I was happy.
He had passed the third stage.
If he claimed victory in the next one, he would emerge champion and we all knew what that meant. Fame.
Influence.
And most importantly, access to Herb B. One step closer to curing Violet. One step closer to making Zoah look at me the way I wanted him to.
The next stage, however, was merciless. It felt as though the judges had grown tired of hope. Each round became crueler, more impossible than the last as if they were determined that no one should win.
Only six competitors remained. Six survivors of carefully crafted torment.
Then they brought in the patient.
He was carried in like a corpse that hadn't yet accepted its fate. Even I, who knew little about medicine, could tell his condition was catastrophic. His skin clung to his bones, his breathing came in fractured gasps, and his eyes… his eyes had already surrendered.
It was the kind of illness that demanded weeks of treatment. Months, perhaps. The kind experts whispered about in consultation rooms before stepping outside to offer condolences.
Yet the competitors were told they had to heal him.
Heal him and do it in three minutes.
A bitter murmur spread through the hall.
Herb B. The prize. The miracle cure. Whoever succeeded would claim it.
The first competitor stepped forward. He examined the man briefly, then let out a hollow laugh.
"This is wickedness," he said, shaking his head. "If you didn't want to give out Herb B this year, you could have said so. We would have understood. But this?" He gestured at the frail body. "This is a performance."
The spectators stirred uneasily.
"Everyone can see he's beyond repair. If you truly wanted him cured, you'd have taken him to real specialists."
His words did not finish.
Armed guards paid to "secure" the competition marched forward and dragged him away. His protest dissolved into the heavy silence he left behind.
Deep down, we all knew he was right.
They didn't have enough Herb B. This was theatre. A way to deny everyone without taking the blame.
And that was bad news.
No Herb B meant no cure for Violet.
No cure for Violet meant Zoah would never owe me anything.
And if he didn't feel indebted… he would never fall for me.
My chest tightened.
There had to be another way.
Then a darker thought slithered in.
If Violet died… I would be there.
To console him. To hold him. To become the shoulder he leaned on.
When one door closes, another opens.
Isn't that what they say?
The second competitor approached. He examined the man with trembling hands, turned him roughly from side to side, searched desperately for a vein to inject something anything but the man's body was a map of collapsed rivers. No entry point. No response.
Time ran out.
He walked away in stunned defeat.
The third didn't even try.
He stood there, staring at the dying man as though touching him might transfer the curse. Three minutes passed like a funeral hymn.
And then...
The champion stepped forward.
Calm. Focused. Prepared.
He examined the patient swiftly, his fingers precise, his movements confident. From his coat, he produced a small vial and slipped a measured dose between the man's cracked lips.
Then he waited.
The entire hall held its breath.
Some prayed for the drugs to work.
I prayed for the opposite.
If the medicine worked, he would win. He would take Herb B.
And Violet would die.
If Violet dies… my opportunity would also die.
My prayer was answered.
Three minutes passed.
Nothing changed.
The sick man lay there still, hollow, untouched by whatever miracle the champion had tried to force into him. No twitch. No breath of renewal. No divine interruption.
The buzzer rang.
A sound that felt like judgment.
The champion stepped back, disbelief tightening his jaw. Annoyance followed quickly after. Failure did not suit him.
If I wasn't mistaken, this was the first time he had ever tasted it.
But sympathy was a luxury I could not afford.
Now it was Zoah's turn.
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs.
I wished him luck. I muttered a silent prayer, this time for him to win. Yes, I had prayed for the champion to fail… but not for Zoah. Never for Zoah.
He approached the bed slowly.
He studied the man with unsettling focus. His eyes scanned every inch of the frail body, calculating. Measuring.
Good, I thought. He's examining him properly.
Then...
He walked off the stage.
My breath caught.
No.
No, no, no.
His time was still running.
The clock glared down at us, merciless and loud, yet he was nowhere to be seen.
Whispers erupted around the hall.
"He's given up."
"Another one broken."
Thirty seconds.
Forty-five.
At exactly one minute, Zoah returned.
And what he did next shattered the air.
He held a needle.
Not delicately. Not carefully.
He began piercing the sick man's body.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Again.
Gasps spread like wildfire through the spectators. The sharp glint of metal rose and fell in frantic rhythm. He moved with alarming urgency, driving the needle into the man's arms, his chest, his legs as though trying to provoke something buried deep within him.
At first, people stared in confusion.
Then horror.
"He's lost it."
"Stop him!"
He continued for one minute and thirty seconds.
The sick man's body did not react.
The judges rose from their seats. One stormed forward, fury blazing in his eyes.
"Enough!" he barked, grabbing Zoah's wrist.
Zoah jerked free.
They argued. Their voices overlapped, sharp and heated, but I didn't care to listen.
What was there to hear?
It was over.
Zoah had destroyed his own chance.
I felt something crack quietly inside me.
Failure. Frustration. The collapse of everything I had calculated so carefully.
I shut my eyes, willing the tears back.
Crying would not change anything.
Only a miracle could.
And miracles were not given in this place.
The countdown echoed through the hall.
Five seconds.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Just as the final second flickered toward death
The sick man inhaled.
A sharp, violent breath.
His fingers twitched.
His eyelids trembled
And then
They opened.
For the first time in ten years.