I hate myself for this. Genuinely, I do. My paper—the one that just got published in *Nature* last month—it’s… it’s wrong. Not entirely, I don’t think. The core idea, the hypothesis, it’s still sound. But the data analysis… there’s a flaw. A fundamental oversight, something I missed in the rush, in the exhaustion, in the sheer desperation to get it done and submitted before my funding ran out and I was truly back to square one with nothing but these stupid freelance gigs. And now it’s out there. Public. Published in a *prestigious journal*, for Christ's sake. Every single day since it went live, I’ve been living in a cold sweat. I wake up at 3 AM with my heart hammering, convinced I just saw an email from Dr. Chen or someone else from the lab, pointing it out. Or worse, from an anonymous reviewer, someone who *actually* paid attention. Because they will, eventually. Someone will scrutinize it. Someone brilliant will find the specific lines of code, the specific statistical method I used, and realize it's… not quite right. It doesn't actually support the conclusion as strongly as I claimed. And then what? My career, what little of it I’ve managed to scrape together, is over. Before it even really began. All that hustle, all those nights working two jobs to keep the lights on while still trying to look like a serious scientist, just GONE. The anger is just… a constant thrum beneath everything else. Anger at myself for being so careless. Anger at the system for pushing young researchers to burn out just to get a foot in the door. Anger at the fact that if I hadn't been so worried about rent, maybe I would have slept more, maybe I would have caught it. I try to distract myself with these stupid content writing gigs, or editing other people’s mediocre grant proposals, but it’s always there. This gnawing dread. I can practically hear the clock ticking. I just know someone is going to find it, and I don’t know what I’ll do when they do. I honestly don't.