His kidnappers' goal was to demand a ransom of 2 million.

The two kidnappers were Robert and Rune—known to their friends as Rob and Run. They sat slouched in the dim room, their cigarettes dangling lazily from their fingers.

A half-empty bag of fast food sat between them, grease stains spreading across the table.

"After we get the money, we’ll be set for life. A life of eating and drinking without work...or learning," said Rob.

"Yeah....our dream lifestyle is not far away, haha," replied Rune.

Then they started to laugh, which got louder and louder, their mouths stretching wide, exposing every inch of their cigarette-stained front teeth.

Eventually, the kidnappers dragged themselves back to reality and walked into John’s room.

“Alright, doc,” Rob said, leaning against the doorway with a smirk. “Time to call your family and tell them to cough up the cash. Two million bucks—that’s all we’re asking. Not too much.”

Run chimed in, “Yeah, they’ll pay to get you back. You’re worth it, right?”

John, calm and composed, met their gaze. “My family’s wealth has declined a lot. We don’t even have two thousand, let alone two million. They won’t pay you much.”

Rob and Run looked at each other for a while. Rob’s smirk faltered, replaced by a confused frown.

“What’re you talking about? You’re rich!”

John sighed. “No, we're poor like beggars now.”

The two kidnappers stared at each other, not knowing what to say.

A few hours later, they inspected John’s clothes and took most of his money and valuables, leaving only some coins.

As their frustration grew, the kidnappers stopped pretending to care about his comfort. Every day, they fed him with a crumpled paper bag, tossed through the cracked door. Inside, the "food" was a miserable sight—cheap, lukewarm burgers or cold fries. The grease was soaking through the paper.

It was a far cry from the delicate aromas of the city's finest kitchens. John hated it and he could barely force down a few bites.

Boredom soon crept into the kidnappers' routine. Cigarettes became their distraction, their escape from the monotony. They smoked constantly, the acrid fumes filling the small room.

Noticing this, John attempted to turn the situation to his advantage. “This air,” he said one evening, coughing dramatically, “It’s unhealthy. You’re smoking yourselves to death, and you’re taking me with you.”

The kidnappers laughed dismissively. “No, you’re bluffing, doc,” one of them sneered, exhaling a plume of smoke. “We’ve been smoking our whole lives, and we’re fine. I don't think it's harmful.”

John frowned, retreating into silence. He bided his time, observing them as they grew more restless and started chain-smoking even more.

Over the next few days, the smoke thickened, clinging to the air like a suffocating fog. John, who had been coughing intermittently, noticed the kidnappers themselves beginning to cough more frequently.

They rubbed their throats, visibly annoyed.

Sensing his opportunity, John struck again. This time, his words carried more weight. “You see? Even you can’t ignore it anymore. This air is toxic,” he rasped, clutching his chest. “It’s not just me—it’s affecting you too.”

The kidnappers, though still skeptical, exchanged uneasy glances. Their growing discomfort validated John’s claims, and he seized on their hesitation. “If I die,” he said weakly, “you lose everything. No ransom. You’ll have nothing to show for your trouble. I need a specific medicine to counteract this.”

Their resolve finally faltered. Reluctant but desperate to keep him alive, they asked John what medicine he needed. John provided them with a list of ingredients: vinegar, ground nutmeg, crushed chili peppers, and adelwez.

John explained carefully, emphasizing that the ingredients must be cooked together, with all windows shut to retain potency.

Knowing nothing of the risks, the kidnappers followed his instructions, closing all the windows.

The small, dimly lit room grew increasingly stifling, the air turning thick and oppressive. As the mixture simmered on their wood-burning stove, an ominous transformation began. A new toxic gas crept into the room, its presence subtle but a bit dangerous. Apart from that, the lack of ventilation caused carbon monoxide levels to rise imperceptibly, unnoticed by the kidnappers who remained focused on their ransom plans.

John, fully aware of the consequences, stayed low to the ground, breathing the marginally clearer air near the bottom edge of the door. From his position, he watched intently as the effects of the gas began to take hold. Gradually, their movements slowed, their once-brisk actions reduced to sluggish, clumsy gestures. Their speech became slurred and incoherent, their heads drooping as if weighted down by invisible hands. John remained still, his heart pounding, as the room sank into a suffocating silence.

One by one, the kidnappers fainted.

Though John felt the effects himself—his head swimming, dizziness threatening to overwhelm him—his resolve kept him alert. He forced himself to remain focused, waiting patiently until the room was completely silent. Only then did he act.

With trembling hands, he reached for the guard’s belt, carefully unclipping the keys that hung loosely from it. His actions were deliberate but desperate, his caution born of necessity.

Finally, the lock gave way, and John stepped through the door into the cool night air. The sudden rush of oxygen hit him like a wave, clearing his senses and sharpening his focus. The crisp freshness of the outdoors revitalized him as he stumbled forward, away from the place that had held him captive. Each breath felt like liberation, and with every step into the shadowy wilderness, John could feel the weight of his confinement lifting.

When morning broke, the air carried a freshness that greeted John like an old friend, wrapping him in a quiet welcome back to freedom. He had never set foot in this part of the countryside before, yet its beauty seized him at once. The Austrian rural landscape unfurled before him — rolling green hills washed in golden light, dewy meadows sparkling like tiny jewels, a soft mist drifting lazily between the trees, and a gentle river winding through the valley, its surface shimmering like liquid silver in the early sun. Along the roadside, clusters of daisies swayed gently in the breeze.

As he walked, he caught faint strains of music carried on the breeze, so delicate it felt almost unreal — as if the world itself were quietly celebrating his freedom. For the first time in years, John felt his heart swell with gratitude.

Just when John started to feel hungry and tired, he found a small restaurant.

Stepping inside was like entering a haven. Sunlight streamed through lace-curtained windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The gentle murmur of contented chatter filled the cozy space, punctuated by bursts of warm laughter. The air hummed with a feeling of easy camaraderie, like a gathering of old friends.

Customers, their faces relaxed and happy, sat at Formica-topped tables—some leaning in to share stories over steaming mugs, others savoring plates of food, their satisfaction unmistakable, as if they were dining in a three-star restaurant.

A rosy-cheeked woman with flour dusting her apron moved between the tables, her smile as bright as the morning sun, offering a kind word here and a refill there. The clatter of cutlery against plates was a comforting rhythm, a soundtrack to simple pleasures.

The menu, handwritten on a chalkboard with colorful chalk, listed dishes like golden-crusted chicken stew, hearty lentil soup with crusty bread, and fragrant vegetable pie.

John, clutching his coins, approached the counter where the rosy-cheeked woman beamed at him.

"Guten morgen, oh dear. You look a little weary. Is everything alright? What can I get you? Perhaps a nice hot drink and something to eat?" she asked. He ordered the stew, cheese and bread. When John asked how much would the bill be, the rosy-cheeked lady said smilingly: "$19.99."

As he sat at a small, unoccupied table, the simplicity of the scene enveloped him. The stew, thick with tender vegetables and savoury broth, arrived in a steaming bowl, accompanied by cheese and warm, crusty bread. The first bite was like being in Heaven to him, he couldn't believe he could enjoy anything below $20. He ate slowly, appreciating and savoring each mouthful, the tension that had gripped him for days beginning to ease. He finished every last drop and wished to order another bowl. But he ran out of money. Finally, John left the cafe immensely satisfied.

Back in Vienna, it was a new life for John. John found himself having more time for work than ever before, and his efficiency improved a lot. Yet, despite his newfound productivity, something lingered from his experience — a persistent cough. It started subtly at first, just an occasional scratch in his throat. But as days passed, the cough worsened, a stark reminder of the thick smoke he had inhaled during his captivity. The realization struck him—this wasn’t just a passing irritation; his lungs had suffered.

Determined to find a solution, John immersed himself in research, studying the effects of smoke exposure and air pollution on respiratory health. After months of experimentation, he perfected a formula: a cough medicine not just for relief, but for restoration. Unlike conventional remedies, his breakthrough treatment helped heal the lungs, reversing some of the damage caused by inhaling harmful air.

What had started as a personal struggle became a new medical discovery.