Damien reached for the bottle of mineral water that Calloway had handed him.
A sudden thirst clawed at his throat, but as he tried to unscrew the cap, his hands began to tremble.
A wave of weakness surged from his wrist to his fingertips, robbing him of the strength needed to grip it properly.
The bottle slipped and hit the floor.
He clasped his right wrist with his left hand, trying to still the tremors, and stared at the spilled water in silence.
A grim expression settled on his face.
What more could he do?
A storm of emotions, frustration, self-pity, and anger rose within him, tight in his chest.
Tears welled up and dropped silently to the floor as he bent forward.
This wasn't who he used to be.
He had once been the best of the best, admired, envied, and revered.
News headlines bore his name not just because of his wealth but because his words held global weight.
He was Damien Voss, scion of one of the most powerful royal families on the continent.
The Voss name wasn't just a legacy; it was an institution.
Through their corporation, Voss Incorporated Philanthropy, they wielded influence in sectors spanning further than most nations could manage.
Their wealth? Indescribable.
Generations of power and prestige preceded him, and now... he was the stain.
He couldn't even remember when it began.
It might have been the night after a heated argument with his fiancée, a brilliant woman from an influential Arabian oil dynasty.
She ended the engagement, though, in truth, he had manipulated her into saying the words.
He had lost interest.
At 27, young, wealthy, and highly educated with four PhDs in engineering, politics, art, and business, he felt untouchable.
Yet, that night marked a turning point.
To celebrate the breakup, his friend Martin dragged him out for drinks.
A few celebratory minutes turned into hours of intoxication.
Eventually, Martin placed him in his vehicle and activated autopilot.
Yes, Voss Incorporated also had a stretch in the automobile industry.
Calloway, ever watchful, had safety protocols in place, so there was no concern of recklessness, at least not from the outside.
Damien had no memory of what happened after getting home.
All he remembered was going to bed.
But the next morning, he woke up bruised and strapped to his bed.
Footage from the night revealed something horrifying, he had tried to harm himself.
Violently.
Unrecognizably.
He couldn't believe it.
But the evidence was there.
He submitted himself to one of the top medical facilities, partially owned and supported by Voss Incorporated.
The hospital's renowned elite was filled with professionals trained through Voss-funded programs.
While he held no medical degree, he trusted the system he'd helped build.
The diagnosis, however, was frustratingly vague.
"There isn't enough conclusive evidence," the physician had said.
"But it seems your immune system is attacking your nervous system. It's as if your brain sees you as the threat."
It wasn't just illness, it was internal warfare.
Damien authorized the results to be sealed.
Then, without hesitation, he began restructuring his mansion to house a high-level diagnostic unit, integrated directly into his AI system, Vee.
The installation took two days.
Reinforced walls, biometric access, and full-body monitoring cost just over $500,000.
A negligible figure to him.
Something he could easily charge to his black card without blinking.
The downside, however, was brutal, Damien hadn't slept in over 48 hours.
The constant tension gnawed at his nerves, and though the pain came in waves, there were methods to manage it.
Once the diagnostic facility had been seamlessly integrated into his mansion, he finally allowed himself to rest.
That night, while his AI assistant Vee, a team of professionals, and his loyal butler Calloway monitored the data streams, Damien drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Medical personnel stood by, ready to intervene should anything go wrong...
"Stage Four Neurodegenerative Autoimmune Syndrome."
It sounded like something out of a medical thriller.
But it wasn't fiction.
It was real, aggressively rare, and merciless.
A condition where the immune system didn't just fail; it turned traitor.
It attacked the brain and nervous system with surgical precision, triggering rapid cognitive decline, motor dysfunction, and volatile emotional shifts.
Stage Four meant the damage was no longer theoretical.
It was happening.
Irreversible.
Damien still remembered the doctor's words:
"Your immune system isn't just failing, it's waging war on your brain, erasing you one memory at a time."
A tear rolled down his cheek as he remembered
What memories? There weren't many good ones worth holding on to.
His body betrayed him with sudden tremors that left his limbs weak and unreliable.
But the worst symptom wasn't physical, it was psychological.
Sometimes, his own reflection looked like a stranger.
He couldn't recognize himself anymore.
Not his face, not his past, not even who he was supposed to be.
"Master Damien, do you require assistance?" Calloway asked gently, stepping forward to pick up the mineral water Damien had dropped earlier.
He opened the bottle, poured it into a glass, and set it on the table beside him.
Still hunched over, Damien kept his face hidden from Calloway, shielding his tears.
"That's why I'll make more memories than I can forget," he muttered, clenching his trembling hands.
"I'll run faster than this illness can catch me."
He straightened, eyes fixed on the glass of water.
"Did you say something, Master Damien?" Calloway asked a subtle concern in his tone.
Instead of replying, Damien picked up the glass and took a deep, steadying gulp enough to silence the pain for just a moment.
As he exhaled, Vee's calm, emotionless voice filled the room.
"Sir, it is time for your next infusion."
Damien didn't flinch.
He kept his expression neutral, unwilling to show weakness in front of those who cared especially not Calloway.
Whether it was duty, pride, or simply age, the butler's face remained as unreadable as ever.
They moved quietly to his chamber.
Damien sat on a long couch, staring at a blank wall.
"Would you prefer entertainment during the treatment, sir?" Vee asked.
"I don't mind."
At once, the plain wall shifted like the pieces of a Rubik's Cube, revealing a wide, sleek screen that spanned nearly half the room.
A set of consoles rose from a hidden drawer beside him, and narrow slots at the sides of the screen hinted at embedded tech.
"No speakers," Calloway instructed.
"Let the sunlight in."
The wall retracted seamlessly, and natural light filtered into the room through precisely angled panels, soft, ambient, and warm enough to feel real.
The system was engineered to maintain natural lighting without compromising privacy.
Damien handed a controller to Calloway, who took it without hesitation.
"What shall we wager on today, Master Damien?" he asked, a hint of familiarity returning to his voice.
Damien offered a faint smile.
Behind him, a hidden panel in the couch opened, and a series of suction ports and fine medical needles extended and affixed themselves to his back.
He barely noticed, an anesthetic, discreetly delivered through the mineral water, had already dulled his senses.
"You choose," Damien said.