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more money than he could ever spend in one lifetime. Satoshi didn't remember saying yes. All he remembered was the man's wide smile as he was led from the bar outside to a black town car and driven to a private jet on a secluded airstrip in the middle of nowhere.
    He'd been working at the labs in Las Vegas ever since. Truth be told he'd never been so happy in his life. He had a huge two story house with a pool and jacuzzi in a gated community. The closets were filled with clothes in his size and taste when he arrived. The entry way table had a selection of tickets to shows, sporting events, and concerts - more than he could attend. The fridge was fully stocked and so was the wine cellar. He fell into bed that first night, a California King, and passed out. The next day they drove him to his new lab. All of his original research was there waiting for him when he arrived. He was given a personal assistant, along with a body guard, and told to begin picking out his research team from a list of pre-screened applicants.
    He'd spent most of his time in the lab from then on, working around the clock on taking apart some of the worst disease known to mankind. He'd tinkered with everything from Nodding disease to Crohn's to rabies to Ebola. Occasionally someone would pop in to check up on him but for the most part he was left to his own devices. He'd made remarkable strides in isolating pathogens and introducing them in unexpected ways into both sick and healthy cells. When he finished he would upload the results into the mainframe and log out for the day. He'd fall into bed each night feeling content and empty in the best possible way.
    Everything had been perfect - until last night. He'd come home late, as usual, and flipped on the television. The minute he heard reports of the ghost tanker he felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. That name, Islas Maria, had been in a researcher folder on the mainframe. He'd always assumed that his work would be used to target and treat diseases, sick kids like he once was, by top pharmaceutical companies. That was the extent of his ethical dilemma, that only the wealthy and connected would be able to initially afford the fruits of his labors. He'd assuaged his prickly conscience with thoughts of other scientists taking apart the medicine and making generic copies for countries like India and less fortunate African nations.
    How could I be so naive? How could I be so fucking stupid?
    They'd made a weapon from his work. He knew it at once. He'd seen the symptoms listed on the television screen and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that they had nothing to do with leprosy. Biological warfare - that's what it was. He barely slept that night. He felt like the father of the atomic bomb, like Oppenheimer. His work would be used to kill millions, possibly even end life on earth. For hours he contemplated killing himself, trying to think of the most painless and effective method. Perhaps someone would come for him, to do the job for him, to keep him from talking, from telling anyone his story. Maybe they'd send Bob again. He listened for footsteps, half hoping they would end his crippling guilt, but they never came.
    Morning eventually arrived and he returned to the lab feeling jumpy and tired. He logged on to discover that the research folders were now locked. In fact the only access he had was to his own work. The rest of the system appeared to be offline.
    They are already covering their tracks , he thought. That's why they don't have to worry about killing me. They've compartmentalized. They can deny all of this when the time comes.
    He could exactly how it would play out. Their million dollar marketing team would release a statement about how Satoshi was a rogue scientist working on his own pet projects, how they'd taken him in and he'd betrayed them for his own dark designs.
    All the blame will fall solely on me.
    One thing they hadn't taken away from Satoshi was access to the samples,