. And somewhere deep within her rational, Prognosis-believing consciousness, stirred a cold, thin, blade-like question: What if knowledge isn’t just a burden? What if it’s poison? She instantly banished the thought. Neurological hysteria. Nothing more. She would have to prescribe Leonid a good psychotherapist. From Verdict’s partners. They know how to work with the «Knowing.»

When Leonid was led away, still trembling but under the effect of the sedative, Elena returned to her desk. On the tablet, his diagnosis still glowed: *Expected symptom onset: 36—38 years.* She swiped her finger across the screen, closing the file. The glass was cold. Like the air in the office. Like the reflection of the sun in the Verdict towers. The first alarm bell had rung. But its echo, quiet and persistent, remained hanging in the sterile silence of the room.

Chapter 2: The Shadow of Doubt

The silence of the Movement Disorders Department library usually calmed Elena. The rustle of pages, the flicker of medical journal holograms, the focused quiet — here reigned the temple of Reason. But today, the silence pressed down on her. Elena sat at her workstation terminal, surrounded by virtual windows displaying medical histories. Not just histories. Histories of the «Knowing.»

After the incident with Leonid Petrov, something had clicked. That uncontrolled tremor, the panic attack — too vivid, too physical for news set a decade away. Elena had begun reviewing the files of her patients who had undergone «Prognosis» and received a positive result. Not superficially, as before, when she was mainly interested in the motor symptoms of the disease, but intently, scrutinizing every entry, every complaint, every note from a nurse or psychologist.

And the shadow of doubt, as light as a cobweb after the Leonid incident, began to thicken into something heavy and persistent.

Case 1: Maria Ignatyeva, 45 years old. Verdict’s Prognosis: ALS with expected onset at 52—55 years. Accuracy 99.1%. In her chart, three months after receiving the result: complaints of increasing weakness in her right arm, episodes of muscle twitching (fasciculations) that hadn’t been present at the time of the test. Objectively: mild reduction in strength in the distal parts of the right arm, hyperreflexia. Elena had dismissed it as anxiety, somatization back then. She prescribed anxiolytics, physiotherapy. But now… the progression seemed too rapid for the preclinical stage of ALS. As if the knowledge had nudged the dormant mechanism awake.

Case 2: Artem Volkov, 37 years old. Prognosis: Early Parkinson’s Disease (like Leonid). Onset at 42—45 years. Accuracy 98.8%. Within six months of the test: unexplained attacks of severe dizziness leading to falls; chronic insomnia resistant to standard therapy; panic attacks on the subway (fear of falling, seeming inadequate). His EEG showed non-specific changes, MRI — normal. «Anxiety disorder with somatic manifestations» — read the diagnosis from a Verdict psychologist. But Elena had seen his eyes — the same animal terror as in Leonid’s. The knowledge wasn’t just frightening — it was crippling.

Case 3: Irina Semyonova, 60 years old. Prognosis: Alzheimer’s Disease. Onset at 65—68 years. Accuracy 99.5%. Four months later: complaints of «fog in the head,» episodes of losing the thread of conversation that had never happened before. Neuropsychological testing showed mild reduction in information processing speed and episodic memory — uncharacteristic for her age and education, yet not meeting Alzheimer’s criteria. Elena prescribed nootropics. But highlighted in red in the psychologist’s notes: «Patient fixated on the slightest memory lapses, interprets them as the beginning of the end. No suicidal thoughts, but marked depression, anhedonia.»

A trend. Not just a statistical anomaly. An accelerated appearance of real, objective micro-symptoms long before the due date. An explosive growth of psychosomatics: unexplained pains (headaches, back, joints), dizziness, paresthesias, debilitating insomnia. And the pervasive shadow — depression, anxiety disorders, panic attacks, their frequency among the «Knowing» skyrocketing compared to control groups of «Unknowing» with similar risks (if such data could even be found — Verdict didn’t publicize it).

Elena opened the official Verdict portal. Section: «Prognosis Effectiveness Statistics.» Flawless graphs. Survival curves perfectly matching the predicted models. Percentage of false positives/negatives — fractions of a percent. Success stories of the «Knowing» who had time to accomplish life’s main goals thanks to early warning. All smooth. All scientific. All rational.

But beneath this veneer of statistics, Elena sensed a catch. Deep, systemic. Like a crack in the foundation of a seemingly unshakable building. The knowledge that was supposed to give strength was turning into poison. It didn’t just predict the future — it seemed to shape it. Shape it through fear. Through the all-consuming, chronic stress that struck the body’s most vulnerable points.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. A nurse entered, her face unusually pale.

«Dr. Sokolova? You’re urgently needed in the pediatric ward. Room 314. Patient Karina M.»

Karina M. 14 years old. Elena remembered this case. A rare genetic mutation drastically increasing the risk of early-onset familial Alzheimer’s. Parents — both «Unknowing,» but after long, agonizing deliberation, they decided to have their daughter tested. «To prepare,» the mother had said, her eyes full of tears. «To have time to help her,» the father added, clenching his fists. Elena, as the leading specialist in neurodegeneration, had signed the referral for «Prognosis.» The result came yesterday: *High probability (99.7%) of developing early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. Expected symptom onset: 19—21 years.* A five-year reprieve.

Elena entered the room. The air was thick with silence and despair. The parents stood by the window, the mother crying silently, the father holding her, his face stony. On the bed sat Karina. Or rather, she wasn’t sitting. She was frozen.

The girl sat propped against pillows, eyes wide open, staring into the emptiness before her. No blinking, no reaction to light. One arm lay unnaturally straight beside her body, the other froze mid-reach towards a plush cat lying on the floor. Her fingers were slightly curled, as if frozen in the act of trying to grab the toy. Breathing even, but shallow. Her face — absolute emptiness. No fear, no sadness, no anger. Nothing.

«She… she’s been like this since morning,» the mother whispered, not taking her eyes off her daughter. «We got the results last night. She… didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just stayed silent. And this morning… like this. Won’t eat. Won’t drink. Doesn’t react…»

Elena approached the bed cautiously. She crouched down to be level with Karina’s face. The girl’s eyes were like two dark lakes, devoid of bottom or reflection. Elena gently took her hand. The skin was cool. Pulse steady, slightly slow. She checked reflexes — normal. Tried to passively bend the arm — mild resistance, like in catalepsy. Waxy flexibility.

Catatonic stupor. Reactive. Following an acute psychotic episode, flashed through Elena’s mind with icy clarity. The diagnosis would be obvious to any psychiatrist. But the cause… The cause was «Prognosis.» The verdict passed on her future. The knowledge that her mind, her personality, her dreams of university, love, career — all of it would dissolve in the sticky void of dementia before she even reached adulthood. And her psyche, unable to bear this knowledge, had simply… shut down. Fled into the fortress of muteness and immobility.

Elena stood up. Her own hands suddenly felt alien, heavy. She looked at the parents, frozen in their grief. She looked at Karina, this beautiful, fragile girl whose «now» had been stolen by the knowledge of «later.» Whose future hadn’t just been predicted — it had been accelerated into the state of this icy, living statue.

Verdict’s statistics screamed 99.7% accuracy. But here, in this room, amidst the silence broken only by the mother’s intermittent sobs, the flawless numbers crumbled to dust. This wasn’t a prognosis. This was a curse. A curse that didn’t wait its turn, but acted here and now, crippling souls and bodies long before the disease was due to arrive.

«We need a psychiatrist. A ’catatonia specialist’,» Elena said, and her voice sounded alien, flat, in this deathly silence. «And… sedation. Carefully.»

She left the room, leaving behind the parents’ grief and the mute reproach of the frozen girl. In the corridor, brightly lit by soulless neon lamps, Elena leaned back against the cool wall. Doubt was no longer a shadow. It was a heavy, cold slab pressing down on her chest. «Prognosis» didn’t just diagnose. It triggered something. It set a mechanism of destruction in motion, using the very fear of the future as its fuel. And Karina M., with her empty gaze and frozen fingers, was the living, terrifying proof of it.

She looked at her own hands. Steady, skilled, the hands of a surgeon and neurologist. Hands that had believed in the power of knowledge, in medicine, in control. Now they seemed helpless to her. As if facing an invisible, all-pervasive virus that Verdict had released into the world disguised as a benevolent gift. A virus whose name was the «Oracle Effect.» The name came to her suddenly, with frightening clarity. The Oracle at Delphi foretold fates, but its ambiguous prophecies often led to ruin. Wasn’t that why?

Elena pushed off from the wall and walked down the corridor. Her steps were as measured as always. Her face — professionally focused. But inside, a blizzard raged. Icy, cutting. And at the center of this blizzard stood an image: the frozen girl and the cold, shining towers of Verdict outside the window, reflecting the world they had reshaped with knowledge-as-poison.

Chapter 3: The Personal Rubicon

The silence in her office after visiting Karina M. was different. Not working silence, not focused silence, but oppressive, like the air before a storm that is already striking somewhere nearby but hasn’t reached you yet. The image of the frozen girl haunted Elena, overlaying itself onto Leonid’s convulsive hands, Artem’s frightened eyes, the emptiness in Irina’s gaze. «The Oracle Effect.» The phrase, born in the corridor, now echoed in her mind with an obsessive rhythm, beating time to her own footsteps on the polished floor of the NeuroVerdict clinic.

She tried to work. She opened case histories, reviewed fresh research on neurodegeneration, answered emails. But the words swam before her eyes, meaning slipped away. Instead of clinical descriptions, she saw — she saw — how the knowledge, that cold radiance of «Prognosis,» wasn’t predicting the disease, but shaping it. It injected fear deep into the synapses, and that fear, like acid, eroded the psyche’s protective barriers, undermined neural connections, triggered cascades of cortisol which, in turn, opened the gates to inflammation, suppressed immunity, accelerated what should have lain dormant for years. «Prognosis» wasn’t a diagnostician. It was a catalyst for the apocalypse written in the individual genome.

Rationality, her faithful shield and sword, was cracking. She tried to hammer into herself the statistics of Verdict: 99.9% accuracy, thousands of lives saved thanks to early preparation. But the numbers paled before the face of Karina, turned into a wax doll by knowledge of a future that hadn’t yet arrived. «Preparation?» — a bitter smirk escaped her. Preparation for what? For social death under the «90-Day Rule»? For life in the shadow of one’s own tomorrow? For watching your body betray you ahead of schedule because of all-consuming terror?

And then, insidiously, like a cold draft under the door, the personal question crept in. The one she had chased away for years as unscientific nonsense. The one that now, under the weight of what she had witnessed, acquired chilling flesh and blood: «What if I am already a carrier?»

She, Elena Sokolova, head neurologist of a prestigious clinic, proponent of preventative medicine, a person who had built a career on rational risk analysis… she had never undergone «Prognosis.» Not for herself. Family history clean? Clean enough. No obvious warning bells in the family. But «clean» wasn’t «guaranteed.» She had seen too many young, seemingly healthy people receive their sentence. Seen how ruthless the genetic lottery was. And now she saw how the very knowledge of that lottery became part of the disease.

Professional interest? Yes, of course. The researcher’s itch. The desire to test her theory from the inside, to feel the mechanism of the «Oracle Effect» on herself, like a doctor taking an experimental vaccine. It sounded noble. Scientific. But beneath that layer of rational justification crawled the worm of fear. The very same animal terror that had been in Leonid’s and Artem’s eyes. Fear of the unknown hidden in her own chromosomes. What if her tremor, her cognitive slips, her panic — weren’t just a reaction to others’ suffering, but the first warning bells? Bells she ignored because she believed in control? Control that «Prognosis,» as it now seemed, took away first.

The decision didn’t come in a moment of epiphany, but slowly, like an abscess forming. Over a cup of cold coffee, looking at the Verdict towers bathed in the evening sun. While reviewing another case file of a «Knowing» person whose life was rapidly spiraling out of control long before the predicted date. To the ticking of the clock in her too-quiet, too-empty apartment without Alexei (he was on a business trip, and his absence suddenly felt cavernous). She stopped fighting the thought. She let fear and doubt merge into one — into an icy resolve.

She needed to know.

Not to prepare. Not for plans. For proof. For herself. To dispel doubts or… confirm the worst. To cross the Rubicon from the world of the «Unknowing,» where the illusion of normality reigned, into the world of the «Knowing,» where the «Oracle Effect» ruled the roost. A personal experiment. An existential act.

Booking it was laughably simple. Through the NeuroVerdict employee portal. A few clicks. Choosing a date and time. No questions, no warnings. The system accepted the request instantly, as a matter of course. Confirmation arrived on her tablet as a cold, impersonal notification: «Your «Prognosis’ procedure is scheduled for 09:00, 15.06. Diagnostics Room 7A. Arrive 15 minutes early.»

The morning greeted her with piercingly clear skies and an equally piercing cold inside. She dressed meticulously, as for an important operation — a strict suit, an impeccable white coat. The armor of a professional. On the bus, winding its way among the mirrored giants of Verdict, she tried to maintain scientific detachment. It’s just a procedure. Data collection. Biomarker analysis. Nothing personal. But her fingers clenched into fists on their own, nails digging into her palms. A lump formed in her throat. The familiar lump of her patients’ fear.

Diagnostics Room 7A was no different from the others. Glass, steel, bluish lighting. The sterile smell of antiseptic overwhelming any human scent. The nurse (her face a professionally impassive mask) led Elena to a chair resembling a dental chair, but more massive, with extendable brackets for scanners.

«Please remove any metal objects, watches. You may keep your coat on,» the nurse’s voice was even, like an answering machine. Elena complied. A feeling of vulnerability washed over her as she sat in the cold chair in her blouse and skirt. She felt her own heartbeat pulsing somewhere in her throat.

«The «Prognosis’ program is activated. Please remain still during scanning. The procedure will take approximately 22 minutes,» a pleasant but utterly empathy-free synthetic AI voice sounded from the speakers. No «good morning,» no good luck wishes. Just facts.

The brackets with soft pads smoothly enveloped her head. The scanners hummed. Colored lights blinked above her. The cold waves of the MRI machine penetrated her body. The genetic sensor on her wrist tickled her skin slightly as it collected epithelial samples. She closed her eyes, trying to breathe evenly, as she had taught her patients before stressful procedures. Just data collection. Just analysis. Nothing personal.

But inside, a blizzard raged. Images surfaced like shipwreck debris: frozen Karina, trembling Leonid, frightened Artem, her own hands that had suddenly seemed alien and clumsy that morning when she dropped her toothbrush. «What if I’m already a carrier?» the fear whispered, gaining flesh in the hum of the machines. «Huntington’s? Parkinson’s? Early Alzheimer’s? What lies deep in my code?» She imagined the hologram diagnosis, cold blue letters hovering in the air. A timeline. Accuracy 99.9%. The beginning of the end, measured out by a machine.

She tried to cling to rationality: «Even if there’s something, it’s only a probability. Not a sentence. There’s time. I can fight.» But the chilling reply came instantly: «Time? For what? To live in the hell of waiting, like them? For the «Oracle Effect’ to start its work on me?» The thought that the knowledge itself could accelerate her demise paralyzed her more than any scanner.

The nurse moved silently around the perimeter, checking readings on monitors. Her impassivity was unbearable. Elena suddenly wanted to scream: «Do you understand what you’re doing? Do you understand this isn’t just a test? It’s a ticket to hell!» But she clenched her teeth. Keep face. Keep control. At least the appearance of it.

Twenty-two minutes stretched into eternity. Every hum of the machine, every click echoed in her tense body. When the brackets finally retracted smoothly and the humming ceased, she felt not relief, but emptiness. Like after a leap into the abyss — the fall had stopped, but the bottom wasn’t visible.

«Procedure complete. Your biometric and genetic data have been transferred for processing to the central «Prognosis’ processor. Results will be available to your attending physician in 48 hours. You may get dressed.»

The synthetic voice cut off. Silence filled the room again, but now it was different — heavy, ringing with anticipation. Elena stood up slowly. Her legs felt like cotton wool. She put on her coat, feeling its fabric as alien, rough skin. The nurse handed her a tablet for an electronic signature consenting to data processing. Elena signed without looking. Her signature came out uneven, trembling.

Stepping into the corridor, she inhaled the sterile air of NeuroVerdict. The sun still glared in the windows, the Verdict towers still shone proudly. But the world had changed. She had crossed the Rubicon. Now she stood on a shore called «Waiting.» Waiting for the verdict that could arrive with the machine’s inexorable accuracy, bringing not only knowledge of a future disease, but also the seeds of its accelerated arrival. Scientific detachment had melted like smoke. Only cold, clammy fear remained, and a question hanging in the sterile silence of her consciousness: «What have I done?» The next 48 hours promised to be an eternity filled with the ghosts of all those whose lives the «Oracle» had already broken. Including, possibly, her own.

Chapter 4: The Verdict

Forty-eight hours. An eternity vacuum-sealed in anticipation. Every hour, every minute stretched into torture. Elena tried to drown the fear in work — clinical rounds, consultations, reviewing studies on new preventative methods. But the shadows were everywhere. In the trembling hands of patients, in the overly cautious glances of nurses, in the impeccably cold walls of NeuroVerdict, which now seemed not like protection, but a prison cell. She caught herself listening to her own body with a painful, almost paranoid intensity. A slight tingling in her little finger? «The beginning?» A momentary lapse in recalling a word? «The fog?» Fatigue after a sleepless night? «Weakness?» The knowledge of a possible diagnosis was already triggering the «Oracle Effect» within her own mind, undermining the fortress of rationality.

The morning of the verdict was absurdly sunny. Rays of light danced on the glass towers of Verdict, turning them into giant crystals. Elena walked down the familiar corridor towards the office of Dr. Kirill Markov, her colleague and, formally, her attending physician for the procedure. She walked with her usual measured, professional stride, but inside, everything was clenched into a frozen knot. Kirill was a good doctor, rational, devoted to the ideals of Verdict. His office, as sterile and cold as everything here, felt like an execution chamber today.

«Elena, come in,» Kirill smiled, but his eyes held professional sympathy and… wariness? He knew about her doubts. The whole department was probably whispering. She sat opposite him, back straight, hands folded in her lap to hide the tremor that wasn’t there yet. Or that she just couldn’t feel.

«The Prognosis results are in,» Kirill began, clearing his throat. His finger slid across the tablet screen. A hologram flickered to life on the desk between them, waiting for activation. Cold blue light stabbed at her eyes. «Are you ready?»

Ready? For what? For a living death? For seven years awaiting her own disintegration? For turning into an Anna, a Karina? She nodded. Her head moved heavily, as if the hinges had rusted.

Kirill touched the screen. The hologram flared, blue letters, sharp, inexorable like epitaph carving, materialized in the air:

PATIENT: SOKOLOVA ELENA VIKTOROVNA

DIAGNOSTIC CONCLUSION OF «PROGNOSIS» PROGRAM:

HIGH PROBABILITY (99.9%) OF DEVELOPING AN AGGRESSIVE FORM OF HUNTINGTON-PLUS.

EXPECTED SYMPTOM ONSET: 7 YEARS (±6 MONTHS).

IMMEDIATE CONSULTATION WITH A SPECIALIST IN HEREDITARY NEURODEGENERATIVE DISEASES AND PSYCHOLOGICAL SUPPORT RECOMMENDED.

Huntington-Plus. Aggressive form. Her nightmare. Not just Huntington’s with its horrifying chorea and dementia, but its accelerated, enhanced version, a patented monstrosity of Verdict that they had so proudly «learned» to predict. Seven years. Not ten, not fifteen. Seven. Accuracy 99.9%. Unassailable. Unappealable. The verdict. Final and binding.

The world didn’t collapse. It evaporated.

First — freezing cold. It struck from within, from the very depths of her chest, instantly flooding her veins, icing her fingertips, locking her jaw. All air was squeezed from her lungs. Her chest constricted with invisible vices, so that inhaling became a rasping, futile spasm. She sat, staring at the blue letters floating in the air, but saw only white noise, a flickering void.

Then — her legs. They simply ceased to exist as support. Turned to cotton wool, treacherously buckling beneath her even though she was sitting. A sensation of falling into an abyss that wasn’t there beneath the chair. She instinctively clawed her fingers into the cold plastic armrests to keep from collapsing right then, right there. Her head spun, the room swam slightly. Kirill’s voice reached her as if through thick water: «…Elena? Elena, can you hear me? Breathe. Deeply. It’s shock…»

But she didn’t hear. Inside, only one voice sounded, her own, icy and utterly calm: «I am already dead.»

This wasn’t a metaphor. It was a physiological, existential truth. The doctor in her instantly activated her knowledge: the pathogenesis of Huntington-Plus. Uncontrolled expansion of CAG repeats. Death of striatal neurons. Chorea. Dementia. Aggressive form — meaning faster, harsher, more merciless. And then — the «Oracle Effect.» The knowledge of it. Knowledge that was already, at this very second, triggering cascades of cortisol, inflammation, accelerated cell death. Those seven years — an illusion. She was already sick. The disease hadn’t begun sometime later, but here and now, with the pronouncement of the verdict. She was Patient Zero. She was the next exhibit in the collection of horror she herself had begun compiling.

«Dead. Already.»

The vision of Anna in the wheelchair, her empty gaze, her speech in the past tense — overlaid itself onto her. She had already seen herself there. The blue hologram wasn’t a prognosis; it was a mirror showing her future-present. Social death under the «90-Day Rule» (but how long until her 90 days? 6 years and 9 months? Absurd!). Loss of her job — how could she operate knowing this? Loss of Alexei… Oh, Alexei… An «Unknowing.» How could she tell him? Should she even tell him? He would leave. Like others had left. Like… she probably would have left herself, in his place. Rationally.

The cold gripped her tighter. Tremors finally crept up her spine, fine, uncontrollable. She felt a drop of sweat — cold as a ghost’s tear — roll down her temple beneath her impeccably styled hair. Her hands on the armrests went numb from tension.

«…Elena!» Kirill’s voice grew sharper, more alarmed. He handed her a paper tissue. She stared at it dumbly, not understanding why. «Here. Wipe your face. Breathe. I understand, this is… a devastating blow. But seven years — that’s time. Significant time! We can do a lot. Preventative therapy, neuroprotectants, working with a psychologist… Verdict offers a comprehensive support program for the «Knowing’…»

His words bounced off the icy shield she had erected around herself. «Support program.» For the doomed. For the walking dead awaiting their hour. For those whom the «Oracle Effect» was slowly, surely, turning into its living proof. She was now part of that program. Part of the statistics. Her case — just another line in the flawless database confirming Prognosis’s accuracy. The irony was so bitter it caused a spasm in her throat.

She tried to speak. To say… what? To ask about the margin of error? If it was a mistake? But the figure 99.9% hung in the air like a brand. Her own rational mind, raised on Verdict, wouldn’t allow denial. Accuracy was the sacred cow. Knowledge was her god. Now that god had offered her up as a sacrifice.

«I…» Her voice cracked, became hoarse, alien. She swallowed the lump in her throat, tried again, summoning all her willpower, all her professional training, not to burst into tears, not to scream, not to smash that damned hologram. «I understand. Thank you, Kirill. The documents… for the program…» She waved a hand towards the tablet where he was already opening some forms. To sign. To agree to therapy of despair. To a life of waiting.

Silently, he handed her the stylus. Elena took it with trembling fingers. The signature beneath the agreement for «comprehensive support» came out crooked, unrecognizable. A blot. Like her life now.

Standing up. Her legs barely held her. She leaned on the back of the chair, sensing Kirill wanted to help but didn’t dare touch her. Knowing. A leper. Even to a colleague.

«Would you… maybe rest? In the on-call room? Or I can prescribe you…» he began.

«No.» She cut him off sharply, almost harshly. Her voice found a metallic note. «I… will go. Work. Patients are waiting.»

It was the last lie. The last attempt to cling to the wreckage of her former life, her former self — Dr. Elena Sokolova, neurologist, mistress of her domain. But as she said it, she knew: it was over. Her reign of rationality, control, belief in the power of knowledge without consequences — had ended.

She walked out of the office. The NeuroVerdict corridor greeted her with its eternal twilight and bluish glow. But now it seemed like a tunnel leading straight into darkness. The blue letters of the diagnosis burned before her eyes brighter than any light. *Huntington-Plus. Aggressive. 7 years. 99.9%.*

«I am already dead,» echoed inside, drowning out the beat of her own heart, which still pounded, doomed, in her frozen chest. She took a step. Then another. Moving on autopilot, carrying not knowledge, but the verdict, and the chilling understanding: the worst symptoms had already begun. Right now. In the silence of her shattered spirit.

Chapter 5: The First Cracks

Returning to work after the verdict was an act of monstrous violence against herself. Every step down the NeuroVerdict corridor echoed in the void that had formed inside her. The blue letters «Huntington-Plus» burned on her retina, overlaying everything she saw. The clinic, her kingdom of reason and control, had become a museum of future deformities, where every «Knowing» patient was an ominous harbinger of her own fate.

She tried to cling to routine. She drafted treatment plans, wrote discharge summaries, held consultations. But her gaze, honed over years, now saw not the symptoms of disease, but the symptoms of knowledge. And it was unbearable.

A patient, 32 years old, prognosis — multiple sclerosis, onset in 8 years. Outwardly — a healthy, athletic woman. But as Elena filled out her medical history, the woman, under the pretext of adjusting her skirt, suddenly stood up sharply and paced back and forth across the office. Her heels clicked on the floor with exaggerated precision. Then she sat down, unconsciously touching her fingertip to the tip of her nose. The finger-to-nose test. Checking coordination. Elena remembered how she herself, brushing her teeth that morning, had caught herself staring intently in the mirror: «Asymmetry? No? Maybe the left corner of the mouth is slightly off?» She saw the patient secretly clenching and unclenching her fist under the table, testing her strength. Saw her eyes darting feverishly around the room, as if searching for a hidden camera recording the first malfunction.

A young man with a prognosis of early Parkinson’s (like Leonid, like Artem) flinched at every rustle. «Doctor, just now, when I raised my arm… is that a tremor? Do you feel a tremor?» — he extended his arm, perfectly steady, but his eyes were full of panic. «I feel like I’m thinking slower. Is it happening? Alzheimer’s? Even though my prognosis is Parkinson’s… Maybe Prognosis was wrong? Or is this a new symptom?» His questions poured out in a torrent, sticky, paranoid. Elena answered in an even, professional tone: «No, I see no tremor. Cognitive functions are normal. It’s anxiety.» But inside, her own voice whispered: «What if mine has already started? This slight numbness in my fingers? Or is it just from clenching my fist?» Knowledge was turning every sensation into a potential harbinger of doom.

She observed how behavior changed. People who had been sociable yesterday now averted their eyes in the corridors, hurried to their wards or offices, avoiding unnecessary contact. Conversations in the on-call room died down when she appeared. Not hostilely. With caution. With the same feeling as looking at someone carrying an open vial of plague. Knowing. A leper. Her colleagues, even those who used to nod amiably, now confined themselves to dry, professional questions. She saw it in their eyes — the calculation. «Seven years. So, in five or six, we’ll need to find a replacement. Or sooner, if the Effect…» Social isolation was starting earlier than the «90-Day Rule.» It began the moment the verdict was pronounced.

And then there he was. The mirror. The living embodiment of the «Oracle Effect» that she couldn’t ignore.

Dr. Glebov.

She literally bumped into him rounding a corner near the neurosurgery department. Sergei Glebov. A brilliant neurosurgeon, whose hands were famed for their jeweler-like precision. The man with whom she had once performed the most complex tandem surgeries. He, too, had undergone Prognosis six months ago. Essential tremor. Benign, essentially, often hereditary, not directly life-threatening, but catastrophic for a surgeon. Prognosis: onset of noticeable tremor in 5—7 years. Time to restructure his career, move into consultations, teaching.

Sergei looked… haggard. His once impeccable coat was rumpled. His eyes were sunken, with dark circles. He was carrying a folder with X-rays.

«Sergei?» Elena stopped involuntarily. Her voice sounded slightly hoarse.

He flinched, recognized her. Something flickered across his face — confusion, shame, fear. «Elena. Hi.»

They stood in awkward silence. And then she saw it. His hands. They weren’t just trembling. They were shaking with a fine, uncontrolled tremor, as if under an electric current. Fingers drummed on the edge of the folder. Wrists quivered. This wasn’t just «slight shaking» that could be blamed on fatigue or coffee. This was a clear, pathological resting and postural tremor, already visible to the naked eye. A tremor that wasn’t due for five years.

«You… how are you?» Elena asked, unable to tear her gaze from his hands. Her own fingers clenched in her coat pockets.

He swallowed nervously, tried to press the folder to his chest to hide the shaking, but it only intensified. «Ah, well… Working. Trying. Mostly consulting. Operating…» He gave a bitter, short, soundless laugh. «You know, it’s hard. My hands… sometimes they fail me.» He looked at his own hands with such disgust and fear that Elena felt physically ill. «How will I look at mine?»

«But… Prognosis gave you time,» the words escaped her before she could think. Her voice was her own, clinical, analytical, but the question hung in the air like an accusation.

Sergei pressed his lips together. His eyes turned hard, empty. «Prognosis said: in five to seven years. It didn’t account for…» He stopped, took a sharp breath. «It didn’t account for the fact that knowing about it… it’s like living with a bomb. Every day. Every minute. I catch myself looking at my hands more often than at the monitor. Every cup of coffee is a test. Every signature is an exam. And you know what?» His voice broke into a whisper full of bitterness and helplessness. «The more afraid I am, the more they shake. It’s a vicious circle, Elena. A damned circle. And I’m trapped in it.» He jerked his head sharply, as if shooing away a nightmare. «Sorry. I have to go. Consilium.»

He walked past her, almost running, his back rigid, his hands, still pressed to the folder, betraying him with their fine, treacherous tremor. The scent of his familiar, expensive cologne mingled with the smell of fear and despair.

Elena remained standing in the middle of the corridor. The cold horror familiar since her verdict tightened her throat again. She had seen his tremor. Seen his fear. Seen how knowledge had created the symptom far ahead of schedule. Sergei Glebov wasn’t just a patient. He was a prophecy. A prophecy about herself.

She raised her own hand. Right there, in the brightly lit corridor, under the indifferent gaze of staff passing by. She held her hand out in front of her, fingers splayed. «Is it trembling?» She stared intently, until her eyes hurt. Her palm was steady. But… was it slightly tense? Or was it her imagination? She tried to touch the tip of her nose with her index finger. It hit the mark precisely. «Too slow?» She did the movement again. And again. Testing. Ritual. Paranoia.

Someone’s cautious cough made her start and drop her hand sharply, like someone caught stealing. A flush of shame flooded her face. She clenched her fists, feeling her nails dig into her palms. «It’s already started. With me. Right now.»

She almost ran to the nearest empty examination room, slamming the door shut behind her. Leaned her back against the cold wall, gulping air. Sergei Glebov’s hands swam before her eyes. His hands, which could no longer hold a scalpel. His eyes, full of the awareness of his own ruin. And her own hand, outstretched in a mute test of doom. The first cracks weren’t just appearing in the world around her. They were fissuring her own soul, her body, her profession. NeuroVerdict was no longer her fortress. It had become her laboratory of the end, and the patients — her fellow prisoners and mirrors. And the most terrible thing was understanding that her personal «Oracle Effect» was already in motion. And no one could stop it.

Chapter 6: Denial and Rage

The icy void after the verdict didn’t last long. It was replaced by a wave of such furious intensity that Elena scarcely recognized herself. She had always prided herself on her control, her rationality. Now, a volcano raged inside her, spewing molten lava of denial and rage.

Denial: «A mistake!» It began that night. In the silence of the empty apartment (Alexei was delayed on his business trip), while the digits «99.9%" seared her brain. She jumped out of bed, switched on the light, and stared at her hands under the harsh glare. Perfect. Steady. Her hands.

«No!» she hissed into the silence. «It can’t be. Algorithm error. Data glitch. Swapped samples!»

She paced the apartment frantically, switching on her terminal. Googled: «false positive Prognosis results,» «Verdict errors.» Found isolated cases, buried in official reports. Clung to them like a drowning woman to straws. «See! There! It happens!» screamed the inner voice. She reread her own genetic report (ordered herself three years ago, out of pure interest). There was nothing incriminating! No fatal CAG expansions! Verdict had made a mistake. Had to have made a mistake. She couldn’t be a carrier of this curse. Not her. Not Elena Sokolova. It was absurd!

The dam of denial broke. The lava of rage surged over the edge, burning everything in its path.

Rage at Verdict. Those cold, inhuman temple-towers, those smug algorithms that had arrogated the right to decide fates! Had they planted this diagnosis as a test case for their «infallibility»? Or was it punishment for her doubts? For daring to look behind the shiny facade? She imagined blowing up their server farms, the mirrored walls collapsing, burying their cynical top managers calmly counting profits from human despair. «Sellers of curses! Murderers!» she mentally screamed, clenching her fists until they hurt.

Rage at the World. At this unjust, cruel world where some were born with a ticket to hell in their genes, while others lived peacefully to a hundred. At the society that created this monstrous rift between «Knowing» and «Unknowing,» this system of stigma and fear. At her healthy colleagues who now looked at her warily. At Alexei, out there somewhere in his safe «unknowing,» blissfully unaware his wife was condemned. «Why ME?! Why not someone else?!» — a selfish, wild howl erupted from her core.

Rage at Herself. The most caustic, corrosive rage. For going for that damned test herself! For her stupid belief in «professional interest»! For failing to find convincing proof of the «Oracle Effect» sooner. For knowing now. Knowing and being unable to rip that knowledge from her brain like a splinter. For her own body, which might betray her, carrying this bomb. «Fool! Idiot! Your own fault!»

The rage boiled within her like poison. She caught herself slamming cupboard doors, throwing dishes into the sink with a clatter that made her flinch. At work, her voice became sharper; colleagues exchanged glances when she passed. She buried herself in data, not seeking truth, but hunting for an error in her own file, furiously searching for the slightest inaccuracy, inconsistency. But Verdict’s flawless algorithms left no loopholes. Their flawlessness was unbearable. Every digit, every symbol in her electronic chart burned her eyes.

The Breakdown: Betrayal of the Hands. It happened in her own office, after a patient appointment. The patient — an elderly man with benign tremor, an «Unknowing,» just in for a routine consultation. Everything went smoothly, rationally. But when he left, Elena felt a savage exhaustion and tension. She needed to input data into his electronic history — a standard procedure. She picked up the stylus, brought it to the tablet to sign the discharge summary with her flawless, confident signature.

And it happened. Her fingers wouldn’t obey. A slight tremor in her wrist, which she’d attributed to fatigue and rage, suddenly intensified. The stylus jerked in her hand, leaving a thick, crooked smear instead of the first letter. She froze. «What? No!»

She tried to erase the mistake, gripped the stylus tighter. Concentrated with all her might. «Just a signature. You’ve done this a thousand times!» But the harder she concentrated, the more she tried to control the movement, the worse it became. Her fingers felt wooden, her wrist trembling fine and fast. The stylus jerked again, leaving another absurd squiggle. She tried to put a dot — and made a thick blot.

«NO! STOP IT!» she screamed silently. Panic, cold and clammy, mixed with rage. She grabbed the stylus with both hands, trying to immobilize her wrist. But the tremor spread to her forearm. She stabbed the stylus at the screen — hard, sharp. An unpleasant scraping sound. Another blot.

«WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!» Her own cry, hoarse, inhuman, deafened her in the office silence. The rage pent up for days erupted. She hurled the stylus across the room. It hit the wall with a crack and snapped. The tablet followed, crashing to the floor, its screen dying darkly.

Elena jumped up, knocking over her chair. Her breath rasped in her throat. She clenched her treacherous hands into fists and started pounding them on the desk. Again and again. Dull thuds, with vicious force. The pain in her knuckles only fueled the fury.

«Stop it! Stop it! STOP IT!» she screamed at her hands, at her body, at Verdict, at the world, at the unjust universe. Tears, hot and salty, streamed down her face, mingling with the rage, turning the scream into sobs. She hammered her fists on the desk until the pain became unbearable, until her strength gave out.

She sank to her haunches, hiding her face in hands shaking with sobs. Her hands… Always her tool, her pride, her symbol of control. Now they had betrayed her. Refused the simplest task. Trembling like Sergei Glebov’s. Like Leonid Petrov’s on that fateful day.

Fear or Effect?

The sobs subsided, leaving emptiness and a burning pain in her bruised knuckles. Elena sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, staring at her red, swollen knuckles. The tremor in her hands gradually quieted, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. But the question hung in the air, heavier than any diagnosis:

What was that?

Fear? Hysteria? A mental breakdown from the unbearable burden of knowledge? Her rational mind, muffled but not broken, clung to that explanation. Severe stress. Panic attack. Psychogenic tremor. Perfectly explainable.

Or… the Oracle Effect?

The first real symptoms? That very accelerated mechanism of destruction, triggered by knowledge? Could the rage and despair — those toxic byproducts of the diagnosis — have already started killing neurons in her striatum? Had her own psyche, her own fear, physically damaged her brain?

She didn’t know. Couldn’t know. This ambiguity was worse than any certainty. Worse than the diagnosis. Because it turned every moment, every sensation, into torture by suspicion. Her body, her mind — a battlefield where the enemy was everywhere and nowhere. Inside and out.

She slowly got up, leaning on the desk. Looked at the shattered tablet, the broken stylus, the disarray in the office. At her bloodied knuckles. This wasn’t the work of Dr. Sokolova. This was the vandalism of a creature cornered.

The world hadn’t just collapsed. It had exploded. And in the swirling dust and rage, Elena stood alone, with her treacherous hands and the question that held the key to everything — even the possibility of surviving those seven years: Fear or Effect?

Chapter 7: Bargaining and Despair

After the explosion of rage came an icy, calculating silence. Denial and anger had scorched the earth, leaving behind scorched ruins where Elena, like the last strategist of a defeated army, tried to mount a defense. Bargaining. If Knowledge was the verdict, and Rage a dead end, then she had to find a loophole. Buy time. Trick the Oracle.

Elena plunged into the world of «preventative strategies» and «breakthrough therapies,» lavishly offered by Verdict and dozens of companies parasitizing on despair. Her office at NeuroVerdict became the command center for an operation of self-salvation.

She demanded re-analysis of her genetic material, hunted for sequencing errors, hired (for exorbitant sums) independent bioinformaticians. The result was always the same: CAG expansion. Aggressive profile. Risk 99.9%. The algorithm’s flawlessness became her personal torture.

Experimental Therapies: She scoured clinical trial databases. ASO therapy? Suppressing the mutant gene? Promising in mice. In humans — isolated cases of stabilization in early stages. But she had no stage yet! She called research centers, groveled before trial administrators. «Dr. Sokolova? Your profile… falls outside current protocols. You’re asymptomatic. We only take those with clinical manifestations…» Rejection. Next drug? A next-gen neuroprotectant? Phase II. Cost per course — like a luxury car. No guarantees. She bought it. Stomach injections that left bruises and her wallet empty. She caught herself thinking: «Is this pain at the injection site the first sign?»

Gene Optimization Therapy (GOT): The last line of defense. Futuristic, monstrously expensive, semi-legal, offered by some lab in Singapore. «Expression correction,» «enhanced neuroplasticity.» In words — a panacea. In documents — vague terminology and disclaimers. She calculated the cost: sell the apartment? The car? Her whole life? And… a 10% chance of success? 5%? What if the «Oracle Effect» consumed her before the therapy could work?

The bargaining was exhausting, humiliating, and fruitless. Every door of hope slammed shut in her face, leaving only a crack through which she had to shove wads of cash and the remnants of her dignity. Her physician’s rationality screamed: «Quackery!» But the patient’s despair, her despair, whispered: «What if?»

The Underworld of the «Knowing.»

To avoid going mad alone, Elena cautiously stepped into the world of others like her. «Knowing» communities. Virtual forums, encrypted chats, offline meetings in neutral cafes under the guise of «support groups.» She hoped to find understanding, advice, maybe secret loopholes. She found — an abyss of despair and a cynical marketplace of human hope.

Shattered Families: A woman in her forties, Huntington’s prognosis, recounted how her husband took the kids to his parents «for the adjustment period.» He never came back. Sent money. Silence. A young guy with an ALS prognosis showed photos: him and his girlfriend in front of the Eiffel Tower. «We dreamed of going. We made it. Now she’s afraid of my touch. Says she can feel me dying.» People lost jobs, friends, love long before symptoms. Social death preceded physical death.

The Obsession to «Live Before»: This was the leitmotif. Cruel, frantic. A man with an Alzheimer’s prognosis recorded video messages for a future son he hadn’t conceived yet. «So he knows me smart.» A girl with a breast cancer prognosis had both breasts removed «just in case.» She threw herself into travel with her last money, photographing herself at every landmark with a strained smile: «I want to say I lived!» Elena saw how «living before» became an obsession, burning the present for the sake of a future that might never come. Or was already poisoned by knowledge.

The Marketplace of Despair: Forums teemed with «saviors.» Sellers of «miracle tinctures» from Himalayan herbs (price — half a salary). Fortune-tellers promising to «lift karmic curses.» «Lone scientist» types with «revolutionary» devices for «bioresonant genome correction.» Elena, as a doctor, saw the amateurism and lies, but witnessed people clinging to straws, giving away their last. She tried arguing with one particularly aggressive seller of a «quantum neurostabilizer.» In return, she received a wave of hatred: «You doctors killed us with your «Prognosis’! Don’t stop others from saving themselves!» She shook with impotent rage and shame for her profession.

And then it came. The apotheosis of despair that shattered her concept of «bargaining.» An offline meeting in a dimly lit library hall. A group of eight people. Different diagnoses, one hell. And him — Mark. Prognosis: ALS. Onset in 10 years. Young, strong, with intelligent, desperately tired eyes.

The conversation circled: fear, anger, hopelessness, false hopes. Mark was silent. Then suddenly stood up. His voice was calm, but steeled with despair.

«You all talk about ’living before.» Living before what? Loving? Traveling? Working?» He gave a bitter smirk. «I want to live before… to feel. The present. Control. Even for a second.»

He raised his right foot, clad in a sneaker. Then, with a wild, concentrated effort, with all his force, he slammed it against the heavy oak pedestal of a statue in the corner of the room.

A dull, nightmarish crunch echoed. The sound of breaking bone. Mark cried out — less from pain, more from a kind of animal relief. He collapsed to the floor, clutching his shin, which was already bending unnaturally under his trouser leg. His face was contorted, but in his eyes… in his eyes burned a strange, insane triumph.

«See?» he hissed through clenched teeth, as people froze in horror around him. «I decided! I did it! This is MY pain! MY fracture! Not IT! This is ME! I AM IN CONTROL! I LIVED BEFORE!»

Elena froze. All air was knocked from her lungs. She didn’t see the broken leg. She saw a broken soul. Bargaining had hit rock bottom. When there’s no hope of avoiding the pain imposed by the future, a person creates their own pain now. Controlled. Chosen. To prove to themselves they are still the master of something in this body doomed to betrayal. This wasn’t an act. It was a scream of absolute, existential loss. To seize the feeling of being master before the disease took even that.

In the car on the way home, Elena vomited. She pulled over onto the shoulder, her whole body shaking, saliva and bile burning her throat. The smell of the «miracle tincture» she’d been sold on the forum (herbal, with notes of cheap alcohol and lies) mixed with the smell of vomit and her own sweat of fear. The image of Mark, breaking his own leg with that mad gleam of triumph in his eyes, stood before her brighter than the diagnosis hologram.

The bargaining was over. It hadn’t led to salvation, but to the edge of an abyss littered with the crutches of false hope and the shattered glass of ruined lives. She had seen what a person becomes, obsessed with «living before» under the Damoclean sword of Prognosis. Seen how the «Oracle Effect» cripples not just bodies, but souls, tearing them apart in the search for the illusion of control.

She bought a bottle of water at a gas station, took a sip, spitting out the vile aftertaste. Looking in the rearview mirror, she didn’t see Dr. Sokolova. She saw another «Knowing» woman. With the shadow of Huntington-Plus in her eyes and emptiness where rage and hope had been.

There were no loopholes. Therapies — illusion or robbery. «Living before» — a trap leading to self-destruction like Mark’s, or to meaningless frenzy. Communities — a swamp of despair and cynical business.

Only Despair remained. Deaf, freezing, bottomless. Like in Karina’s room. Like in Anna’s eyes. It filled her, displacing everything else. She started the car and drove, not knowing where, just to keep moving while her body still obeyed. But where could she run from a future already inside her? From knowledge that was already killing her alive?

The bargaining was finished. The fall had begun.

Chapter 8: The Oracle Effect: First Findings

The darkness of despair proved less impenetrable than it seemed. Within it, like in an ink-dark abyss, something new was born — a cold, predatory fury. If «Prognosis» didn’t just predict the disease but accelerated it, then evidence must exist somewhere. And Elena was determined to find it.

The Secret Analysis

She was no longer just a doctor. Now she was a researcher, a criminal, a partisan in a white coat.

Accessing the Data:

Using her privileges at NeuroVerdict, she breached the archive of anonymized medical histories.

She hunted for cases where genetic risks were identical, but one patient had undergone «Prognosis» and the other had refused.

She isolated those whose diagnoses were later confirmed.

Methodology:

Compared the time to the appearance of first symptoms.

Analyzed the speed of progression.

Calculated mortality rates.

She worked nights, in her empty office, illuminated only by the monitor that cast a blue glow on her gaunt face. Every click of the mouse, every opened file — a step into forbidden territory. If caught, she’d lose her license. Or worse.

Shocking Results.

After a week, she had the first numbers.

Group Average Time to First Symptoms Progression Speed (Severity Scales) Mortality (First 5 Yrs Post-Dx)

Knowing (Underwent Prognosis) 4.2 years (vs. prognosis 7—10) High (30% annual worsening) 22%

Unknowing (Refused Prognosis) 8.1 years Moderate (15% annual worsening) 14%

She double-checked. Triple-checked. The results held.

Conclusion: The Knowing got sick sooner, progressed faster, and died more often.

The Curse Mechanism

Elena delved into research.

Stress as Catalyst:

Chronic stress → cortisol surge → immune suppression → accelerated neurodegeneration.

Knowing patients had average cortisol levels 60% higher.

They developed psychosomatic symptoms (paralysis, blindness, pain) before the actual disease onset far more frequently.

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy:

A Parkinson’s prognosis patient constantly checks for tremor → inadvertently provokes micro-muscle tension → accelerates symptom development.

An Alzheimer’s risk patient obsessively tests memory → anxiety → real cognitive slips.

Social Death:

The «90-Day Rule» (firings, divorces) → depression → accelerated disease course.

Living Proof: The Twins

And then she found the perfect case.

Identical twin brothers, same HTT gene mutation (Huntington’s).

Twin A underwent Prognosis at 30 (positive, onset 37—40).

Twin B refused; learned of the risk only incidentally at 35.

Comparison at Age 36:

Knowing Twin: Already has overt tremor, severe depression, socially isolated.

Unknowing Twin: Healthy, employed, only occasionally notices «nervousness.»

The difference wasn’t in the genes. The difference was in the knowledge.

The Oracle Effect

Now she had a name for this nightmare.

The Oracle Effect — when the prediction itself alters the future.

«Prognosis» didn’t diagnose the disease. It created it.

The Choice

Elena leaned back in her chair. The monitor flickered before her like a cyborg’s eye.

She could:

Stay Silent (but that meant betraying everyone, including herself).

Act (but Verdict would never forgive an attack on its system).

She looked down at her hands. For now — still her hands.

But if the Oracle Effect was real…

Then her disease had already begun.

And she had to «live before» — not to experience her last years, but to destroy the system that killed people with knowledge.

Chapter 9: Face to Face with Herself

The bathroom mirror had become her enemy.

Elena stood before it, fingers gripping the edge of the sink, scrutinizing her reflection with a painful, almost paranoid intensity.

Asymmetry?

She leaned closer. Was the left corner of her mouth slightly drooping? She lifted it with a finger — no, that was better. Was her right eyebrow higher? She blinked, ran a hand over her face, trying to shed the tension. But the sensation that her features were slowly sliding into chaos wouldn’t disappear.

Gait.

In the clinic corridor, she suddenly caught herself walking as if on a storm-tossed deck — too cautiously, too deliberately. Was she swaying? She stopped, closed her eyes, took a step. Then another. Normal? Or not anymore?

Every day began and ended with this ritual of self-inspection. She knew it was madness. But the knowledge didn’t help.

Night Terrors

Sleep was no longer a refuge.

She saw herself:

In a wheelchair, mouth twisted, drooling incoherent sounds.

In a Verdict ward, where doctors in masks (her own colleagues!) coldly state: «Prognosis was accurate. You are on schedule.»

Alone, in the empty apartment, where even Alexei is just a shadow disappearing through the doorway with the words, «I can’t watch this.»

She woke with a scream, drenched in sweat, heart pounding wildly. Sometimes — with an involuntary twitch in her arm that made her grab her wrist in terror. Is it? Has it started?

Insomnia became the norm. She took pills (prescribed by herself), but they brought only a heavy, murky sleep, after which she felt even more shattered.

Alexei: The Chasm Between Worlds

He returned from his business trip, and everything only got worse.

Alexei was «Unknowing.» He lived in a different world — one where the future was still hazy, not carved in the blue letters of a hologram.

He didn’t understand.

«You said yourself you have seven years left. Let’s just… live,» he’d say, hugging her.

But his touch now felt alien. He couldn’t feel the time rotting inside her.

He annoyed her.

His habits — brushing his teeth loudly, leaving socks on the floor, laughing at dumb jokes on his phone — suddenly became unbearable. How could he be so… ordinary?

He tried to help.

«Let’s go somewhere. Get your mind off things.»

«Maybe you should see a psychologist?»

Every suggestion struck a raw nerve. He didn’t believe her. He thought she was losing her mind.

The Fight

She knew it was inevitable.

The trigger was trivial — he forgot to buy milk. But when he said, «Come on, we’ll just order delivery,» something snapped inside her.

Her voice became sharp, metallic:

«You don’t care, do you? You don’t give a damn that I can’t sleep, eat, think normally! You’re living like nothing happened!»

He stepped back, his face contorted with bewilderment:

«I just suggested ordering milk! Do you even hear how you’re acting?»

She screamed (and hated herself for it, but couldn’t stop):

«I SEE MYSELF DYING! EVERY SINGLE DAY! AND YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT MILK!»

He fell silent. Then said quietly, each word cutting like a knife:

«You’re not dying. You’re sick, but not in your body. You’re obsessed with this „Prognosis.“ You’re killing yourself.»

The silence after those words was worse than the scream.

She understood: he would never accept her truth. For him, the «Oracle Effect» was delusion. For her, it was the only explanation for what was happening to her.

He walked out, slamming the door. She was left alone. Before the mirror.

Conclusion: Two Realities

Her reality: the disease was already here, in every muscle spasm, in every nightmare, in the numbers of her research.

His reality: she was going crazy with fear, and Verdict was just an accurate diagnostic tool.

There was no bridge between these worlds.

She looked into the mirror.

Who are you?

The doctor gathering evidence against the system?

Or the patient accelerating her own disease through stress?

There was no answer.

Only a reflection that seemed more alien to her with each passing day.

Chapter 10: Patient Mirror: Anna

The Verdict Center looked as always: sterile white walls, muted lighting, the weightless silence of expensive materials. Elena walked down the corridor towards Dr. Petrova’s office — a psychotherapist specializing in working with the «Knowing.» Officially, it was called «Adaptation Therapy.» Elena knew the real name: learning to live with the sentence.

She hadn’t planned on coming. But after three weeks in a state bordering on paranoia, after the fight with Alexei and sleepless nights where every muscle twitch felt like the beginning of the end, she realized she needed help. If only to understand whether she was losing her mind or if the disease had truly already begun.

Only one other patient sat in the waiting room.

A woman — not a girl, roughly her own age — leaned on an elegant cane. Dark hair neatly cut, light makeup failing to hide the fatigue in her eyes. Dressed expensively but simply. On her lap lay a stack of magazines she flipped through with mechanical precision, as if counting the pages.

Elena sat opposite and involuntarily began to observe.

Every thirty seconds, the woman’s left hand made a barely perceptible movement — as if swatting away an invisible fly. Her head occasionally tilted back slightly, as if listening for something. The movements were soft, almost graceful, but… wrong.

Elena recognized the disease.

«Huntington’s,» she thought with the icy clarity of a doctor.

The woman looked up — large, sad eyes with an expression Elena had seen in the critically ill: a mix of dignity and capitulation.

«You are Dr. Sokolova?» Her voice was quiet, slightly slow. «I heard you… also received results.»

Elena nodded. Words failed her.

«Anna Volkova.» The woman extended her hand. The handshake was weak but confident. «Huntington-Plus. Seven years… well, it used to be seven. Now, probably five and a half.»

The space between them thickened like water.

«Me too,» Elena forced out. «Huntington-Plus. Seven years.»

Anna smiled — sadly, but warmly.

«Sisters in misfortune.» She set the magazines aside. «You know, it’s strange… Before the diagnosis, I was afraid to meet someone with the same sentence. Thought it would be unbearable. But now…» she paused. «Now I’m glad. There’s someone who understands.»

Elena looked at the cane.

«Have symptoms started?»

«Yes.» Anna followed her gaze. «Though according to Verdict’s calculations, they shouldn’t have for another five years. But…» she gave a slight shrug. «My body, it seems, can’t read forecasts.»

Silence hung in the corridor. Elena felt something tightening inside her.

«When did it start?»

«A year after the test.» Anna spoke calmly, as if discussing the weather. «At first, just… clumsiness. Dropping things. Tripping on flat ground. I blamed it on stress.» She fell silent. «Then my balance got worse. And then…» she gestured to the cane. «This friend.»

Elena felt cold rising up her spine.

«What do the doctors say?»

«That it’s an early stage. That it happens.» There was no bitterness in Anna’s voice — only weariness. «That I should prepare.»

Elena looked at her and saw herself. In a year. Two. Five.

«Are you still working?»

Anna shook her head.

«I was a financial analyst. «Was’ is the right word.» She smiled that same sad smile again. «First, they suspended me ’temporarily’ — due to concentration issues. Then they offered a ’voluntary’ resignation. For my own good, you understand. So I could ’focus on treatment’.»

«Family?»

«Was.» Anna twisted her wedding ring. «My husband lasted eight months after the diagnosis. We didn’t have children… now I understand it was for the best.»

Elena listened, and every word cut like a blade.

«He… couldn’t accept it?»

«He tried.» There was no condemnation in Anna’s voice. «But imagine: you marry a healthy, successful woman, and a few years later you watch her turn into… this.» She nodded towards her reflection in the mirror opposite. «He said he loved me. But he loved the old me.»

Elena thought of Alexei. How he’d withdrawn after her diagnosis. How he looked at her now — with pity and fear.

«And now… how do you live?»

«Live?» Anna pondered. «A strange word. I… exist. Go to doctors. Take medications. Read about the disease — though I don’t know why.» She made that barely noticeable hand movement again. «Sometimes I meet others like us. But most of them… they still hope. I don’t anymore.»

«You don’t hope?»

«For what?» Anna looked at her intently. «A miracle? That Prognosis was wrong? Experimental drugs?»

Elena stayed silent.

«I went through all the stages,» Anna continued. «Denial, anger, bargaining, depression. Now acceptance. Do you know what acceptance is? It’s when you understand: you’re no longer living. You’re waiting to die. And the main thing is to do it with dignity.»

The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

«But there are still five years…»

«For whom?» Anna tilted her head slightly. «For me? Or for the woman I was before the diagnosis?» She stood up, leaning on the cane. «Anna Volkova died in the Verdict office two years ago. What remains… is just a process.»

Elena watched as Anna walked towards Dr. Petrova’s door. Her gait was cautious, but without the theatrical fragility some patients displayed. More like the rational caution of someone who knows their body’s limits and doesn’t try to overstep them.

At the door, Anna turned:

«Dr. Sokolova? One piece of advice. Don’t waste time looking for salvation. There isn’t any. Spend it learning to accept the inevitable with dignity. It’s easier.» She smiled. «And don’t listen to those who say ’hang in there’. There’s nothing to hang onto.»

The door closed.

Elena was left alone in the waiting room. The silence was deafening.

She looked at the magazines Anna had been flipping through. At her seat. At the cane leaning against the wall — she had forgotten it.

«Don’t listen to those who say ’hang in there’. There’s nothing to hang onto.»

It was the most honest thing anyone had said to her since the diagnosis.

And the most terrifying.

Because Anna was right. In her eyes, Elena saw her own future: calm, rational acceptance of her own non-being. A person who had stopped fighting not out of weakness, but out of wisdom.

A person already dead, yet still breathing.

Elena stood up and picked up the cane. She walked to the office door and knocked softly.

«Anna? You forgot…»

The door opened. Anna looked at her with the same calm expression.

«I didn’t forget. I left it on purpose.» She took the cane. «I wanted to see if you’d bring it. Most turn away. Don’t want to touch… this.»

«Why?»

«Because they’re afraid.» Anna leaned on the cane. «Afraid to see their future. And you? Weren’t you afraid?»

Elena answered honestly:

«I was afraid. But…» she searched for words. «But you’re still a person. And I’m still a person. For now.»

Anna nodded.

«For now.» She turned to Dr. Petrova, waiting in the office. «Doctor, may I cancel today’s session? I think I’ve already received all the therapy I need.»

Elena understood: Anna wasn’t just a patient with the same diagnosis.

She was a mirror.

A mirror in which Elena saw not the symptoms of the disease.

But the price of surrendering to it.

After Anna left, Elena sat in the waiting room for a long time, thinking that acceptance and surrender were not the same thing.

And that as long as she was capable of distinguishing between them, she was still alive.

Chapter 11: Allies in the Shadows

Elena realized that acting alone was no longer possible. What she suspected about the «Oracle Effect» demanded not just the musings of a lone doctor, but systematic investigation. But who could she share such suspicions with? Her colleagues at the clinic regarded her with growing distrust — her own diagnosis transformed any doubts about «Prognosis» into symptoms of her illness.

She needed people who could see beyond the corporate mythology of Verdict. Those whose work brought them face-to-face with the dark side of knowing the future.

Andrei: Psychologist in a World of Shattered Pieces

Dr. Andrei Morozov worked at a psychological support center for the «Knowing» — one of the many institutions that had mushroomed around Verdict like fungi after rain. Officially, it was called «Adaptation Therapy.» In reality, it was an attempt to glue together the shattered souls of people who had received their sentence.

Elena found his contacts in the internal directory — their center collaborated with her clinic. But they met by chance in a Verdict corridor, where Andrei was counseling yet another victim.

A man in his forties, with tired eyes and graying temples. Elena had seen doctors like him — those who spent too much time with others’ pain. They spoke softly, moved cautiously, as if afraid to wake slumbering demons.

«Dr. Sokolova?» Andrei recognized her from photos in medical journals. «I’ve heard about your… research. And your diagnosis. I can imagine how it feels.»

Elena froze. His voice held neither pity nor professional curiosity. Only the understanding of someone who had seen too much.

«And you…» she chose her words carefully, «…have you noticed anything strange in your work with the «Knowing’?»

Andrei glanced around, ensuring no one was listening.

«Walk with me.»

They left the building and strolled slowly through the park adjacent to the Verdict center. It was quiet, only the rustle of fallen leaves underfoot.

«I’ve worked with the «Knowing’ for three years,» Andrei began. «In that time, over a thousand people have passed through my practice. Know what shocks me the most?»

Elena remained silent, waiting.

«The speed. The speed at which they break.» Andrei’s voice hardened. «Classical psychology says acceptance of the inevitable is a gradual process. Stages of grief, working through denial, finding meaning… But here — it’s different.»

He stopped, looked at her intently.

«I have a patient, Maria. Twenty-seven, prognosis — ALS, eight years before first symptoms. Six months after getting the prognosis, she started having conversion disorders — psychogenic paralysis. First her left hand for a few hours, then her legs. And recently — complete loss of vision for a day.»

Elena felt the familiar chill in her chest.

«No organic causes?»

«None. Full workup. But her body… it’s like it’s rehearsing the future. Preparing for what’s supposed to happen years from now.»

They walked in silence. Then Andrei added:

«I have statistics. Unofficial. Among the „Knowing,“ the frequency of conversion disorders is thirty times higher than normal. Psychogenic blindness, paralysis, loss of speech… Mass psychosomatic reactions that precisely mimic the symptoms of their future diseases.»

«Have you reported this to anyone?»

Andrei gave a bitter chuckle.

«I reported. To Verdict, to the Health Ministry. Know what they told me? That it’s a normal stress reaction. That we just need to prepare patients better for receiving the diagnosis. And one consultant outright said: „Dr. Morozov, perhaps you should review your methods? Aren’t you suggesting these symptoms to your patients?“»

Elena recognized the familiar tactic — a system that turned any criticism into a problem with the critic.

«And you… have you taken the test?»

«No.» Andrei shook his head. «And I won’t. I’ve seen too much to believe knowing the future is a blessing.»

This was exactly what Elena needed to hear. A man who worked within the system but was not its prisoner.

Dina: The Digital Archaeologist

Elena met Dina thanks to Andrei. It turned out the young bioinformatician occasionally consulted his patients — helping them understand their genetic tests and potential experimental treatments.

Dina Krylova, twenty-six years old, PhD in Biological Sciences specializing in medical statistics and big data analysis. Worked at a small independent lab focused on personalized medicine.

They met in a small downtown café. Dina looked exactly how Elena imagined modern bioinformaticians — slight, with large glasses, wearing jeans and a sweater, a laptop seemingly fused to her hands.

«I’ve heard about your research,» Dina said without preamble. «Andrei told me. And you know what? I’ve long suspected something is wrong with Verdict’s data.»

Elena leaned forward.

«In what sense?»

Dina opened her laptop, showing a screen filled with tables and graphs.

«I do meta-analysis of data on neurodegenerative diseases. Collect information from various sources — research centers, clinics, statistical services. And there’s an anomaly.»

She pointed to one of the graphs.

«See. Here’s the statistics on Huntington’s disease development in different countries over the last ten years. In countries where Prognosis isn’t used or is used sparingly, the disease progression curve is stable. But here…» her finger moved to another line, "...in countries with mass adoption of Prognosis — a spike. Incidence is rising, time from diagnosis to symptoms is shortening, severity is increasing.»

Elena looked at the numbers, her breath catching.

«Could it just be coincidence?»

«Could be. But there’s more.» Dina switched to another file. «I tried to access Verdict’s raw data — the stuff the prognosis is built on. Officially, it’s proprietary, trade secret. But leaks happen sometimes…»

She showed fragments of code and data tables.

«And know what I found? The Prognosis algorithms have variables that factor in not just genetic and physiological parameters, but also… the patient’s psychological profile. Their stress resilience, social support, even financial status.»

«That’s normal for medical prognostics.»

«Normal. But what’s not normal is that these variables are used not to adjust the prognosis favorably, but the opposite — to make it more pessimistic. If a patient shows low stress resilience, the prognosis automatically becomes more dire. And then that dire prognosis itself becomes a source of stress, making it even more likely.»

Elena felt her scientific intuition clicking the puzzle pieces together.

«A self-fulfilling prophecy…»

«Exactly.» Dina closed her laptop. «But that’s not all. I suspect Verdict knows about this effect. Their internal documents mention the ’psychosomatic factor’ and the ’nocebo effect,» but they stay silent publicly.»

«Why stay silent?»

Dina shrugged.

«Take a guess. Prognosis is a multi-billion dollar business. Insurance companies pay for diagnostics, pharmaceuticals pay for data on potential patients, governments pay for epidemiological forecasts. If it gets out that their tool doesn’t just predict diseases but accelerates their development…»

She didn’t finish, but Elena understood. It would mean the end of the Verdict empire.

The Trio

Thus, their informal alliance was formed. The doctor who had become a victim of her own system. The psychologist who saw knowledge killing souls. And the bioinformatician who understood how data could lie.

They began meeting once a week, always in different places — cafés, parks, libraries. Discussed cases, analyzed data, built theories. Each brought pieces of the mosaic.

Andrei: Patient stories, documented cases of conversion disorders, psychological progression charts of the «Knowing.»

Dina: Statistical anomalies, code fragments, comparative data across countries and regions.

Elena: Medical expertise, understanding of disease mechanisms, the link between stress and neurodegeneration.

Gradually, a horrifyingly logical picture emerged. «Prognosis» did indeed predict the future — but it actively shaped it. Knowledge became a virus that infected not only the mind but the body.

«We need more convincing proof,» Elena said at one meeting. «Something that can’t be explained away as coincidence or ’misinterpretation.»»

«Working on it,» Dina replied. «Trying to find a control group — people with identical genetic risks, some who took the test, some who didn’t.»

«And I’m documenting every case of psychosomatic reactions,» Andrei added. «Keeping detailed case histories, recording patient interviews.»

Elena nodded. But deep down, she understood: they were playing with fire. Verdict would not tolerate a threat to its monopoly on the future. Sooner or later, they would be noticed.

And then the real battle would begin.

For now, they were just three people who dared to doubt the Oracle’s truth. Three allies in the shadow of an omnipotent corporation that sold knowledge as salvation but delivered control over life and death.

They didn’t yet know that their suspicions were merely the tip of the iceberg. And that the truth would be even more terrifying than their darkest assumptions.

Chapter 12: System Pressure

The first warning bells chimed on Monday morning.

Elena walked down the familiar clinic corridor — white walls, muted sounds, the smell of antiseptic that once symbolized order and control to her. Now it reminded her of the fragility of everything she used to believe in.

The secretary at the reception desk, usually friendly Marina, avoided direct eye contact.

«Dr. Sokolova, the head of the department wants to see you.»

Her voice was official. Cold. Elena felt the familiar tightness in her chest — the same tension she woke up with every morning, thinking of her diagnosis.

Professor Kravtsov’s office was an oasis of academic gravitas: diplomas on the walls, hefty medical reference books, the scent of expensive leather from the armchairs. But the atmosphere was strained.

«Elena Mikhailovna, have a seat.» Kravtsov didn’t look up from his documents. «We have questions regarding your… research activities.»

Elena’s heart skipped a beat. It had begun.

«What activities are you referring to?»

«You requested access to confidential patient data. Conducted analysis beyond the scope of your official duties.» Kravtsov finally looked at her. «There are indications you are gathering material that could… negatively impact the reputation of Prognosis.»

Elena understood: they’d been noticed. Verdict knew about her research.

«I am examining scientific data within my competence…»

«Elena Mikhailovna.» Kravtsov’s voice hardened. «You received your own diagnosis recently. I understand it’s difficult. But you cannot let personal feelings influence your professional conduct.»

The blow was precise and painful. Her own illness was being weaponized against her — any doubts about the system became a symptom.

«I recommend you take a leave of absence. Rest. Reassess your priorities.» Kravtsov steepled his fingers. «And your database access will be temporarily restricted. Until better times.»

Elena left the office feeling the ground vanish beneath her feet. The system had begun to defend itself.

The Information Machine

By that evening, Andrei had sent her links to articles in medical journals. The headlines hit like bullets:

«The Danger of Self-Diagnosis: When Doctors Become Victims of Their Own Fears»

«Psychosomatic Epidemics: How Panic Can Mimic Disease»

««Prognosis’ Saves Lives: New Data on Early Diagnosis»

The articles were masterfully written. Not a word of outright lie — just skillful manipulation of facts. The authors didn’t mention Elena by name, but any specialist understood the target. They described «doctors who, after receiving their own diagnosis, begin to see phantom complications in healthy patients.» They cited data on «mass psychoses» in medical history.

«They work like clockwork,» Dina said when they met at the same café. «Classic discrediting playbook. First, they question your objectivity due to personal involvement, then present your data as a product of your disorder.»

Elena scanned the articles, nausea rising. Some of the quoted «experts» were her former colleagues. People she’d worked with for years were now publicly declaring her unfit.

«Look what’s interesting,» Andrei pointed to his tablet screen. «All these publications appeared on the same day. In different outlets, by different authors, but coordinated. This isn’t spontaneous scientific discourse. It’s a planned campaign.»

Elena nodded. Verdict possessed immense resources — not just financial, but connections in media, among journal editors, in scientific circles. A corporation that controlled the future of diseases could easily control the information about itself.

Living Proof — Dead

A week after the information assault began, Elena got a call from Andrei. His voice trembled:

«We need to meet. Urgently. Bad news.»

They met in a park near the city center. Andrei looked shaken.

«Remember Viktor Semenov? The patient with the pancreatic cancer prognosis. We included his case in our study — he had severe depressive episodes after the diagnosis.»

Elena remembered. A forty-two-year-old successful businessman. Prognosis predicted aggressive cancer development in eighteen months. Viktor fell into deep depression, started drinking, quit his job.

«What happened?»

«They found him dead at home yesterday. Acute heart failure.» Andrei stared at the ground. «See? He had over a year before the cancer. But stress killed him sooner.»

Elena felt an icy chill in her chest. Viktor had become living — and dead — proof of their theory. Knowledge of the future disease had killed him faster than the disease itself.

«His medical record showed no prior heart issues,» Andrei continued. «But these last months, he lived in chronic stress. Constantly elevated cortisol, sleep disruption, alcohol as a coping mechanism…» He paused. «His body couldn’t endure the waiting for death.»

It was a cruel irony: a man they’d studied as an example of the Oracle Effect’s destructive power had become its victim. And simultaneously, proof they were right.

«Will there be an autopsy?»

«Formal. The result is obvious — heart failure due to alcoholic cardiomyopathy. No one will look for a link to the cancer prognosis.» Andrei rubbed his face. «But we know the truth. Knowledge killed him.»

Shadow Over the Research

By the end of the week, the pressure was intensifying. Dina reported that her attempts to access new Verdict data were being blocked — the company had tightened security. Andrei shared that several of his patients had withdrawn from the study after reading articles about «pseudoscientific theories from unstable doctors.»

And Elena found her own symptoms worsening. The tremor in her hands was more noticeable, episodes of dizziness occurred. Was it disease progression, or was the stress of fighting the system accelerating the destruction?

She often caught herself checking her coordination, scrutinizing the mirror for signs of facial asymmetry. The Oracle Effect was consuming her from within, even as she studied its mechanisms.

Viktor’s death was a turning point. They could no longer work in the shadows, gathering data hoping to stay unnoticed. The system knew about them. Now the question was simple: could they expose the truth before they were silenced completely?

«We need to accelerate,» Elena said at their next meeting. «Gather everything we have and go public. Before they stop us.»

«That would be suicide,» Andrei warned. «Verdict will tear us apart. You’ve seen how they operate.»

«Maybe.» Elena looked at her slightly trembling hands. «But if we stay silent, we become accomplices. How many more Viktors have to die while we gather ’enough data’?»

Dina nodded:

«I have contacts in independent outlets. I can orchestrate a leak to multiple sources simultaneously. It will be harder to block or discredit.»

The decision was made. They were declaring war on the world’s most powerful medical corporation. A war they might lose, but were obligated to wage.

Because knowledge — even of one’s own doom — shouldn’t become a death sentence.

And every day of delay meant more Viktors, dying not from the disease, but from the terror of it.

Chapter 13: The Spiral of Self-Destruction

Viktor Semenov’s death hung in the air like a heavy, unspoken accusation. It wasn’t loud; it didn’t make the news — just another statistic of heart failure. But for Elena and her small group, it was a watershed. A point of no return. They were no longer observing the Oracle Effect from the sidelines; they were neck-deep in its current, and Viktor was its bloody illustration. War had been declared, and there was nowhere to retreat.

But war required resources that Elena possessed in dwindling supply. Not financial — though that would soon be a problem too — but internal. Physical.

The first changes were microscopic. Almost imperceptible. Like a hairline crack on perfectly polished glass.

She sat at her desk in the clinic, trying to fill out a patient’s electronic medical record. Routine. But when she reached for her coffee cup, her little finger twitched slightly, nudging the ceramic rim. The cup didn’t fall, only clattered sharply against the saucer. Elena froze. Clumsiness? Fatigue? Or… She stared intently at her right hand resting on the keyboard. Her fingers seemed still. But when she relaxed her hand, she detected a barely perceptible, almost vibrational tremor in her fingertips. Fine as a wire. Only at rest. Disappeared with movement.

«Early symptom?» The thought pierced her mind like an icy needle. Huntington-Plus. Choreiform hyperkinesis. Small, arrhythmic, chaotic movements. «Or just nervous exhaustion? Stress? Pure nocebo effect?»

She clenched her fist until her knuckles turned white. The tremor subsided. But the shadow of doubt settled over her consciousness like a heavy shroud. Knowledge of the disease had become a lens through which she scrutinized every movement, every bodily signal. Before, mild dizziness upon standing quickly she’d have blamed on fatigue. Now, she mentally cross-referenced Huntington’s symptoms. Instability? Coordination impairment? She caught herself walking down corridors, consciously placing her feet slightly wider, testing her balance. As if walking a tightrope over an abyss. In the elevator mirror, she stared intently at her face: was there asymmetry? Was a corner of her lip slightly lower? Had her expression become flatter?

Every morning began with a silent ritual: standing before the bathroom mirror, she slowly raised her arms, stretched them out, splayed her fingers, checking for tremor. Then touched her fingertip to her nose with eyes closed. Coordination test. She used to perform this on patients. Now — on herself. And each time the movement was perfect, she felt momentary relief. But when her finger deviated slightly, or her hand trembled minutely — an icy wave of fear engulfed her. «This is it. It’s started. Ahead of schedule.»

Her apartment, once a model of restrained order, became a reflection of her inner chaos. The desk in her study, transformed into the command center of their investigation, was buried under printouts of medical articles, graphs, results of their secret analysis, notes from Andrei about psychosomatic cases. But now, her own meticulous self-observation journals were added to the pile.

*«22:47. Slight twitching of left index finger at rest. Duration 3—5 sec. Ceased with voluntary movement.»*

«06:15. Upon waking — sensation of ’fog’ in head, lasted approx. 10 min. Coffee didn’t help.»

«15:30. During conference — brief dizziness upon changing posture. Colleague didn’t notice.»

She plunged into research with manic intensity, trying to find an answer, proof, a loophole, anything that would break the vicious circle of doubt. She read about neuroplasticity, the impact of chronic stress on the basal ganglia, nocebo effects in neurology. She hunted for cases like their twins. Scoured «Knowing» forums, searching for stories of rapid deterioration before the predicted time. Every new confirmation of the Oracle Effect brought simultaneous relief («I’m not crazy! It’s real!») and a blow to her own prognosis («That means it will happen to me. Faster.»).

Reality receded. She forgot to eat. Coffee and dry crackers became her staple diet. Sleep turned into rare, snatched moments of oblivion, interrupted by nightmares: she saw herself as Anna had become — helpless, wheelchair-bound, drool trailing down her chin, surrounded by indifferent faces in white coats. She woke in a cold sweat, heart pounding, breath ragged. And reached again for the laptop, the articles, the data, like a lifeline.

Work at the clinic became torture. After the talk with Kravtsov, she felt the weight of her colleagues’ gazes. Some — openly sympathetic but wary. Others — blatantly avoiding her, like Marina the secretary. Afraid of association? Or had they received «recommendations»? Her every movement, every minor slip (and they happened now — a forgotten signature, a hesitation answering a question) was interpreted through the lens of her diagnosis. She saw the look: «Has it started? Is she already unfit?» And that look fueled her own fears, made her grip the scalpel tighter during rare procedures now, control every muscle.

Once, during a complex lumbar puncture, her fingers suddenly trembled sharply. Not violently, but enough to make the needle waver slightly. The patient cried out. Elena froze, icy sweat beading on her forehead. This wasn’t resting tremor. This was during action. Tension? Or… With inhuman effort of will, she stabilized her hand, finished the procedure flawlessly. But afterward, behind the closed door of the procedure room, she vomited from nervous collapse. She stood, forehead pressed against cold tiles, her whole body shaking. «I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. Are they right? Am I losing control?»

Her own life, her own body, was becoming the prime evidence for her theory. She was simultaneously the researcher and the lab rat in the experiment called the «Oracle Effect.» Each new symptom — real or imagined — fed the fire of her obsession. She saw the knowledge crippling her from within, accelerating what should have happened later, and used that knowledge as a weapon against the system that spawned it. It was a spiral of self-destruction, tightening faster and faster: fear worsened symptoms, symptoms amplified fear, fear fueled the obsession for proof, and the obsession drained her body and mind, making it even more vulnerable.

That evening, sitting before the screen, buried in printouts, hands trembling from fatigue and caffeine, she looked at the mortality graph comparing the «Knowing» to the «Unknowing.» A cruel, ascending curve. And she understood that her own line on that graph had already begun its inexorable climb. The time allotted to her by Prognosis wasn’t just dwindling day by day; it was vanishing hour by hour. Not only because of the disease, but because of the fight against it. The knowledge was devouring her future, and she, trying to stop this devouring mechanism, was throwing chunks of her present life into its maw.

She closed her eyes. The smell of paper dust, the flicker of the screen, the ticking of the clock — it all seemed distant, unreal. The only reality was the tremor in her fingertips and the cold, steely resolve deep within. They had to expose the truth. Soon. While she still could. While her hands could still hold the evidence, and her voice could still pronounce the indictment. Otherwise, she would become just another data point on her own graph. Just another Elena Sokolova, killed by the knowledge of her future.

Chapter 14: Loss of Anchor

The silence in the apartment became hollow, viscous. It didn’t just fill the space — it pressed down like water at depth. Elena sat at her paper-strewn desk but saw no words. Before her eyes hung the empty coat rack in the hallway, where just yesterday Alexei’s old, worn sweater had been. His favorite. The one that smelled of coffee and his cologne.

It began with silence. Thick, clinging. Alexei stopped asking about her day. Stopped sharing news from his world of architecture — a world untouched by «Huntington-Plus» or the «Oracle Effect.» He watched her from afar, as if she were a fragile vase covered in cracks, about to shatter. Or contagious.

He tried. At first. Suggested going to the sea, «taking a break from all this.» Said, «Lena, you’re fixating. It’s killing you faster than any disease.» His words were like an attempt to grab her hand as she fell into an abyss. But she couldn’t stop. Viktor Semenov, Anna in her wheelchair, her own twitching fingers — it all screamed too loudly. The research, the data, the meetings with Andrei and Dina — it had become her oxygen, her only way to stay afloat in the sea of doom.

Her obsession was a wall. And Alexei, with his normal life, his «Unknowing,» his desire to simply live while they still could, kept hitting that wall. The atmosphere in the apartment thickened, saturated with the smell of coffee, paper dust, and silent despair. He came home — she sat at the screen, pale, eyes sunken. He went to bed — she tossed and turned, muttering in her sleep about algorithms and symptoms. He woke up — she was already checking her facial symmetry in the mirror.

The final straw was the night she was analyzing data on suicides among the «Knowing» after job losses and broke down sobbing, shaking uncontrollably. Alexei approached, tried to hold her. She flinched away as if burned.

«Don’t!» she snapped, harsh, almost rude. «I… I can’t now. The data… See, the correlation between job loss and…»

He stepped back. His face in the dim bedroom light turned to stone.

«Data,» he repeated quietly. «Always data. Patients. Symptoms. Verdict. Where are we, Lena? Where are you? Where am I?»

She couldn’t find an answer. A lump of hot shame and helplessness stuck in her throat. He was right. And he was a stranger in this war she was waging alone.

«I’m suffocating here,» he said, his voice breaking. «I watch you die every day. In advance. And not from the disease, but from… from this!» He gestured wildly towards her desk, buried under proof of the end. «I can’t be your witness anymore. Or your nurse. Or… or your next statistic in this goddamn research of yours.»

She stayed silent. What could she say? Ask him to stay? Why? So he could watch her fall apart? Witness her shame, her helplessness, her final descent? She loved him. That’s precisely why she couldn’t ask.

He left the next morning. Without drama. Quietly. Packed a single suitcase — neatly, as if going on a business trip. She stood in the kitchen doorway, clutching a hot mug, feeling a fine tremor run down her forearms. Not from the disease. From the icy terror of loneliness.

«I… I’ll leave the keys under the mat when I find a rental,» he said, not meeting her eyes. His voice was flat, empty. «Call me if… if something serious happens.»

He opened the door. The smell of damp city air rushed in. He didn’t look back. The door closed with a soft click. The hollow sound of emptiness struck her ears. She sank onto a chair, the mug slipped from her trembling fingers and shattered on the floor. Dark splashes of coffee spread across the light laminate like cracks on fragile ice. She didn’t clean it up. Just sat and stared at the puddle, the shards. Her reflection in them was distorted, broken. Like herself.

Loneliness tightened around her throat like a cold band. The apartment, once a refuge, now gaped with emptiness. Every sound — the creak of the floorboards, the hum of the fridge — echoed in that void, reminding her she was utterly alone. Facing her sentence, facing Verdict, facing the inexorable future she herself was dissecting like a pathologist.

The social death of the «Knowing» was no longer abstract statistics. She saw it daily at the clinic. Colleagues who averted their eyes. Patients she once helped now looked at her with pity and fear — not as a doctor, but as a plague carrier. But the final blow, shattering the illusion that one could «live before» or «prepare,» came later, at the subway exit.

A fine, persistent rain was falling. By the exit, under a pathetic plastic canopy, sat a figure. Wrapped in a dirty, soaked raincoat, legs drawn up. Beside him — a battered cardboard box with meager belongings and an empty begging cup. His face was hidden by a hood, but the hands… Thin, trembling, with bluish nails, lay on his knees. And those hands were making small, involuntary, worm-like movements. Chaotic. Familiar.

Elena froze. An icy trickle ran down her spine. Chorea.

She stepped closer instinctively, the doctor in her overriding despair. Then she saw his face. Dirt, beard, deep wrinkles, but… the features. An intelligent forehead, a gaze once clear, now clouded. She knew that face. Dr. Pyotr Ilyich Levin. A brilliant neurophysiologist. Her former patient. Three years ago, Prognosis had delivered his sentence: Huntington’s chorea (classic, before «Plus»). Symptom onset in 4—5 years. He’d been full of plans — finish his monograph, pass the lab to his students, take his wife to Italy.

And now… He sat by the subway entrance. Shaking, filthy, empty-eyed. Social death had arrived before biological death. Much sooner.

«Pyotr Ilyich?» Elena’s voice rasped, rough with shock and horror.

He slowly raised his eyes to her. No recognition. Only dull apathy and animal fear. His hand jerked sharply, knocking against the cup. An empty sound.

«Go away,» he hissed hoarsely. «I… I’m contagious. Everyone says…»

«Pyotr Ilyich, it’s me, Dr. Sokolova. Remember?»

He stared past her. «Sokolova… Knowing. Like me. Doomed.» He gave a bitter smirk, revealing bad teeth. «Wife left. Lab… fired. «Ninety-Day Rule’… ha! They gave me a hundred twenty. Merciful.» His gaze fell on his twitching hands. «It… it started. Sooner. Knowledge… knowledge pushes it.» He fell silent, chin dropping to his knees, curling in on himself. Near his feet, in a puddle, lay a crumpled sheet of paper. Elena’s gaze lifted automatically. It wasn’t trash. It was a fragment of some complex neural diagram. Pyotr Ilyich’s recognizable handwriting.

Elena stood, unable to move. Rain soaked her hair, trickled down her collar. She looked at this man — yesterday’s genius, today’s outcast, a living illustration of what awaited the «Knowing.» Social death. Loss of everything: job, family, status, human dignity. All before the disease itself rendered him helpless. Verdict had predicted the disease of the body. But it hadn’t predicted that its prognosis would become the tool for murdering the soul and one’s place in society. It had provoked that murder.

Pyotr Ilyich was a mirror. A mirror of her immediate future. Alexei was gone. Her job hung by a thread. Who would beg for alms at the subway entrance in a year? Two? When she couldn’t hide the tremor, when her unsteady gait became obvious to all?

She shoved her hand into her pocket, pulled out all the bills she had, and silently pressed them into Pyotr Ilyich’s trembling, stiff-fingered hand. He didn’t even glance at them. She turned and walked away, blind to the path beneath her feet. Loneliness closed around her in a dense, impenetrable ring. She had lost Alexei. She was losing her profession. She was losing her place in society. All anchors had given way. All that remained was the shadow of the future, thickening with each day, the fragile alliance with fellow outcasts — Andrei and Dina — and the quiet, insistent whisper of her own body, reminding her: «You are Knowing. You are next.» She walked under the same rain as Pyotr Ilyich, and the difference between them now seemed only a matter of time.

Chapter 15: The Decision to Fight

The loneliness that followed Alexei’s departure was not a silence, but a constant, deafening hum in Elena’s ears. The empty apartment rang with the absence of life, every creak of the floorboard, every click of a light switch echoing loudly. Elena drifted through the rooms like a ghost, a shadow of her former self. The shards of the broken cup still lay on the kitchen floor; the dried coffee drops had turned into brown stains, resembling a map of some uncharted territory of despair. She hadn’t cleaned them up. They were a monument. A monument to her shattered world.

The image of Pyotr Ilyich Levin, once a brilliant scientist, now a trembling outcast in the rain, haunted her. His hollow gaze, his words: «Knowledge… knowledge accelerates.» It wasn’t just the ruin of a man. It was the collapse of a system she had once defended. A system that didn’t predict the future — it manufactured it. The social death of the «Known.» The accelerated physical decay. The despair that pushed people under trains ahead of their «schedule.»

Her own micro-symptoms had become the constant soundtrack to this nightmare. A slight clumsiness when putting on her coat, a barely perceptible tremor in her fingers when she tried to hold cutlery, moments of «brain fog» where the numbers on a screen would blur into nonsense. She caught herself avoiding mirrors in the clinic’s hallways, afraid she might see Anna’s reflection… or Pyotr Ilyich’s. Work had become a minefield. Colleagues whispered behind her back. Patients looked at her with wariness. The head of the department, Kravtsov, summoned her more and more often — formally, under the pretext of «discussing her workload,» but the subtext was always clear: «Dr. Sokolova, you should rest… Your condition… We wouldn’t want to harm the patients…» Dismissal hung in the air, thick and inevitable, like smog over the city.

She tried to drown out the internal hum with work. She buried herself in data, which she could now only obtain through Dina — through encrypted channels with multi-level authentication. Andrei sent new, heartbreaking testimonies: a woman with a breast cancer prognosis, fired three months before her «term» under the «90-Day Rule,» had taken her own life, leaving a note: «I don’t want to wait for the pain. I don’t want to be a burden.» A young programmer with an early-onset Alzheimer’s prognosis had sunk into catatonia after being dismissed; he was found sitting before a flickering screen displaying meaningless code. Each case was another nail in the coffin of her hope that this was all a mistake, an exaggeration. The Oracle Effect was real. It was killing people. Right now. Right here.

But the most terrifying news came in a message from Andrei about Anna.

«Lena, it’s bad with Anna. Very bad. You need to visit. Today, if you can.»

Elena’s heart sank. Anna was her mirror. Her most terrifying warning. They shared the same «Huntington-Plus» diagnosis, but Anna’s prognosis had an earlier onset. Anna was walking the path first, showing Elena the way she, too, seemed destined to go. But where Anna had once been depressed but mobile, using a cane, now…

The Visit to Anna: A Descent into the Abyss

Anna’s apartment was in a quiet, once-prestigious neighborhood. Now it felt like a tomb. The air was stale, smelling of medicine, dust, and something sweetly cloying — the scent of hopelessness.

The door was opened by a caretaker — an older woman with tired but kind eyes.

«Dr. Sokolova? Anna was waiting. But… she’s not herself today. Be careful.»

Elena nodded, feeling a lump form in her throat.