The prison door was slightly ajar, but what use was it now?
The whole nation was collapsing by a virus killing them. Everyone fought for their survival. The antidote only made them more and more desperate for more antidote. It would lead them to buy new organs no matter how expensive they were, while they were closer and closer to death with each transplant.
In the end, you could accomplish nothing if you do not have the money. Some people started making money in absurd ways such as selling cat fur and selling their own organs. Money was desirable and irresistible. Money that could stall their death. Money could let you live, though just for a little longer. But who would want to buy cat fur except for rich people? Who would want money if it was exchanged with your own life?
The letters had stopped. They had died. They were affected by the virus one way or the other. They were affected by him in his little cell. If she didn't have to stay in that pastry shop. If he didn't have to buy that game. If his friend didn't try to help him.
The outside world was a living hell. He would get the freedom he wanted, but was it any different than here? He would be alone either way. Unlike here, he had a game console. He had a box of cake. An insect. A clock. A bed. Posters. A pile of letters. He felt so useless. So unimportant and insignificant. He couldn't save anyone, only watching the country collapsing from his cell. There was no use, and so he stayed. He stayed in his cell, waiting for the door to close again. Maybe he deserved this.
The door swung shut, followed by a letter. The last letter that reads:
You made a wise choice. Now you get to enjoy your freedom to play all the games on your entertainment system you want. Congratulations.
You imbecile.
Do you know why you were locked up here?
You know organs are slim now. The virus I created destroys them. Working organs go for a lot of money these days. There is nothing that people value more than their own survival. It doesn't matter how poor the quality of organs I'm supplying is. They keep coming back to me.
But the real money comes from selling high-quality organs from the immune. People like you. Just like some selected others, you got the working antidote. You have a safe shelter and a bed. Your organs are worth millions now.
I made you relevant.
Thank you for your cooperation.
...
He waited and waited in his dark cell, playing the games paid by a life. He thought that his entertainment shouldn't have worth that much.
The cell door open slowly. The man reassured him.
"You are worth every penny."
He wished that it was true.