There is no control group.

The medical conference room fell silent. Five words were all that was needed to destroy the little hope that remained. Some began to cry; some began to frantically look over the findings, desperate to lose themselves in the minutia of the methodology. Most just slunk back into their seats and quietly accepted their future.

It had been 102 weeks since a new strain of fungal infection was discovered in India. Back then, when it was just one of the many newly discovered fungi each year, the first proposed name for it was simple and uninspired: Candida Ganges.

Then came the euphoria.

Dances and fights, sex and adventures – the world was trapped in ecstasy. Candida Ganges worked on dopamine and endorphin receptors, it was a party without an end, a binge without a hangover. Once the infection was confirmed in the United States, people on TikTok dressed up in suits and pretended to be wealthy entrepreneurs under the hashtag Candidaddy. Almost overnight, it became fashionable to get the C. Students used it for their exams, and workers for their craft. Woodstock became a cathedral for Candida Ganges apostles, and Goa a holy site.  Medical experts from around the world began to sound the alarm, but their voices were drowned out by an orchestra of maniacal happiness.

But every symphony has an end. The Great Sadness had come.

In summer 2023, a train driver in Italy crashed his train, unwilling to pull the brakes. In August, Volkswagen was down to half of its employees. In early 2024, there was a pilgrimage of European Muslims towards Mecca. Tens of thousands took to the streets, seeking divine help, most didn’t even reach Turkey.

Big pharmaceutical companies got together and tried to rush out an antifungal drug, hoping to repeat their financial gains with the COVID vaccines. There was some success in the initial animal trials, the new drug Candofungin was able to slow down the infection, at least in a few cases. But once it came to human trials, the sheer scope of the nightmare was unveiled.

There was no control group. At least not in the United Kingdom. Every screened person was already infected; some were asymptomatic for now, or in early stages of the infection, but that was little solace. The end had come with glassy eyes and broken whimpers.

Today, the research team was down to their last few members, only a handful showed up. Most of them weren’t even medical experts. Once the Great Sadness made its grand entrance, various sociologists and psychologists joined the team, in anticipation of what was to come.

It was an open secret, that most of them only remained functional due to hastily crafted drug-cocktails. Everyone had their own. Some took dopamine directly; others took to various focus-enhancing drugs such as Ritalin – the lead researcher himself was on increasingly high dosages of MDMA and several other uppers, their names escaped him by now. They were all on borrowed time – the drugs were working less and less.

Wars began to grind to a halt, with troops simply sitting in their trenches, waiting to die. The Ukrainian counteroffensive, that began with a hopeful push to encircle Bakhmut, turned into isolated groups of dead vehicles and catatonic men. Economies collapsed, and supply and demand vanished into thin air. Global supply chains broke down. Another tanker got stuck in the Suez Canal, the Strait of Malacca was congested. And that was it. Humanity would not go out with a long dreaded nuclear bang, but with a long and tired sigh.

If only we had more time. He thought, as next to him a female biologist from Venezuela quietly sobbed. Everything can be solved, with just enough time. There’s still Canada, Norway, Hokaido, maybe they can do it.

His hands were shaking. It wasn’t the drugs.

There has to be a solution. It’s only our brain’s reward center. He had forgotten what the chemicals were called exactly. His mind was slowly failing him.

The group dissolved into nothingness. Only a German sociologist stayed in the room, blankly staring at an empty whiteboard. Some went home to what was left of their families; some wandered the almost empty complex; the lead researcher sat on a lonely bench and watched two dogs strut down the street.

The walk to the bench was already a monumental effort, every cell in is body ached and yearned for him to just lie down, to just give up. He knew that soon it would not be a matter of willpower anymore.

He forced himself to think. To think about anything at all. He tried to force his mind to wander, but the canvas was blank.

Just rest for a bit. Was the only thought that came to him eventually.

He leaned back on the bench; his head fell backwards and he embraced the void of his own thoughts. Nestled in the comfort only an empty mind could provide, he finally gave in.

Staring at a cloudy sky, all thoughts stopped coming.

There was only peaceful silence.