Chapter 178 - 177 The Research Institute
( EMILY )
The local wet market is just two blocks away, bustling with vendors shouting prices over the noise of passing mopeds. I grab a woven plastic basket and move methodically through the stalls. I select a plump, freshly butchered chicken, a massive bunch of crisp green spinach, deep red tomatoes, bell peppers, fresh garlic bulbs, and a thick knob of ginger. I stop by the fruit stand, picking out ripe oranges and a cluster of sweet bananas.
When I return to the apartment, Elias hasn’t moved an inch from the sofa.
I carry the heavy grocery bags into his cramped kitchen. I tie an old, faded apron around my waist and get straight to work. I turn on the overhead exhaust fan to clear out the stale, artificial smell lingering in the air.
I place a large pot of water on the stove, cranking the gas burner until a ring of blue fire dances beneath the metal. I lay the fresh vegetables on the cutting board. The sharp steel of the kitchen knife makes a rhythmic, staccato chopping sound against the wood as I dice the tomatoes and slice the bell peppers into thin, uniform strips.
I crush the garlic cloves with the flat side of the blade, tossing them into a hot skillet with a generous splash of olive oil. The sharp, savory scent of searing garlic and ginger erupts into the kitchen, cutting through the gloom of the apartment. I add the chopped chicken, listening to the satisfying hiss of the meat browning against the hot iron.
I move efficiently, my hands working purely from muscle memory while the aromatic steam fogs up the windows.
DR. ELIAS MERCER POV
I sit on the worn cushions of my sofa, watching Emily move around my cramped kitchen.
The sharp, wonderful smell of actual food cooking fills the apartment, making my stomach rumble loudly. I look down at the cold, greasy cup of instant noodles sitting on the coffee table, feeling a sudden, intense wave of self-disgust.
I am a failure. I hide behind my messy apartment, my unkempt beard, and my sarcastic, lazy demeanor to mask the deep, rotting guilt sitting in the center of my chest.
I look at Emily. She handles the heavy iron skillet with ease, tossing the searing chicken and bright green spinach with a wooden spatula.
I remember the day I met her. She was a sixteen-year-old high school student sitting in the back of my advanced chemistry class. She was quiet, constantly scribbling in a worn leather notebook. I confiscated that notebook one afternoon, expecting to find doodles or teenage diary entries. Instead, I found pages of complex, theoretical molecular breakdowns disguised as milk tea recipes. She was calculating synthetic chemical bonds using the ratios of tapioca pearls and dairy fat.
She was a prodigy. The brightest, most undeniably brilliant mind I had ever encountered in my entire academic career.
I wanted to nurture that spark. I wanted to guide her toward scholarships, toward national science competitions, toward a future where her name would be printed in global medical journals.
Then Thomas Vance pulled her out of school. Her family forced her to drop out, shackling her potential to domestic chores and familial abuse.
I fought for her. I argued with the school board, I argued with her father, but I lacked the political power or the financial resources to intervene. The only thing I could offer her was a spare key to the damp, poorly ventilated basement beneath this very apartment building. I gave her access to my discarded laboratory equipment and old textbooks.
She developed SN1818 in that basement. A revolutionary cardiovascular drug created on a cracked concrete floor.
I provided the room, but I failed to protect her. I failed to force the academic world to recognize her genius. I watched her struggle in the shadows while lesser, privileged students paraded across graduation stages. The guilt of that failure has eaten away at me for years, turning me into the tired, instant-noodle-eating recluse sitting on this sofa.
The sound of plates clattering draws me out of my dark thoughts.
Emily walks over to the coffee table. She nudges the stack of medical journals aside and sets down a steaming, beautiful plate of food. The roasted chicken glistens with a savory brown sauce, resting beside a vibrant portion of sautéed spinach and fresh tomatoes.
She sets a pair of clean wooden chopsticks beside the plate.
"Eat," Emily orders, pulling up a wooden dining chair and sitting across from me. "Before you develop scurvy."
I pick up the chopsticks, my hands feeling stiff and clumsy. I take a bite of the chicken. The rich, fresh flavors explode across my tongue, a stark contrast to the artificial salt I have been subsisting on for weeks. It tastes like actual care. It tastes like home.
"This is exceptional, Emily," I say quietly, keeping my eyes focused on the plate.
"You need to start taking care of yourself, Elias," she replies, her tone softening slightly. "You are too brilliant to rot in this apartment."
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Brilliance requires a stage, kid. My stage packed up and moved on a long time ago."
Emily doesn’t argue. Instead, she reaches into her purse resting on her lap. She pulls out a thick, cream-colored envelope and places it directly in the center of the scratched wooden coffee table, right beside my plate.
I stop chewing. I stare at the golden, embossed crest gleaming in the dim light of the living room.
Etland Medical University.
I set my chopsticks down slowly. My fingers tremble as I reach out and touch the heavy, textured paper. I pull the envelope closer, my eyes scanning the crisp, black ink spelling out her name and the words Medicinal Chemistry Program.
The breath catches in my throat. The walls of the messy apartment seem to fall away.
"You did it," I whisper, my voice cracking entirely. "You actually did it."
I look up at Emily. She sits tall in the wooden chair, her dark eyes shining with a mixture of fierce pride and quiet gratitude. She doesn’t look like the broken, bullied teenager hiding in my basement anymore. She looks like a force of nature ready to conquer the world.
"I couldn’t have done it without the basement, Elias," she says, her voice steady and clear. "I made it."
I look back down at the golden crest, a hot, stinging moisture pooling in the corners of my eyes. The heavy, rotting weight of guilt that I have carried for years finally begins to fracture and break apart.
She didn’t need me to save her. She saved herself, and she came back to prove that my belief in her was never misplaced.