Gary decided to sleep.

It felt like the easiest option. The quiet one. He drank some water, turned onto his side, and closed his eyes, telling himself he’d deal with everything tomorrow.

Tomorrow did not arrive.

The infection spread efficiently, quietly, without drama or ceremony. By the time Gary’s body realised something was seriously wrong, it was already far too late to raise an objection.

There was no heroic final moment. No sudden clarity. Just a gradual fading of awareness, the pain easing not because it had been solved, but because Gary was no longer capable of registering it.

The pub carried on without him. Someone won a round of darts. The dentist finished her shift. Life continued, deeply inconsiderate as ever.