Chapter 15 Years Later
ANNA'S POV
5 years Later
My hands were shaking, my gaze steady on the glass tube that rested on the steel table.
“One drop… that’s all it would take.” The words managed to leave my lips, quiet and trembling, even though there was no one near me to hear them.
The new compound, Veloraquine-S, shimmered faintly gold under the harsh glow of the lab lights. Its liquid surface rippled slightly each time I exhaled too hard, as if it shared the same nervous energy crawling beneath my skin. This was it, months of sleepless nights, countless failed tests, and endless recalculations, all narrowing down to this single drop.
Veloraquine-S was more than just another experiment. It was the culmination of everything I’d been fighting for — a reformulated antiviral that could change everything. If this worked, it could do what no major corporation had dared to even attempt: to cure Hepatitis C in a way every child, every struggling parent, every person in the world could afford. No patents meant to keep the cure locked away. No profit before people. Just a solution that worked.
My fingers trembled as I tilted the pipette above the open test tube. The droplet that hung at its tip gleamed under the light before it finally fell, landing in the bluish liquid below. It rippled gently, merging into the solution.
This wasn’t my first attempt. I’d tried before again and again but each time, I had either added too little or too much of the compound. I had learned that Veloraquine-S was sensitive to precision. Too much, and the formula destabilized. Too little, and the reaction failed before it even began.
But this time… I was sure. One drop was all it needed.
I leaned closer, my eyes fixed on the tube. The faint blue color of the solution glowed faintly beneath the light. If the drop was compatible, the color would remain the same — a bright, soft blue, almost luminous. But if it wasn’t, it would turn a dull, dark purple, signaling failure.
My heart pounded against my ribs. Each second stretched painfully long. I glanced at my watch. It had been thirty seconds since I added the compound, and still, no change.
A shaky breath escaped my lips. “Yes…” I whispered under my breath. “It’s compatible.”
Phase one was complete.
Now, the second phase — the most critical.
Effectiveness.
I moved to the side of the lab table and pulled open the cooling freezer, the cold air fogging up the edges of my glasses. Inside, among several neatly labeled vials, was a small flat glass plate I’d prepared earlier. Carefully, I brought it out and set it down. Then, reaching for the small vial of preserved blood from a Hepatitis C patient, I unsealed it and poured a thin layer onto the glass surface. The deep red of the blood contrasted sharply with the silver table beneath it.
I picked up my new formula — the compound that had just passed its compatibility phase and gently poured it over the sample. The blue fluid mixed slowly into the red, spiraling together in faint swirls that faded to a lighter shade.
Then, I slid the glass under the microscope and adjusted the focus, my eyes fixed on the monitor that tracked viral activity in real-time.
The baseline reading blinked steadily: Viral Load: High.
My brow furrowed. My fingers tapped the edge of the monitor nervously as I stared through the eyepiece. The virus cells were clearly visible — clustered, aggressive, replicating fast. For several seconds, nothing changed. No reaction, no slowdown.
It was supposed to start working by now.
I swallowed hard, frustration rising in my chest. My gaze darted between the microscope and the monitor again. Still nothing.
A quiet sigh escaped me as I leaned back in the chair. “Guess I failed again,” I muttered under my breath, rubbing a hand through my hair. My shoulders sagged with exhaustion. “I really thought I had it this time.”
I turned my wrist slightly to glance at my watch. It was already 2 a.m. The lab was quiet except for the low hum of the ventilation and the soft ticking of the clock. The fluorescent lights made the white walls seem even colder, emptier.
I had spent months on this formula since I came to Russia.
Endless days of testing, rewriting chemical sequences, staying up all night comparing data sheets. I had lost track of time, of meals, of sleep, all for this. And still, here I was again, hitting another wall.
“Maybe I just need to rest,” I said softly. “I’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
I stood up, ready to start clearing the table, my mind already half set on leaving. But then, something caught my attention, a faint blink from the corner of the monitor.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned toward it.
The display that had read Viral Load: High now read Viral Load: Medium.
My eyes widened. I blinked once, then twice, making sure I wasn’t imagining it. My hands instantly reached for the microscope again, adjusting the lens, my breath catching as I peered through.
There, right there, I could see it. The virus particles were no longer spreading. They were shrinking. Slowly, steadily, but unmistakably shrinking.
My pulse quickened.
I looked back at the screen. The numbers continued to shift.
Viral Load: Low.
My throat tightened as my lips parted slightly, too stunned to breathe for a moment. The formula… it was actually working.
The room felt suddenly warmer. My hands covered my mouth as my eyes blurred with tears. For a long time, I couldn’t move. I just stared at the microscope, at the screen, at the faint golden glow of Veloraquine-S that still glimmered faintly under the light.
It wasn’t a miracle cure yet. It was just the first step, a single successful reaction in a small, controlled environment. There were still countless stages of testing to go through. But this was proof. Real proof.
After all the failures, all the nights spent questioning myself, all the pain and loss that had haunted me, my formula had worked.
A tear slid slowly down my cheek. I didn’t bother wiping it away. I just smiled, my voice trembling as I whispered to myself,
“You did it, Anna… You actually did it.”
The faint hum of the lab filled the silence that followed. The monitors kept blinking softly, as if echoing the quiet heartbeat of my success. The air smelled faintly of chemicals and coffee, a mix that had defined the last few months of my life.
I sat there for several minutes, unable to move, letting the reality of what I’d achieved sink in. Then, slowly, I leaned back in the chair, closing my eyes just for a moment. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on me, but for once, it didn’t feel heavy.
It felt worth it.