A singular knock rang through Hans’ small room. He knew it was time, and he wondered if the Guard was one he had worked on in the past. For a moment he wistfully wondered if they would recognize him, but he knew that was impossible. Hans remained silent, and lay in his bed, suddenly realizing how those hundreds of patients felt, as he waited for his pick and hammer to come.

♢♢♢♢

The dim, fluorescent lights flickered on, accompanied by a low, familiar hum. Shrill beeps incessantly echoed around the quiet room. Hans lay in bed, unmoving, no longer able to silence the alarm, jump out of bed, or carry out his beloved surgeries. A dark pool of blood seeped out from under his head, turning the normally bright white linens a crimson red. A gun lay askew next to his hand, purposefully angled to look accidental. The stress of his job had of course gotten to Hans, and his death would be a surprise to no one, after all, the only way for a scientist to stop working was to die by suicide or to grow too old to hold his tools. Hours later, an assistant stopped by Hans’ room to check on him, wholly unprepared for the scene he was about to walk into. The sight would be burned into his mind for the rest of time, or at least until he too had an accident.