STAGE IV

The bitter tang of French press coffee mingled with the dry stench of sealed case files and the frigid draft blasting from the industrial air conditioner. At ten in the morning, the Cleveland branch of Hartwell Mutual was always steeped in a quiet as heavy as a graveyard. Midst that stifling stillness, the only sounds were the steady clack-clack of keyboards and the soft, rhythmic hum of a printer. Winifred Callaghan sat upright in front of dual widescreen monitors, her expression so composed it verged on icy.

Winifred—or Win to anyone who knew her—was a senior death-claims adjuster with a reputation for being unyielding and merciless. Her day-to-day life revolved around cold, unfeeling figures, endless medical charts, and death certificates stamped in blood-red ink. From the ashes of a human life, she translated a person’s lifespan into an exact payout, precise down to the last cent.

She knew precisely what a forty-year-old man killed in an industrial accident was worth. She knew by heart what kind of check a fifty-year-old woman’s stroke would leave behind for her grieving family. Win assigned prices to human lives with the dispassionate gaze of a seasoned trader appraising inventory on a shelf.

On her left monitor screen sat a four-hundred-thousand-dollar claim file for a man crushed to pieces in a horrific car crash. On her right monitor was a pastel-pink Excel spreadsheet—a wedding budget she had meticulously designed item by item.

Lakeside Venue: $45,000.

Vera Wang Gown: $8,500.

Floral Arrangements: $6,200.

Photographer: $4,000.

The joint savings account she shared with Keaton Pruitt—her boyfriend of four years turned fiancé who had slipped a diamond ring onto her finger last autumn—currently stood at $212,600. Win moved her mouse gently, shaving down minor figures with surgical precision. She was a control freak. Every dollar spent, every rung on the ladder toward her future had to rest firmly in the palm of her hand, neat and undisturbed like balanced columns in a ledger.

The sharp ring of her desk phone shattered the silence. Win picked up the receiver, her voice calm, professional, and chillingly composed.

"Hartwell Mutual, Claims Assessment. This is Winifred Callaghan."

"Winifred. It’s Dr. Voigt."

The voice on the line carried none of the dry, administrative tone of an insurance corporate office; instead, it dropped into a heavy, dark hesitation. Dr. Helena Voigt was an oncologist at University Hospitals Cleveland Medical Center and the physician handling Win’s health files for the past two weeks, ever since a gnawing pain in Win’s abdomen and unexplained weight loss had refused to go away.

Win’s heart gave a cold, sharp squeeze, but her long, slender fingers maintained a firm grip on her luxury fountain pen.

"Hello, Dr. Voigt. Do you have my biopsy and CT scan results?"

"They came in this morning, Winifred." Dr. Voigt released a faint sigh, the sound weary as it traveled over the line. "I know you’re busy, but can you drop by my clinic at two this afternoon? We need to sit down and talk."

"Can't we discuss it over the phone, Doctor?" Win’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile, keeping her voice as steady as a stone wall. "I work in insurance, as you know. I’ve read through thousands of other people's death sentences. Whatever the verdict is, I can handle it right now."

A dead, suffocating silence fell over the other end of the line. The prolonged quiet cut through Win’s chest like a smooth, icy blade, slowly draining every drop of air from her lungs.

"Winifred, please come to the clinic this afternoon. Bring your fiancé if you can. I’ll be waiting."

After hanging up, Win leaned back into her black leather chair, her vacant gaze fixed on the milky white ceiling panels above. She didn't call Keaton. Keaton was buried in meetings with major partners today, and she told herself there was no reason to bother him over a routine doctor’s appointment.

At two in the afternoon, Dr. Voigt’s office was bathed in golden streaks of sunlight spilling through the large glass window. Yet, the air inside remained cold and suffocating, choking the lungs with the sharp, medicinal stench of antiseptic. It had been years since Win last smelled that unforgiving scent—the last time being when her mother died of breast cancer, after a year of agonizing chemotherapy that had hollowed her out completely.

Win sat alone in the brown leather armchair across from the desk. Dr. Voigt slowly pushed a CT scan film and a thick medical folder toward her, eyes brimming with bitter empathy.

"Winifred, I’ll give it to you straight because I know you prefer brutal honesty. The biopsy confirms early-onset colorectal cancer. The primary tumor has grown substantially, and the CT scan shows it has already metastasized, invading your entire liver tissue."

Win sat as still as a plaster statue, her eyes pinned to the dark, mottled shadows devouring the healthy liver tissue on the film.

"Liver metastasis," Win spoke up, her voice flat, clear, and so detached that it sounded foreign even to her own ears. "So... Stage IV, right?"

"Yes. Stage IV." Dr. Voigt leaned forward, clasping her hands tightly on the desk. "Because the tumor spread so rapidly, surgical resection is completely off the table. If you agree to aggressive chemotherapy combined with targeted therapy, we might buy you roughly eight to twelve short months."

She paused, looking deep into Win’s dark, unreadable eyes before continuing softly:

"However, the physical toll will be brutal. Gut-wrenching nausea, total exhaustion, complete hair loss, and a collapsed immune system. And if you refuse treatment... your remaining time will be measured only in months."

A vast, bottomless void suddenly gaped open right beneath Win’s feet. There was no dramatic sobbing, no weak tears spilling over like in some sappy romance movie. What engulfed her was absolute numbness—as if someone had mercilessly pressed a mute button on the entire world, turning every movement around her into a cold, silent film.

Stage IV colorectal cancer. Liver metastasis. Eight to twelve months.

Win squeezed her eyes shut. In that deep darkness, the memory of her fifty-year-old mother flashed back with crystal clarity. Her mother, gaunt and slumped over in a hospital chair, her hair gone, leaving behind a stark white scalp, her arms bruised and crisscrossed with IV needle marks as she clutched a yellow plastic bucket, throwing up bile. Her mother had cried, clutching Win’s hands, begging for forgiveness. That year of chemo was never living. It was nothing more than a humiliating, excruciating prolongation of the dying process.

When she opened her eyes, the sharp, icy composure of a Hartwell Mutual adjuster had returned fully to her gaze. She looked straight at Dr. Voigt, speaking in a tone that was unnervingly serene:

"Dr. Voigt, let’s do some math. What’s the five-year survival rate for distant metastatic Stage IV colorectal cancer? Under ten percent, isn't it?"

Dr. Voigt hesitated, her brow furrowing tightly. "Winifred, cold statistical numbers don't reflect—"

"They reflect the harshest reality, Doctor," Win interrupted, her voice lacking even the slightest ripple. "How much will aggressive chemotherapy cost? After insurance coverage, my out-of-pocket expenses for infusion rounds and supportive meds will easily run between sixty to eighty thousand dollars. Factor in emergency hospital stays for infections or physical collapse, and that figure easily hits six digits."

She tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a proud, mocking smile.

"And what does that astronomical sum buy me? Six extra months slumped in a hospital bed, vomiting, losing my hair, living like a invalid dependent on other people's pity?"

"Winifred..." Dr. Voigt’s eyes filled with utter helplessness. "You're in shock. You can't make such a drastic decision right now."

"I’m not in shock, Doctor. I’m just doing the math." Win stood up, her fingers smoothing down a crease on her expensive cream-silk blouse. "I’m a claims adjuster. My instinct is to look at risk and financial yield. Chemotherapy in this case is an investment with a hundred percent loss on capital and interest. I choose to refuse treatment."

Dr. Voigt scrambled to her feet, her voice trembling with emotion. "You can’t just give up this easily! You're only thirty years old! Go home and talk to your fiancé—"

"My mother died of this disease. I have no one left to call family anyway." Win offered a faint smile—luxurious, flawless, yet chilling to the bone. "Thank you for your honesty, Doctor. And thank you for the coffee."

Dr. Voigt watched her with a look of desperation. She pulled a small white business card with a gold border from her drawer and pressed it into Win’s hand. The sleek card rested in her palm, as cold as a shard of ice.

Win left the hospital, walking down the long corridor reeking of sterile disinfectant toward the sunlit parking lot. The afternoon Cleveland sun angled through the glass, casting blinding, gold-like streaks of light across the hood of her gray car. Win stepped inside and slammed the door shut.

The noise of the outside world was instantly sealed out. The interior of the car turned into a claustrophobic vault, baking her in the stifling heat trapped under the sun. She didn't start the engine. She simply sat there in silence, resting both hands on the steering wheel, her dark eyes staring blankly at the film of dust settled on the windshield.

A faint, dull ache in her lower abdomen suddenly flared up along her spine. It wasn't excruciating, but it served as a brutal reminder that inside this gorgeous body, savage mutant cells were silently multiplying, tearing through healthy liver tissue with wild abandon.

Win closed her eyes tightly, took a deep breath, and began to count in her head.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven...

It was a childhood habit. Whenever she spiraled into sheer panic or had to endure agonizing physical pain, she would count down from ten. By the time the number hit zero, she would trick herself into believing the pain would pass—or at least that she had reclaimed control over her life.

Six.

Five.

Four...

But this time, when the count halted at four, Win’s chest tightened bitterly. A harsh, acrid taste rose in her throat. She snapped her eyes open, looking down at her phone mounted on the dashboard holder.

The screen was still bright. The wedding budget Excel spreadsheet sat there untouched. The $212,600 figure stood proudly at the top corner. The vibrant budget columns featuring the glamorous Vera Wang dress and the luxury photography package sat there, submissive and perfectly, mockingly intact.

Win stared at the spreadsheet, then lowered her head to look at her hands resting on the wheel. Smooth, pale hands with long fingers that had just been manicured in soft rose quartz last week for her upcoming romantic engagement shoot.

An abrupt laugh burst from her throat.

It started as a quiet, mocking scoff, but in the next second, Win broke into full laughter. She laughed until her shoulders shook violently, until the hot tears brimming at the corners of her eyes finally shattered, spilling down her pale cheeks and soaking the collar of her expensive silk blouse.

She had spent her entire life saving. She had calculated every single cent for a distant future fifty years away. She had skipped expensive dinners, turned down costly vacations, and scraped together every blood-stained dollar from claims payouts to build a house, a family, and a peaceful old age alongside Keaton.

Only for her own body to brutally hand her an expiration date counted in days.

Win reached up, wiping the tear tracks from her face with the back of her hand. Cold clarity returned to her eyes, but deep within her dark pupils, a chaotic, reckless, and ruthless spark began to ignite.

She reached out, grabbed her phone, and tapped the screen. Her long fingers danced across the keyboard like a dancer on a razor’s edge. She wiped out the title "Wedding Budget." She left the savings balance intact, then pressed her finger into the empty cell at the very bottom of the sheet, right beneath "Contingency Fund."

Typing each character with the absolute, ruthless precision of an insurance adjuster, Win entered a brand-new line item into the spreadsheet:

Death Expenses: TBD.

She clicked the phone screen off, tossed it hard onto the passenger seat, and jammed her foot down to press the engine start button. The engine roared to life in the enclosed space. Win turned the wheel and accelerated out of the parking lot, merging straight into the bustling Cleveland traffic under the fading afternoon light.

The cosmic countdown clock had begun. And Winifred Callaghan was determined not to spend a single cent on a humiliating death.