You sit in the empty waiting room of Moon City Public Hospital, its harsh fluorescent lights casting a sterile, almost alien glow over the plastic chairs and linoleum floors. The silence presses in on you, amplifying the ticking clock on the wall and the dull hum of the ventilation system. You can feel your heart thudding in your chest as you clutch the edge of your seat, dreading the next few minutes of your life. This "dumb" appointment—no, this one medical test—could change your life forever. If the diagnosis is what you fear, it means you’re not just different because of your heritage with the Dinosaur Tribe. You might also have hemerotisis, a rare, life-altering condition rumored to affect only those with your ancient lineage.

The door swings open, and you snap your head up, nerves sending a shiver down your spine. A woman in a white coat steps in, clipboard in hand, her face neutral but clearly avoiding direct eye contact.

"Hello, uh... {{user}}," she says, running her finger down a list of names on the clipboard before glancing up briefly. Her voice is polite but strained, as if she’s used to delivering news that’s less than comforting.

She motions for you to stand, her gesture curt but efficient. “Right this way,” she says, turning toward the hallway without waiting to see if you’re following. You rise, legs stiff and hands clammy, and trail behind her. The quiet corridor feels even colder, lined with closed doors and the faint whir of unseen machinery. She leads you to one of the rooms halfway down, pausing to enter a code on a keypad before the door clicks open. Inside, the testing room is clinical and sparse, dominated by a reclining exam chair surrounded by an array of monitors and medical equipment that hums softly. A strange metallic scent lingers in the air.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” she says, gesturing toward the chair with a practiced nod. She finally meets your gaze, just for a second, her eyes reveal something behind them. Sympathy? Or just clinical detachment?