The doors to Operating Room 9 slammed open, banging against the wall with enough force to make several nurses flinch. Dr. Lysa Kwon stormed in, flanked by two men in black coats and four uniformed guards. Her eyes swept the room once, sharp, focused, commanding.

  "Everyone out. Now."

  Startled murmurs rippled across the surgical team already inside. One nurse stepped forward, hands still gloved and hovering near the tray of instruments. "Doctor, we haven't cleared this patient. The crash cart is prepped, but—"

  One of the guards moved faster than anyone expected, planting a hand on her shoulder and guiding her firmly toward the door.

  "I said, out," Kwon repeated without raising her voice. Her tone didn’t need volume. It had gravity.

  One by one, the staff filed out, some protesting under their breath, others too confused to argue. A younger technician was halfway through a question before being spun around and shoved into the hallway.

  The guards took up position immediately, sealing the doors and facing outward with practiced discipline.

  Inside, silence reclaimed the room.

  Callum’s body lay motionless under the overhead lights, pale and still. Monitors showed flat lines. Cooling systems hummed softly under the surgical table.

  Dr. Kwon moved with precision. She placed her reinforced black case on the nearest stainless steel tray and unlocked the biometric clasp. The lid opened with a soft hiss.

  Inside lay a single device: sleek, silver, and needle-ended. She lifted it reverently.

  For a moment, she simply looked at him.

  The boy’s face—young, peaceful, with faint bruising along the temple—stirred something rare in her expression—a flicker of wonder, or perhaps curiosity.

  "Let’s see what you really are," she murmured.

  She positioned the tip of the injector just above his sternum and drove the five-inch needle cleanly through the skin and into the tissue above his heart. The lever clicked into place. Kwon pressed it down slowly, injecting half the silvery nanite compound.

  Without hesitation, she moved to his head.

  Pulling back his head gently, she angled the injector into his nasal passage. A quiet whine filled the room as the drill-bit tip activated, rotating rapidly as it bored through the thin bone between the nasal cavity and the base of the brain. The device vibrated subtly in her hand, and after a few seconds, a small green light blinked on near her thumb.

  She inhaled once, then pressed the remaining injection through.

  The final step was a soft press of a button along the side of the injector. A sealant compound hissed out to coat the bore channel, hardening instantly to protect the entry point.

  Kwon exhaled and gently placed the injector back in the case.

  "Strap the chest," she said.

  Two guards moved quickly, pulling a compact CPR harness from one of their bags. They secured it over Callum’s torso and powered it on.

  The device began its rhythmic compressions, thumping down mechanically over his sternum.

  "We need circulation," Kwon muttered. "Let’s give them something to ride."

  The machine continued its relentless pace. The nanites should be making steady progress with each compression of the machine.

  Now they would see what happened next.

  The nanites coursed through dead tissue. They would begin by restoring basic structure, cellular scaffolding, and microvascular flow.

  She waited. She was not normally a patient person, but this process could not be rushed. Every second mattered—each nanite needed time to reach its target, to rebuild what had been broken. Her fingers twitched against her coat sleeve, resisting the urge to pace. The only thing she could do now was observe and hope the reconstruction took hold as predicted.

  Minutes passed.

  Bruising began to fade. The broken clavicle popped back into place. Hairline fractures in his femur sealed silently. She watched as torn ligaments in the knee knitted together in real time. After fifteen minutes, every wound they could detect had been healed.

  She deactivated the harness.

  They waited.

  No breath. No twitch. Nothing.

  Half an hour passed in tense silence. One of the guards stepped outside to deal with police officers responding to an unauthorized lockdown alert triggered by the OR's evacuation. With help from a cooperative hospital administrator, the situation was smoothed over quietly.

  Inside, the anxiety grew.

  Dr. Kwon stood still, arms crossed, jaw tight. This should have worked. Everything in theory, modeling, and test simulations had led them here.

  And still—

  A sudden intake of breath shattered the silence.

  Callum’s chest expanded. Not violently, not theatrically. Just a slow, shuddering gasp. The room's mechanical whirr filled again with the soft sound of air moving.

  No movement. His eyelids didn’t flutter. Fingers stayed slack at his sides, unmoving. The body had begun breathing, but nothing else stirred. He looked more like a mannequin than a man—restored in form but vacant of presence. The air cycled steadily in and out of his lungs, oxygen spreading through vessels freshly rebuilt. But the brain remained quiet, devoid of the flicker that would mean he was truly back.

  "Begin diagnostic protocol," Kwon ordered.

  The techs moved in swiftly. Electrodes were attached. Scanners rolled into place. CT and MRI arrays rotated into position with the speed of a trauma ward in full motion.

  The displays lit up with internal scans. Brain activity was still low, but the neural structures were regenerating. Cellular repair was ongoing. Synapses that should have been quiet flared to life and settled into a rhythmic firing pattern.

  Bloodwork followed next. A microfiltration needle pulled samples, and results appeared on a wall display. Kwon’s eyes narrowed.

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  "There it is," she murmured.

  The blood was wrong. Not in a dangerous way—no toxins, no infections—but in a way that made her feel suddenly small.

  Elevated adaptive stem cells. Accelerated protein signaling. Redundant mitochondrial layers.

  "He's a carrier," her assistant whispered, almost reverently.

  Kwon nodded slowly. "The Viadric Trait. It’s active."

  The assistant looked up sharply. "But that was supposed to be dormant. Suppressed in infancy."

  "It was. It’s why his childhood records were classified. Why the blood panels disappeared from the NHS archive. Someone erased his genetic markers to hide him."

  "You think they knew this might happen?"

  Kwon didn’t answer.

  They had waited over a decade for Callum—or someone like him—to suffer a severe enough accident that they could intervene without drawing suspicion. Several others were being monitored, but Callum was the best match—the only one who had remained below notice.

  Until now.

  She stepped close and studied his face again.

  "Welcome back," she whispered. "Let’s see how far we can take you."

  Sadie sat in the far corner of the hospital waiting room, curled in on herself, eyes red-rimmed and tired. The bright lighting above did little to soften the hollow ache twisting in her chest. Her hands trembled slightly as she gripped her phone, thumb tracing the screen's edge repeatedly.

  At one point, she'd raised her voice at the woman behind the front desk—too many vague answers and unanswered questions. She'd been threatened with removal if she didn’t calm down. Now, she rocked slightly in her chair, keeping her gaze on the floor, fighting to keep tears from spilling again.

  Her voice had distracted him.

  That thought haunted her.

  She had called his name just before the car hit him. She hadn’t even seen the vehicle—just him stepping into the road, then the sound of impact. Guilt clung to her like a second skin.

  She’d always admired Callum—his quiet, goofy charm, the way he looked at the world like he was quietly amused by it. There were moments she had prayed that he would ask her out. But he never did. It was always close. Almost there. Never enough.

  Lately, she had decided to be the one to ask him. She was working up the courage.

  And now this.

  She stared at his contact profile on her phone. No updates. No change. In desperation, she'd reached out through social media to the only family contact she could find—Gregor Stroud, his father. A friend connection on one of the larger platforms.

  To her surprise, he responded almost instantly. Called her directly, his voice tight and direct. He was already on his way. Said he’d be there in under thirty minutes. She assumed Callum’s mum was with him—he hadn’t said, but it made sense.

  She waited. Fidgeted. Checked the door every time it opened.

  And then—he arrived.

  Gregor Stroud came through the front entrance like a stormcloud on legs. Short, round-shouldered, and built like a barrel, his face looked carved from stone and grief. She recognized him immediately from his profile photo—it had done him justice.

  Behind him followed a small woman with gentle steps and haunted eyes. She wasn’t much taller than Gregor, but she carried herself with quiet grace. There was pain in her face, but strength, too.

  Sadie stood quickly and raised her hand. "Over here."

  They spotted her and marched across the waiting room with a determination that cut through everything in their path.

  "Lass, what can ye tell me?"

  Sadie swallowed and nodded toward the row of seats. "Not much more than I did on the phone. His name was on the status board as being in an operating room, but it disappeared. No updates since. I tried to get them to tell me more, but they said they had nothing. I... I got a little upset, raised my voice, and they threatened to remove me."

  Gregor’s face darkened, shoulders squaring. "Throw ye out, will they? We’ll see about that."

  He spun on his heel and stormed toward the front desk, Elspeth and Sadie quickly trailing behind. Elspeth placed a comforting hand on Sadie’s arm as they walked—her grip gentle but grounding.

  "I’m Elspeth, love," she said softly, leaning close so Sadie could hear her clearly amid the hospital noise. Her voice was warm and gentle, carrying the same lilting Scottish accent as Gregor's, though hers was smoother, like a soft melody. "Thank ye for callin' us. Callum always spoke highly of ye."

  Sadie blinked rapidly, emotions surging. "Did he really? I... I didn't know he talked about me much."

  Elspeth offered a soft smile, eyes tired but kind. "Aye, more than ye might think. He’s quiet, my lad, but he notices people. Especially those he cares about."

  Sadie felt a fresh wave of guilt and worry wash over her, but Elspeth’s reassuring presence steadied her, at least for the moment. Together they hurried after Gregor, whose determined stride had already reached the information desk.

  The woman behind the counter looked up, and her posture stiffened immediately. Gregor bore down on her like a freight train of contained fury.

  "Sir," the nurse began cautiously, "I don’t have any more news than what I gave that young lady. You’ll have to wait until a doctor can speak with you."

  Gregor leaned on the counter, voice like gravel. "The hell I will. Get someone here to update us or take me to my boy. I will not have you keepin’ him from me."

  The nurse recoiled slightly but held her position. "Sir, I understand your concern, but I can only share information when the attending gives me clearance."

  Tension built palpably until a woman in a blazer appeared from a side hallway—an administrator by dress and demeanor. She approached quickly, inserting herself between Gregor and the desk.

  "Mr. Stroud?" she asked politely. "I’m Anna McMillan, hospital administrator. Why don’t we step into a more private waiting area?"

  Gregor grunted but gave a terse nod. Elspeth offered a quick, quiet thank-you to the woman, and together, the three of them followed her down a side hall and into a quiet room with cushioned chairs and a lowered light.

  Anna gestured to the seats. "Please, give me one moment. I’ll speak to the security detail and see if someone involved in his case can come update you."

  She stepped out, the door closing softly behind her.

  Gregor paced impatiently in the small waiting room, his broad shoulders tense, his movements tight and constrained like a caged animal. He suddenly stopped, turning sharply toward Sadie and Elspeth, frustration bleeding clearly into his gruff voice.

  "What did she mean, 'security detail'? What the feck is goin' on here?"

  Sadie swallowed nervously, rubbing her palms anxiously on her knees. She recalled the bizarre events that had unfolded earlier and took a shaky breath. "I—I saw a group of people in black uniforms storm into the hospital earlier. Military-looking types, with vests and everything. They had three doctors with them, or at least people who looked like doctors. It happened right when I was demanding answers at the front desk. I don't know what it means, but the timing... it was strange."

  Gregor's brow darkened further, fists clenching at his sides. "Great, now he's bein' held by some jackbooted thugs? I swear, I'll tear these doors off their bloody hinges if they take more than a minute tae get back tae us."

  Sadie flinched slightly at Gregor’s intensity, and Elspeth gently patted her hand, offering silent reassurance. Gregor resumed pacing, his agitation filling the small room with a restless energy that seemed barely contained.

  Elspeth, calm despite the strain etched into her features, turned slightly to face Sadie. Her voice was soft, careful, but firm enough to anchor Sadie’s spiraling thoughts. "Sadie, I know this is hard on ye, love. But can ye tell us exactly what happened? Ye mentioned on the phone that Callum was hurt, but can ye go through it step by step? Just so we understand."

  Sadie drew another trembling breath and nodded slowly, fighting against the tightness in her chest. Her voice came out quiet, almost a whisper at first, gaining strength as she spoke. She haltingly recounted how Callum had been sent out to a routine service call across town, how she had spotted him stepping out of his van from across the street, and how she'd called out to catch his attention.

  "I didn't even see the other car," she whispered, tears welling anew in her reddened eyes. Her voice broke with a sharp, choking sound as guilt flooded her words. "If I hadn't shouted... maybe he would've seen it in time. Maybe this wouldn't have happened—"

  She couldn't finish as sobs overtook her, shoulders shaking as fresh grief spilled out. Elspeth immediately wrapped her arms around Sadie, pulling her into a comforting embrace. Her own eyes glistened with unshed tears as she gently stroked Sadie’s hair.

  "Oh, lass," she murmured soothingly, "it was no more your fault than ours. Accidents happen. Ye couldn’t have known. You've stayed with our boy this whole time—ye did all ye could and more. Ye're not to blame, love."

  Gregor’s restless pacing halted abruptly, the anger and worry momentarily subsiding from his expression as he absorbed Sadie’s words. He turned slowly, taking in the sight of Sadie’s genuine distress and the gentle compassion his wife showed the young woman. His voice softened, losing some of its gruff edge.

  "Ye did a fine thing for my boy, missy. Stayed with him, made sure he wasn’t alone. I won’t be forgettin' it. Ye've my word on that."

  His declaration hung heavy in the air, full of sincerity and quiet gratitude, a promise borne from deep within the heart of a worried father. Sadie managed a faint nod, still nestled within Elspeth’s comforting embrace, finding a small measure of peace amid the chaos of the waiting room.