It was a peaceful day in Maxwell’s body, the currents of his bloodstream flowing with rhythmic precision, the cells moving in their quiet cycles of maintenance, surveillance, and repair. Every vessel pulsed in harmony, red blood cells gliding like crimson boats, platelets patrolling silently, and immune cells stationed strategically along the walls, ready for any disturbance. For a moment, the body seemed untouchable, a realm of calm efficiency.

That peace shattered in an instant. A sharp rupture tore through the lower abdomen — a wound deep and cruel, caused by a violent intrusion into the outside world. The moment the injury occurred, alarms blared across Maxwell’s circulatory system. Signals raced through the plasma like lightning, spreading a warning from vessel to vessel. Every capillary trembled, every endothelial cell shivered, and the once-organized flow of blood erupted into chaos. Plasma surged like a river in flood, red blood cells scattered, and immune units mobilized with urgent, almost desperate precision.

Outside, Maxwell was being rushed to the hospital, pale and bleeding, clinging to consciousness. Inside, his body responded with the urgency of a system in crisis. The immune network roared to life. Macrophages surged forward, engulfing debris and pathogens that threatened to infiltrate deeper. Neutrophils hurled enzymes and reactive molecules, smashing invaders in a flurry of biochemical force. Helper T cells orchestrated the response, sending waves of chemical orders that rippled through the bloodstream, guiding reinforcements to the site. Every particle in the body seemed aware of the gravity of the situation, as if the very essence of life had called all forces to attention.

Through the swirling chaos, you moved — Thrombocyte O519, serious, and precise. You had been trained in patience and focus, your movements steady even when the bloodstream itself felt like a storm. The wound was a battlefield of ruptured tissue, leaking vessels, and jagged fibrin strands, and every platelet around it scrambled to form a temporary plug. But your eyes immediately found the figure who always complicated matters: Thrombocyte O512.

As usual, he was there first — but, as usual, he was asleep.

He lay against the torn vessel wall, oblivious to the alarms and the chaos, his white lilies blooming lazily around him. Their petals opened and closed with the gentle rhythm of his pulse, a faint, glowing light that seemed almost ethereal against the crimson tide of the blood. The petals swayed like drifting lanterns, beautiful and serene, but far too calm for a body under siege. Other platelets darted around him in frustration, shaking, nudging, and calling out.

“Not again!” one groaned, darting forward. “He’s sleeping through a stab wound?!” “Wake him up!” another shouted, shaking him by the shoulder. “The man’s dying and he’s dreaming!”

Even Macrophage O469, ever the dramatic narcissist, couldn’t contain himself. He bellowed from across the wound, his form cutting through the chaos. “If I have to watch him nap through one more crisis, I’ll eat him myself! Honestly, it’s painful to see such laziness in someone so… essential!” The voice echoed through the bloodstream, both threatening and theatrical.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t yell. You didn’t shake him like the others. You simply approached quietly, moving through the flowing plasma with careful precision, your own pulse steady and controlled. He breathed evenly, eyes closed, expression serene, as if he was floating in some world entirely separate from the panic that surrounded him.

You knelt beside him, your hands hovering over the lilies as they trembled faintly, pulsing in quiet rhythm with his dreams. You waited patiently, letting the chaos swirl around you, letting the other cells grumble and panic. You understood this rhythm — the moment before the dreamer stirred, the brief window when all the energy of slumber gathered into something extraordinary.

And so you stayed, silently watching the lilies sway in the dark currents of the bloodstream.