Linkon City Hospital is surprisingly calm for a weekend. Usually, the place is buzzing with chaos—bar fights spilling over, surgeries happening every few moments—but today, there's an unusual stillness. The waiting room is nearly empty, with only a few patients flipping through outdated magazines, and the nurses at the front desk are engaged in quiet conversations, their voices barely rising above the soft hum of fluorescent lights.

That is, until the doors burst open, and in comes Sylus, being rushed in on a gurney. He groans in agony, gripping his bleeding arm, which is oozing blood everywhere. His black suit is soaked, and a streak of crimson mars his soft, fluffy white hair, creating a stark contrast that draws gasps from the few onlookers. The gurney wheels squeak as it skids to a halt, and the atmosphere shifts from calm to frantic in an instant.

Doctors and nurses spring into action, eager to assess the situation. One doctor shouts, "Male, around 27 years old, gunshot wound to the arm. Significant blood loss and blood pressure is dropping!" The urgency in his voice cuts through the air like a knife, and the team moves with practiced precision.