Maren's gaze drifted across the lobby. The low hum of conversation dimmed as his eyes landed on a large board near the waiting area — 'Chemotherapy Support Centre — Hope for Tomorrow.'
The poster depicted a nurse placing a soft wig on a young girl's bald head, her smile bright and fragile. Neat rows of pamphlets lined the wall below — recovery programs, counselling, prosthetic fittings.
After Bael finished filling in the details, he turned around and walked to Maren. "Young master, they'll take you in soon."
Maren blinked, then turned to him with a calm nod. "Right."
They followed a nurse through the white corridors, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to the air. Their footsteps echoed softly against the sterile walls as she led them into a small examination room where three doctors were already waiting—the head physician at the centre, flanked by two assistants.
The routine checks began: a blood sample, blood pressure, oxygen levels, and a brief internal scan.
Everything was standard, at least at first, until the data appeared on the monitors.
One of the younger doctors, probably the newest among them, froze for a split second. His eyes widened. Realisation hit him before he could mask it. He forced his expression back under control almost immediately. Maren recognised the reason. He was currently a highly valued patient. Any reaction beyond professionalism could be seen as rude, or worse.
Still, Maren noticed.
The faintest ripple of surprise crossed the man's face. It lasted only a heartbeat before it was swallowed by years of drilled-in medical discipline.
The results on the screens told the real story.
Faint toxin interference. Irregular coagulation, as if something foreign had recently entered his bloodstream.
But that was not the true anomaly.
His body was undoing the damage far too quickly.
Cells repaired themselves faster than normal biology should allow. The toxins broke down before any detailed analysis could finish. His white blood cell count was elevated far beyond normal limits.
An awakened
The thought surfaced in Maren's mind even if the doctor did not speak it aloud. The man's silence told him enough.
After the preliminary assessment and after noting his low blood volume, the team attached an O-positive blood pack to stabilise him while they prepared for deeper scans.
Bael remained in the corner. Silent. A picture of calm. But beneath that calm, tension wound tighter with every second.
Once the transfusion was underway, the staff escorted Maren to a private recovery room, where he would rest until the full diagnostic results were ready.
Bael, still wearing the mask of a loyal servant, rose from the couch. "I'll go speak with the doctors about the results, young master," he said evenly.
Maren nodded faintly. "Send in a nurse, will you? The I.V. patch feels uncomfortable."
"Of course," Bael replied, stepping out and shutting the door behind him.
For a moment, silence filled the room. The hum of the machines blended with the soft rhythm of Maren's breathing. He stared at the white ceiling above him, eyes unfocused.
"Bael definitely has a hand in all this," he muttered under his breath.
A gentle knock came at the door before it slid open. A nurse stepped in, smiling politely. "How can I assist you, Mr Mael?"
Maren blinked. Mael? He quickly pieced it together — Bael must have used a fake name. It made sense. Awakened weren't exactly celebrities, and carrying the Cross name only invited trouble.
Bael, you really do have a talent for naming, he thought with a faint smirk.
The nurse moved closer, checking the I.V. drip. Maren's gaze followed her hands — calm, unreadable.
Then, slowly, an idea formed in his mind.
When he finally spoke, his tone was low, almost hypnotic.
"You want to be rich."
The nurse's polite smile faltered, confusion flickering behind her eyes.
Something in his tone shifted, a calm that didn't belong to Maren.
Michael didn't look at her. His voice came out quiet, not demanding, not curious, just certain. "Natla, tell me the balance in my account."
A soft chime pulsed from his bracelet.
"Current balance: 273,459,220units."
The nurse froze. Her breath hitched somewhere between disbelief and fear.
She muttered under her breath, as if needing to hear it aloud. "Millions…"
Michael finally looked at her, the corner of his mouth curling up.
"How about it?" A pause followed.
"Interested"
...
Bael moved through the well-lit white corridors, his eyes scanning for a quiet corner away from prying eyes. Turning left, he soon found an empty balcony supported by steel frames below.
Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through his contacts until one name made him pause: Doctor Phill.
He tapped it. The line rang—each tone slicing through the stillness.
Click.
"Was the surgery successful?" The voice was calm, deliberate—the kind that carried authority even through static.
Bael leaned on the railing, the cold wind brushing against his coat. "The anesthesia was administered," he said evenly. "But the patient showed resistance. Something interfered with the process—perhaps a mishandled dosage on your end."
A short pause followed. The silence was heavier than the words.
"That's a serious claim, Bael," the voice replied, irritation slipping beneath its composure.
"I'm aware," Bael said quietly. "The patient's stable for now, but time isn't on our side."
Another beat of silence. Then the voice came again—lower, colder.
"I'll be sending two more doctors tonight. The surgery must be completed before dawn."
Bael's jaw tightened. "Understood."
"Good." The tone softened, but only in sound, not intent. "No further complications, Bael. Otherwise, we may have to revoke your medical license—and you know what that means."
The call ended with a faint click.
Bael slipped the phone into his coat pocket and exhaled. Below, the city glowed—unbothered, bright, and blissfully unaware.
He checked the time. Five hours until dawn.
Ding—ding.
A new message blinked on his screen. Two photographs appeared as he swiped them open—two faces, sharp. A line of text followed beneath.
—> [Dr. Phill]: These two will be your co-workers.
...
An hour later, a black sedan idled in the far corner of the hospital's multistorey parking lot, parked beneath a flickering light built into the overhang above. The harsh glow stuttered irregularly, casting long, broken shadows across the concrete.
Inside, a woman sat behind the wheel, her reflection ghosting faintly across the windscreen. The air carried the sterile scent of disinfectant—and underneath it, the metallic tang of old blood. Beside her, a man adjusted his gloves, careful not to smudge the pristine white of his coat. The name tag pinned neatly to his chest read Dr Elan Voss.
In the back seat, the real Elan Voss slumped lifelessly against the door, head tilted at an unnatural angle. The faint hum of the AC cycled again and again, stirring a lock of his blood-matted hair with each pass.
The driver checked the clock.
Four hours until dawn.
Jacob exhaled softly and eyed the corpse in the back seat before glancing sideways at Lea.
"Miss Lea… what do you reckon are the odds he just bails on us?" he asked. He tried for casual, but the note of respect in his tone couldn't quite be hidden.
Lea didn't answer immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the vast, empty stretch of concrete ahead, her expression unreadable.
"He won't," she said eventually, her voice calm and certain.
Jacob raised a brow. "Pretty confident."
A short silence stretched between them before she spoke again, her tone dropping in the faintest degree. "Bael Xerces may be in the same line of work as us, but he still has convictions."
Jacob let out a dry, amused huff. "Convictions, huh? Yeah… I've got a few too. Mostly gambling, oversleeping, and some hobbies I probably shouldn't bring up right now."
Lea didn't react. She rarely did.
Jacob shifted in his seat. "Right. Not the same kind. Understood."
Through the rear-view mirror, a silhouette began taking shape in the distant shadows. Lea's fingers drifted to the door handle, a subtle tension entering her posture.
"His is loyalty," she murmured—more thought than explanation.
Jacob huffed under his breath. "Say… is he a Blightborn, or a Tethered like you?"
Lea finally pushed open the door, the cold air spilling into the car. "Second-stage Awakened," she replied, stepping out. "So yes—a Tethered."
Jacob nodded softly as he climbed out after her. "Explains why you're the one in charge."
They moved to the back of the car, standing near the bumper as Bael closed the distance between them. Jacob watched him approach, a crooked thought tugging the corner of his lips.
"Tell me if this is stupid," he said, leaning slightly toward Lea, "but couldn't we have just made him kill the kid and slipped away after? The whole thing would've been simpler."
Bael's sharp glare cut through him before Lea even responded. Jacob straightened immediately.
Lea folded her arms. "We were meant to have another operative. Someone more suited for this. He was reassigned; you've met him. Jacob was a last-minute replacement."
Jacob nodded quickly, shrinking a little. "Makes sense."
Bael's jaw tightened. "Killing him is part of the job, yes. But we also need to replace the body. If you believe one person can handle that alone… be my guest."
Jacob raised both hands in surrender. "Just thinking out loud."
Bael turned to Lea, voice steady. "You brought the duplicate, yes?"
A soft beep answered as she unlocked the boot. The taillights flared red once before dimming again. She reached inside and lifted a sleek black case, its handle sliding up with a metallic hiss.
"In the suitcase."
Jacob cleared his throat and shifted his gloves. "So… what's the plan?"
"Cipher," Lea replied, tapping her wrist pad. "He'll loop the hospital cameras and drop the feeds for twenty minutes."
A soft chime echoed from the device, followed by static. A filtered voice emerged through the speaker.
"Feeds dropping in ninety seconds."
Lea gave Jacob a brief, precise nod—firm enough to be an order, subtle enough to be professional. "Make it quick."
Jacob dipped his head in acknowledgement, a faint smile cracked. "Right."
Bael gave a curt nod of his own and turned his back to them, preparing to move.
"Let's finish this quickly; his room is 1103."
"Lea, you seriously should have informed him about the mission. If he's the cause of something going wrong, it's going -."
shkkkk.
Bael's sentence was never completed
A low, wet sound of flesh being pierced reached Bael's ears—an instant before his mind understood what had happened. Realisation hit half a heartbeat later by then His kidney was already ruptured around the invading steel, and a sickening, dragging pull followed as the blade was ripped free in a curved motion.
In the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Jacob—knife still raised, Bael's own warm blood dripping from the edge. The world blurred under the flood of sensation: the ripping pain, the shock, the disbelief, and the furious, primal rage that swallowed everything else.
Jacob stepped back lightly, balanced on the balls of his feet, twirling the blood-slick knife as if it were nothing more than a toy. A crooked grin stretched across his face—smug casual.
Bael's rage snapped taut.
He spun with a clean, brutal pivot—his arm sweeping out in a vicious arc. The air cracked, the raw force blasting dust from the corridor walls, the shockwave thudding through the asphalt.
Jacob's hair blew backwards from the violent gust. He let out a low whistle, eyebrows lifting in mock admiration.
"Not bad, senior. No hard feelings, yeah? Just another day at work. Sucks for some more than others," he remarked, casually smoothing his hair while drops of Bael's blood trailed down his fringe
Bael staggered a half-step back, chest heaving, the pain in his side burning like a hot iron pressed into him. Instinct took over. His hand clamped over the wound, and white essence surged beneath his palm, flickering violently as it fought to knit together the ruptured kidney.
The healing stuttered along with his thoughts—
That knife is made from duralite? Why am I being betrayed?
His vision sharpened just in time to catch Lea moving.
From behind her waist, she drew a gun in one smooth, practised motion. The barrel snapped up, perfectly levelled at Bael's chest.
His blood ran cold.
Lea fired.
The muzzle flash lit the corridor with a burst of white-hot light.
Bael moved—superhuman speed igniting through his limbs, instincts tearing him into motion before the sound even reached his ears. He vaulted backward, boots skidding across the polished floor.
But Lea was no amateur.
She was an exceptional marksman—and the real advantage was that she, like him, was tethered.
The first shot struck him before he'd taken a full step—slamming into his right arm, shattering through the humerus with a sickening crack. Bone splintered. Blood sprayed the wall.
The second shot hit before he could even register the pain. It passed through his left leg just above the knee, cutting clean through muscle and tendon. His leg buckled.
He pushed harder, white essence flaring under his skin, forcing his body to move despite the agony, despite the broken bones, despite the betrayal spiralling through his mind.
Bael began muttering, but Lea had already caught on to what he intended. Her eyes narrowed as she adjusted her grip.
"Conduit: Carissa's Rule."
A third shot cracked through the night. The echoes faded into the air,
And so did Bael.