The sixth chapter transports us to a reality where a single pill, LYL-8, promises to eradicate anger, sparking a global debate that crosses every layer of society. In Rome, among the profound reflections of cardinals and theologians on the nature of anger and free will, the fundamental question emerges: is anger an obstacle or an essential spark for justice and human authenticity?
Meanwhile, in Delhi, a vibrant movement is rising up in defense of the "right to emotion," denouncing the pill as a new form of disguised colonialism. This rebellion is spreading rapidly, influencing legislation in Paris, corporate policies in China, and even artistic expression in Buenos Aires, where protest becomes cathartic performance.
Religions are confronted with this innovation, divided between those who see it as a therapeutic tool and those who reject it as an alteration of the human experience. Even the underground biohacking scene responds, trying to reactivate what the pill intends to suppress.
The chapter ends with the image of scientists and thinkers reflecting on the fate of humanity deprived of one of its most powerful emotions. Biologist Aya Nakamura observes the world divided between those who seek serenity at all costs and those who fight to preserve the entire emotional spectrum, understanding that the real battle is not scientific or legal, but is played out in the intimate decision of each individual.
A team of Japanese scientists announces the molecule LYL-8, able to inhibit the amygdala’s negative impulses; financial markets, governments and bio-ethicists ponder the impact of a society without anger
Stories. Osaka unveils LYL-8: the first “anti-rage pill”. Chapter 6 – Cultural Resistance
Rome, 27 March
Dawn rose languidly, kneaded with zinc-coloured clouds that soon gave way to a fine, almost shy yet stubborn rain. Via della Conciliazione whispered beneath the wheels of ministerial cars; droplets bounced off the cobblestones, storing the sky’s grey inside puddles that now reflected the stern façade of Saint Peter’s, now the tremulous red of traffic-lights.
Inside Paul VI Hall, the light that filtered through the great skylight was sifted by a veil of clouds so dense that it turned the whole space into an alabaster lantern: even the cardinals’ scarlet seemed washed to pale rose, black cassocks shifted toward London-smoke, glossy folders turned the pearly sheen of seashells. Conference staff handed out headsets for simultaneous translation; security personnel—dark raincoats, earpieces, narrowed eyelids—buzzed along the side aisles, creating a controlled tingling, like a hive in which everyone knows the steps of their dance.
When Cardinal Boniface Ayensu of Ghana rose, it seemed a dark oak had come to life among the benches. Massive shoulders—fit to carry ceremonial drums—knotty hands veined like bark. Before speaking he merely inhaled; that breath alone convinced the technicians to switch off the already-live microphone. The voice that emerged, baritonal and resonant, made the metal chairs vibrate and the apse windows murmur.
“Brothers and sisters,” he declared, spreading his arms as if to enfold the entire assembly, “anger is born of a desire for justice.
If we tear it from the human heart, can we truly expect the world to defend the orphan and the widow? Fire is dangerous, yes, but on a stormy night it is also the only thing that keeps the wolves away.”His words rolled down the rows, bounced off the vaults, climbed the milky glass of the skylight, leaving behind a silence as saturated as a field after rain. Michela Bevilacqua—a Roman theologian, eyes aflame behind gossamer lenses, iron-coloured hair pinned in a dishevelled chignon—found space to stand in turn. Her bulging folder, stuffed with bookmarks and Post-its, opened with a rustle: margins gnawed by highlighters, bent corners, coffee stains told of weeks of study.
“A drug capable of taming clinical violence is a blessing for emergency wards,” she began in a surprisingly calm voice, “but turning it into a fog that swaddles every temptation, that anaesthetises the very spark of conflict… that is another terrain entirely. If the heart stops burning, where does freely-given assent go? How can a morally valid will grow in a desert of lukewarm emotions?”
The rain—now thicker—drummed erratic blows on the roof. The Pope remained seated, hands resting on the armrests like on two banks of a swollen river. His face, mapped by wrinkles that seemed routes of inner pilgrimages, kept an expression of quiet absorption. When he finally inclined his head, the stenographers’ keyboards halted; the hum of translations was severed like tape cut clean.
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