Thomas opened his eyes. He wasn't in the ballroom. He was sitting in a lecture hall.
The lights were buzzing—a low, fluorescent hum that drilled into his skull. The air smelled of cheap coffee and formaldehyde.
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. They weren't the small hands of a 15-year-old alchemist. They were the hands of a freshman med student.
On the desk in front of him was an exam paper. It was covered in red ink.
"You hesitated," a professor's voice echoed from the podium, though the podium was empty. "You hesitated, and the patient died."
"No," Thomas whispered, his throat tight. "I... I double-checked the dosage. I was being careful."
"Careful?" The voice laughed. "You were scared. You cared too much about the outcome, so you froze. Emotions are inefficient, Thomas. Empathy is a tremor in the surgeon's hand."
