The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed softly, casting a pale, clinical and sterile glow over the stack of books, notes, and open laptops scattered across the wooden desk. Highlighters, sticky notes, and open notebooks stacked haphazardly, the remnants of another sleepless night. Urvashi sat hunched over her desk, her fingers pressed into her temples and her eyes flitting rapidly across the pages of the dense text of Robbins Pathologic Basis of Disease  with feverish intensity. The words blurred together: Neoplasia, cellular adaptation, apoptosis—each line cramming itself into her overworked mind like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong place.

She barely blinked.

The library was nearly empty at this hour, save for a few other overworked students buried under the weight of their syllabi. She had been here for hours—too many to count. The deadlines loomed over her, and the exams, like ruthless executioners, waited just around the corner. There was no time for distractions. No time for breaks.

Her fingers gripped a pen tightly, its tip pressed against her notebook, poised to write. Yet her hands ached from the relentless scribbling of the past few hours. Dark circles hung beneath her tired eyes, an attestation to the countless sleepless nights spent consuming medical jargon. The air in the library room was still, save for the distant hum of the ceiling fans and the faint rustling of pages as she turned them.

She flipped another page, her breath shallow, her body operating on the dregs of caffeine and sheer willpower. Her fingers trembled slightly when she reached for her highlighter, but she ignored it. There was no time to be weak. She murmured the contents of the page softly to herself, the words barely louder than a whisper, as her highlighter slid across the page.

"Granulomatous inflammation is a distinctive pattern of chronic inflammation characterized by aggregates of activated macrophages..."

Yellow ink glided over “epithelioid cells”, her hand trembling underneath. The fatigue weighing down her limbs.

"These macrophages often fuse to form multinucleated giant cells..."

She paused, then underlined “Langhans-type giant cells”, her eyes flickering with recognition.

"Caseating necrosis is characteristic of tuberculosis, appearing as amorphous, granular debris..."

She highlighted “caseating necrosis” and scribbled in the margin: ‘cheese-like. Remember diagram’.

"Persistent T-cell activation leads to cytokine secretion—especially IFN-gamma—which activates macrophages..."

A soft sigh escaped her lips. She circled “IFN-gamma” and drew a tired, lopsided arrow connecting it to “macrophage activation”.

Her hand rested on the page for a moment as she closed her eyes briefly. The world outside the campus was alive but Urvashi remained tethered to her books, trapped in an unrelenting cycle of study, revise, repeat.

This was normal. This was routine.

She opened her eyes again, whispering,

“Chronic inflammation… persistent infection… delayed-type hypersensitivity…”

For the past two years, life has been an unbroken cycle of lectures, practicals and late-night study sessions. Rest was a luxury she could not afford. She wasn’t here to waste time. Getting into one of India’s top medical colleges was no easy feat, and now that she was here, she had to prove that she deserved to be.

She exhaled heavily, shaking her head to clear the haze of exhaustion creeping into her mind. Three more chapters, she told herself. Just three more, and then maybe she’d allow herself a nap.

Her phone vibrated beside her, breaking the silence.

[Mihir] Oye, you still alive? Cafeteria. Now.

She sighed, rubbing her temples. Mihir was one of her closest friends. He was known for being obnoxious, loud, but annoyingly persistent when it came to dragging her out of her cave.

Maybe she really needed to go outside.

Another message popped up.

[Nisha] If you don’t come in 5 minutes, we’re coming to get you. You need food. And social interaction.

Urvashi hesitated. The rational part of her screamed to stay; there was so much left to study. But another part of her, the one that ached with exhaustion and craved a moment of normalcy, urged her to go.

With a sigh, she shut her textbook, shoved her notes inside, and grabbed her canvas bag. She adjusted the shawl of her pastel-colored kurti and sauntered down the stairs to reach the hub of midnight chatters.

The cafeteria was alive with the usual late-midnight buzz: students hunched over their plates, laughing, talking, some still buried in their books even as they snacked. Urvashi spotted Mihir, Nisha, and the rest of their group at their usual seats, engaged in an animated discussion. Urvashi’s group—six students bound by their mutual exhaustion and the unspoken agreement to suffer together—occupied their usual corner table, surrounded by half-empty coffee cups and scribbled notes.

As she approached, Mihir grinned and pulled out a chair for her. “Look who finally decided to touch grass.”

“More like touch stale cafeteria food,” Urvashi muttered, dropping into the seat.

“We were just discussing how the recent pathology lecture absolutely destroyed our will to live,” Nisha chimed in, stabbing at her sandwich with unnecessary aggression.

“Speak for yourselves,” Raj, their ever-diligent classmate, smirked. “I actually liked it. Did you know, in forensic pathology, hypostasis can sometimes—”

“Raj, please,” Mihir groaned, “let us eat in peace.”

The conversation shifted to Community Medicine, then to the upcoming practical exams. 

“I swear, if I have to read one more word about granulomas, I’ll let TB take me,” Aniket groaned, slumping against the table.

“Then you’d make an interesting pathology case,” Meera quipped, stirring sugar into her tea.

Ishaan smirked. “I’d rather hear about the latest murder cases than about cytokine storms and macrophages at this point.”

Meera raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Murder cases now? What are you planning, Ishaan? Should we be worried?”

Aniket perked up, still half-collapsed. “If someone mysteriously disappears before practicals, check Ishaan’s alibi. Especially if they scored better than him in the last internal.”

Ishaan shrugged, feigning innocence. “Please, if I wanted to 'disappear' someone, I’d at least make sure it looked like natural causes. Maybe a cytokine storm, just for irony.”

“Poetic,” Meera said, sipping her tea, “Death by excessive immunological enthusiasm. The viva examiners would love it.”

Aniket groaned again. “Do you think they'd let us skip practicals if we faint dramatically during the exam? Like right into the tray of instruments? Bonus points for realism.”

“Only if you manage to produce a positive Mantoux on the spot,” Meera replied, deadpan. “And cough blood for effect.”

“God, you two are dark,” Ishaan laughed. “But honestly, if someone asked me to palpate another spleen model, I might actually go rogue.”

“Careful,” Meera teased. “That’s how pathologists are born. One spleen, too many, and boom—! You’re diagnosing people in a basement for the rest of your life.”

Aniket finally sat up straight, eyes wide. “Wait, do pathologists even have basements? That sounds kind of cool.”

“They do in horror movies,” Meera said. “Maybe that’s the real elective we missed; Forensic Medicine: The Cinematic Edition.”

Ishaan leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Now that would’ve kept me awake in lectures.”

Just then, Nisha arrived with a plate of samosas and a bright smile. “What did I miss? Aniket planning his fake TB diagnosis again?”

“Excuse me,” Aniket huffed, reaching for a samosa, “it’s called method acting. I’m just dedicated to my escape plan.”

Raj slid into the seat beside Ishaan, textbook still in hand. “You guys are joking while the rest of us are actually studying? No wonder some of you are on a first-name basis with the supplementary exam list.”

Ishaan snorted. “And yet, here you are, Raj. Same table, same stress. Don’t pretend you’re not about to burst a vessel over lymphatic drainage.”

Mihir dropped his bag of samosas with a thud and flopped into the chair beside Nisha. “Please. I’d give up my left kidney to erase the entire endocrine system from memory.”

“You need both kidneys to survive, genius,” Nisha pointed out.

“Fine. Then someone else’s left kidney,” Mihir said dramatically. “Raj’s maybe. He’s got enough knowledge to survive with one.”

Raj rolled his eyes but couldn’t help grinning. “Keep talking like that and I might just diagnose you with delusions of adequacy.”

“God, you’re worse than the examiners,” Aniket muttered.

“Don’t give him ideas,” Meera added. “Next thing you know, Raj’ll start carrying a viva bell.”

They all laughed, the stress momentarily lifted by the sheer absurdity of it all. Around them, the cafeteria was alive with the buzzing chatter of anxious med students pretending to be fine.

Urvashi listened, occasionally nodding, but her mind was still stuck in the pages of her unfinished notes. Her body, however, had other plans. Her thoughts remained entangled in definitions, pathways, and case studies, a constant reel of information looping through her brain.

"Urvashi, you good?" Meera’s voice pulled her back.

She blinked, forcing a tired smile. "Yeah, just trying to finish Community Medicine before tomorrow."

"You're pushing yourself too hard," Aniket sighed, eyeing her half-empty plate. "You barely ate anything."

"Not now," she murmured, rubbing her temples.

Ishaan leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “You know, if memorizing morbidity indicators could magically fill your stomach, you'd be the most nourished person here.”

Raj nodded. “There’s efficiency, and then there’s self-destruction. Guess which one you’re leaning towards?”

Nisha nudged Urvashi’s hand gently. “Seriously, Vashi, even I took a break. And you know how I get before exams.”

Before Urvashi could reply, Mihir piped up with a grin. “Maybe she’s just still mad about The Great Poster Incident of last month.”

Urvashi shot him a tired glare. “Don’t start.”

Meera turned with curiosity. “Wait, what incident?”

“Oh, just the time someone,” Urvashi began, pointing her pen like a sword, “forgot to include my name on the group project and ended up presenting it solo like he invented epidemiology.”

“Hey! It was an honest mistake!” Mihir raised his hands defensively, laughing. “The professor just... assumed I did all the work. I can’t help it if I’m radiating brilliance.”

“You radiate something, alright,” she deadpanned, then smirked. “Probably gamma rays. Highly toxic, extremely annoying.”

The table burst into laughter.

Mihir clutched his heart. “Ouch. Betrayed by my own teammate.”

“You stole my credit, you goblin.”

“Is that what we’re calling medical toppers now?” Mihir gasped. “I’m honored!”

Raj chuckled, sipping his chai. “You two should take this act on the road. Maybe to the psychiatry department.”

But just as Urvashi opened her mouth for a clever comeback, her words caught in her throat. The laughter around her faded into a distant hum. The cafeteria lights suddenly seemed too bright, the voices too far away.

“Urvashi?” Meera leaned forward, concern lacing her tone.

Urvashi’s hand gripped the edge of the table. “I… I think I—”

Her head swayed slightly, and Ishaan was already half out of his chair.

“Hey, whoa—!” Nisha reached for her arm. She caught her just in time, steadying her by the shoulders. “Okay, sit down. Easy,” she murmured, guiding Urvashi back into her seat.

Meera quickly pushed her cup of tea aside and reached for a glass of water. “You alright? Talk to us.”

“I’m fine,” Urvashi said weakly, trying to wave it off, though her hands trembled slightly. “Just swivelled my head too fast, maybe…”

“Maybe?” Nisha echoed, eyebrows arched. “You nearly did a dramatic fainting scene in the middle of the cafeteria, and you’re giving us maybe?”

“Classic Urvashi,” Mihir muttered, though his tone was softer now. “One minute she’s quoting WHO guidelines like a boss, the next she’s about to pass out like a Victorian heroine.”

“You did skip breakfast,” Aniket pointed out, crossing his arms. “Don’t act like we haven’t seen this pattern before.”

Raj nodded, frowning. “You burn yourself out every exam season. And then you act surprised when your body files a formal complaint.”

“I’m not made of glass, you know,” she muttered, though she was clearly shaken.

“No, but you are made of undercooked noodles,” Nisha said with a wry smile. “Delicate, underfed, and prone to collapsing under pressure.”

“Gee, thanks for the image,” Urvashi sighed.

A dull ache settled at the base of her skull, slowly creeping down her spine. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her glass of water. Strange. She shook her head, dismissing it as nothing more than exhaustion. She held the glass of water, ready to chug it down. But it slipped from her grip and crashed on the ground.

Urvashi was about to pick it up when a loud gasp from Nisha startled her.

“What is it, Nisha?”

“Urvashi,” Nisha’s voice wavered, concern threading through it, “your nose...”

Frowning, Urvashi blinked at her. “What?”

The table fell silent.

Mihir’s eyes widened, his expression shifting from playful to alarmed in an instant. “Your nose is bleeding.”

Urvashi furrowed her brows, confusion flickering across her features. Bleeding? She lifted a hand, touching her upper lip, only to feel the warm, thick trickle of blood seeping from her nostrils. Her fingers came away crimson.

A sharp, dizzying wave of nausea hit her. Her head hit hard on the table and her trembling hand reached out to no-one in particular.

The cafeteria, once filled with chatter and noise, seemed to muffle into a distant blur. The world tilted, the lights above flickering like a failing candle. Her vision blurred at the edges, and for a fleeting second, panic surged through her chest.

Why—why am I—!

The chair beneath her seemed to dissolve.

The last thing she registered was the distant sound of someone calling her name, frantic voices rising around her, and then...

Darkness.

Space.

Cold.

A numbing, all-consuming cold.