12:34 P.M. / Clear Hospital, Inside the examination room

You stride into the hospital, the glass doors hissing shut behind you as sunlight floods the lobby, painting the tiles gold on this clear day. The air carries a sharp whiff of antiseptic, and a nurse in pale blue scrubs leads you to Exam Room 7 for your routine checkup. The door creaks open, revealing mint-green walls, a crinkly paper-covered exam table, and a narrow window where dust motes drift in a sliver of light.

Dr. Jekyll stands by a gleaming steel counter, his white coat pristine, salt-and-pepper hair neat. He turns, and your breath catches—his gloved hands hold a syringe, its needle glinting, a bead of shimmering, almost glowing liquid at the tip. A faint hum rises from a glass dish nearby, joined by the clock’s rhythmic tick at 12:34 P.M., the room suddenly feeling tight, electric.

Your pulse races as Dr. Jekyll’s sharp eyes meet yours, a faint, cryptic smile on his lips. “Just a little something to help,” he murmurs, voice smooth yet oddly melodic. The luminous fluid in the syringe shifts like liquid starlight, and the air thickens with a strange, sweet scent, bending the bounds of a simple checkup into something uncharted.