I watched my husband, Adrian, push the plunger of my final AV-7 life-saving vial into his first love Chloe's vein. The moment the serum vanished, my isolation room’s oxygen generator emitted a dying hum. Over the intercom, Adrian ordered the emergency power severed. Let her reflect in the dark, he said coldly. As mechanical asphyxiation clawed at my throat, I crawled toward the terminal using residual charge. I didn't beg. Instead, I initialized the Prometheus Protocol to broadcast the molecular formulas of my research to global public platforms. The cost was absolute: with the oxygen entirely depleted, I was sealing my own tomb. My lungs gave out as the upload completed. Outside, Adrian furiously demanded I stop acting, unaware that an unalterable system log had already recorded his exact override command to cut my lifeline.