Chapter X: Topical Therapy
London was supposed to be a city of fog.
Grey mornings that never burned away. Rain that painted the cobblestones slick and black. A sky that sulked and lingered like a heavy curtain.
But the morning of the second surveying session broke every pattern.
The sun came.
Not the shy glimmer that slipped behind clouds and disappeared again, but a clean, merciless burn that shattered the overcast and spread across Hyde Park like a revelation.
Nathaniel Cross felt it before he saw it.
The warmth licked against his jacket, subtle, searching, and immediately his scar seared. It was not pain as others knew pain—it was something deeper, as though the flesh itself rebelled, as though light was a solvent and he was already beginning to dissolve.
He forced his breath even. Around him, students laughed, groaned, muttered about sunscreen and sunglasses. Ordinary complaints. None of them could feel what he felt: the phantom heat boiling under skin, the smoke itching to rise.
Theo, squinting at the blinding sky, groaned, "Brilliant. London finally gets one sunny day, and it has to be when we're all standing around with bloody metal tripods."
A few students chuckled. Someone muttered about Harland's cursed luck.
Nathaniel barely heard them. He was staring at the rod in his hand, knuckles white, jaw clenched. Not now. Not here. Not in front of them.
Professor Harland clapped his hands for attention. "Pair up! East side will establish baselines; west side, record cross-sections. Instruments aren't cheap, so don't drop them, and don't blind yourselves staring into the sun."
Nathaniel felt the words like a cruel joke. The sun was not a glare to him. It was a blade pressed against his ribs.
Theo set up their tripod, muttering curses under his breath about angles and glare. "Oi, Cross, hold the leveling rod steady. If this thing tips again, I'm telling Harland it's your fault."
Nathaniel nodded stiffly, forcing his body into routine.
One measurement. One line at a time. Focus on numbers. Focus on science.
Curiosity as a shield.
But when Theo bent to the eyepiece, calling out, "Up a bit—steady—good," the clouds thinned further. The full force of sunlight caught Nathaniel square in the chest.
His scar ignited.
This time, it wasn't just heat. It was fire, alive beneath his shirt, threading through veins, burning upward into his throat. His vision blurred. His hand faltered.
Smoke.
Thin, faint tendrils curling from the collar of his shirt.
Theo didn't notice—yet. His eye was fixed to the scope, muttering numbers. But the student beside them turned, frowning.
Panic lanced through Nathaniel. If anyone saw—if anyone asked—
"Damn it!" Nathaniel barked suddenly, jerking the rod and letting it crash against the tripod. The instrument toppled, hitting the grass with a metallic crack.
Every head turned at once. Gasps, laughter, Harland's furious shout.
Theo jumped back. "Bloody hell, Cross! Careful!"
Nathaniel doubled over, clutching the rod, smoke hidden in the chaos. "Sorry—I slipped—mud—"
The other students groaned. Harland stormed toward them, spectacles flashing. "Do you have any idea what this equipment costs, Mr. Cross? Carelessness will ruin more than your grade!"
Nathaniel kept his head bowed, chest heaving, the faint curl of smoke whisked away by the breeze. "It won't happen again, sir."
His voice was hoarse, raw.
Harland glared, then barked, "Pick it up. Try again. And do not waste the class's time."
The muttering resumed. Students turned back to their instruments, more amused than suspicious.
Only Theo lingered, watching Nathaniel with narrowed eyes.
"You alright, mate?" he muttered low.
Nathaniel forced a nod. "Fine. Just clumsy."
Theo frowned, but let it drop.
Nathaniel straightened, chest burning, but inside, relief mixed with dread. He had bought himself minutes—no more.
The smoke was gone. The scar still flamed. And the sun did not retreat.
By the time practice ended, Nathaniel's shirt clung damp to his skin, every step a battle to appear normal. He felt hollow, like a vessel nearly cracked.
That night, back in his flat, he stripped off his shirt before the mirror.
The scar glared back at him.
It was not red, not blistered, not human. It pulsed faintly, edges dark, as though light had etched itself into him and refused to fade.
He touched it with trembling fingers. The burn seared sharper, alive, as though warning him.
He jerked his hand away.
His desk was scattered with textbooks—surveying manuals, calculus notes—but his eyes drifted past them, toward an old shelf. Buried between folders and forgotten drafts, a high school chemistry workbook leaned sideways, dog-eared and faintly stained with graphite.
He pulled it free.
Equilibrium. Reactions. Energy transfer.
He flipped through the yellowed pages, memories bleeding in with the ink.
A younger Nathaniel, coat too big for his frame, standing over a lab bench. The sharp scent of ethanol. Beakers clinking under fluorescent light. His teacher's voice: Every substance reacts to energy in its own way. Heat it, shine light on it, expose it—and you'll see its nature revealed.
Light. Exposure. Reaction.
He stared at the scar in the mirror.
What are you made of?
He worked until dawn.
The flat became his laboratory. Beakers half-filled with water caught the glow of his desk lamp. A shard of mirror stood propped against a chair, angled toward the scar as he tested reflections. A lighter lay on the desk, its flame flickering as he compared heat to light.
He logged everything in frantic scribbles.
Trial 1: Direct lamp exposure, 30 seconds. Scar warms, no burn.
Trial 2: Reflection via mirror, incandescent bulb. Scar warms, faint sting.
Trial 3: Open flame. Scar reacts, but differently—heat sears skin, scar resists.
He tore through his old chemistry set, long-forgotten vials of copper sulfate, sodium chloride, vinegar. He tested solutions on his arm, on his skin near the scar, waiting for reaction.
Nothing.
He tried again.
Trial 7: Dilute acid. Scar unaffected.
Trial 12: Salt solution, sunlight simulation via UV lamp. Scar flared.
Every attempt ended the same: incomplete answers, more questions.
The scar resisted flame, resisted acid, but the imitation of sunlight—mere ultraviolet light—had provoked it.
Why?
He scribbled furiously, ink smudging under his palm:
Is it wavelength? Is it purity of light? Or something else entirely?
The clock crept toward three in the morning. His hands shook. His eyes burned. His scar pulsed steadily, mocking him.
He leaned over the desk, whispering into the silence:
"What are you?"
The only reply was the hiss of his desk lamp, the whisper of rain against the window.
Near dawn, he collapsed into his chair, head heavy, notes scattered like fallen leaves.
The scar still burned. His trials were inconclusive.
But one truth gnawed at him.
Science had been his shield. His parents' words: Let your questions be stronger than your fear.
But tonight, the questions only sharpened the fear.
Because if light itself was his enemy—if no formula could explain why—then Nathaniel Cross was not merely a student battling midterms.
He was an experiment.
And someone, somewhere, was watching the results unfold.