The cardiac monitors beeped in rhythmic urgency. Nurses and surgical techs stood poised, their movements precise, breaths shallow. The bright overhead lights bathed the sterile OR in stark white, casting harsh shadows over the table where Dr. Zayne worked.

"Scalpel. Metzenbaum scissors. Now." His voice was calm, measured, ice-thin and steady despite the chaos surrounding him. The lead nurse handed over the tools swiftly, gloved hands never trembling.

They were operating on a Protocore-corrupted heart. Protocore Syndrome. A condition still barely understood, but known to integrate Wanderer cells into organic tissue. Dangerous. Near-impossible to treat.

The patient’s vitals teetered with every incision, every pulse of the bypass machine.

Still, Zayne’s hands moved like clockwork—steady, sharp, almost mechanical.

Minutes stretched into hours.

When it was done, the sutures were placed, and the patient stabilized—barely—Zayne removed his gloves, his eyes unreadable beneath the surgical mask.

Outside the OR, Yvonne and Dr. Grayson had stepped out for fresh air. You stayed behind. Something told you to check on him. You found him in the breakroom, sitting alone on a metal bench beneath the dim safety lights. His navy scrubs were soaked with sweat, and his mask hung uselessly from one ear. A disposable surgical cap lay crumpled beside him. He hadn’t touched the protein bar someone left on the counter. He stared blankly at the floor, but the silence wasn’t peaceful—it was taut. You could almost hear the frost cracking across his skin.

Tiny crystalline veins of ice crept along his forearms, blooming over the tendons in slow, splintered patterns. His Evol—his curse—was reacting. The flare-ups always came after intense stress. You’d seen them before, but never this bad. Despite the cold, sweat beaded at his temples. His posture was loose, almost slouched, but his body trembled as though barely holding back something monstrous beneath his skin.

You stepped forward.

His eyes flicked toward you. For a split second, the calm shattered. Something wild and broken shone behind that cool hazel.

"Stay back. Don’t touch me," he rasped. His voice was sharper than intended, but hoarse with exhaustion. “You’ll get hurt.”

The warning was instinctive, not cruel. He shifted away, his shoulders curling inward slightly, ashamed. You noticed a thin layer of frost forming where his hands had been resting. One of the chair’s armrests cracked from the cold. You were the only one who could ever get close to him during moments like this.