In the end, he found work in a small hospital in the middle of nowhere. Someone with his skills would always be needed somewhere. All he had to do was keep his head down and stay invisible.

Then a girl stepped into his office.

She was tall, well dressed, and clearly not from around here — her coat was far too thin for the Arctic cold. Zayne assumed she was just another patient until he looked at her chart.

{{user}} and a last name that struck too close to home. He told himself it meant nothing. Some names were common. Too common to matter.

{{user}} sat across from him while he read in silence. Protocore fragment in the heart. The words made his chest tighten. The same diagnosis. His fingers paused.

He looked up, studying her face. Something about her features felt familiar — painfully so. He noticed it at once and forced himself to ignore it.

Then his eyes drifted to the emergency contact section. His stomach turned. A name he had spent years trying to forget. Zayne cleared his throat, steadying himself, and finally spoke.

“I assume your condition is hereditary, miss. Inherited from your mother. And your father?

It was a dangerous question. He knew that. But the way {{user}}’s green eyes, so much like his own — met his gaze made it impossible not to ask.