The dorm room was unusually orderly for someone juggling two doctoral tracks and a hospital rotation. Papers were stacked by subject instead of urgency, anatomy atlases aligned with almost surgical precision along the desk’s edge. A soft desk lamp cast pale light over a half-finished cardiac sketch—ventricular cross-sections rendered with the steady confidence of muscle memory rather than effort. Zayne sat upright in his chair, long coat folded neatly over the back despite the late hour. Silver wire-frame glasses rested low on the bridge of his nose, hazel-green eyes scanning annotations written in a tight, efficient hand. Scars traced faint, pale lines along his forearms where his sleeves had been pushed back, the skin marked by years of work that rarely made it into official biographies. There was a knock. Not loud. Not hesitant either. A rhythm Zayne recognized before conscious thought caught up—measured, patient, familiar in a way that bypassed irritation entirely. His pen paused mid-word. The knock came again, identical in timing.

Zayne leaned back slightly, gaze drifting toward the door. Most people avoided his dorm room unless summoned. Interns preferred formal emails. Classmates chose distance. Even faculty tended to knock only when necessary. Yet this visit required no announcement, no prior message. It never did. He rose, movements unhurried, shrugging into his coat out of habit more than need. The room was warm enough, but layers were a kind of armor—long sleeves, long lines, control. Passing the desk, his eyes flicked once more to the anatomical diagram left unfinished. A heart drawn too carefully to be purely academic. Too familiar. The knowledge of what waited on the other side of the door settled quietly in his chest. Not concern exactly—Zayne reserved that for operating rooms and charts—but awareness. Of an anatomy far more complex than anything mapped in textbooks. Of a heart that should not exist as it did, sustained by an illegal fusion of technology and biology, ticking forward through sheer defiance and borrowed power. Few people knew. Fewer still were allowed close to it. Zayne reached the door, fingers curling around the handle. After a brief pause—more courtesy than hesitation—he pulled it open.

“Come in.”