The ICU felt like the inside of a freezer.

The air was sterile and tasted like cold copper. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t actually silent. It was filled with the rhythmic, mechanical —WHIRR of the ventilator and the steady, annoying —BEEP of the heart monitor.

I stood at the foot of the bed, watching the man who was supposed to be a D-Rank porter.

Francis didn’t look like the man in Yujin’s stories anymore. He looked like he’d spent the last year bench-pressing trucks. His chest was broad, his shoulders thick, his muscles defined even under the hospital gown. He looked less like a patient and more like a weapon that had been put in storage.

But the real problem was his arm.

I leaned in closer, my eyes narrowing. Beneath the pale skin of his forearm, a few veins were bulging. They weren’t the normal, healthy kind. They were a jagged, electric blue. They looked like tiny, glowing cracks in a porcelain doll.

Hana took a sharp breath beside me. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Honestly, she probably had.

“Those veins,” Hana whispered. Her voice was a jagged rasp. “That’s not normal. Even for a high-ranker.”

“It’s the aether,” I muttered. My strategist brain was already categorizing the anomaly. “It’s like his body is trying to hold more mana than it was ever built for.”

The door to the ICU slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss.

A male nurse entered the room. He was wearing a standard blue scrub set and a white surgical mask that covered half his face. He looked tired. Professional. Entirely unremarkable. He stopped when he saw us, his eyes scanning the group.

“Are you visitors for this patient?” he asked. His voice was muffled by the mask.

Roonie straightened his tie, his hand already reaching for the inner pocket of his blazer where he kept the guild’s high-authority credentials. “Yes. Ash—”

I didn't let him finish. I grabbed Roonie’s elbow and yanked him back so hard he nearly tripped over a rolling tray.

“Actually, he was like a brother to my friend and I here,” I said, nodding toward Hana.

Hana caught the cue. She gave a slow, somber nod, her eyes fixed on the man in the bed.

The nurse looked at us for a long moment. I kept my expression open and grieving, the picture of a concerned friend. He finally adjusted his mask and gave a short, clinical nod.

“I see,” he said. “I hope the patient recovers soon. His condition is stable, but honestly, it’s not improving.”

The nurse moved with a practiced, efficient grace. He swapped out two of the hanging IV bags, his movements fluid. He opened a small drawer in the bedside cabinet, pulled out a syringe, and filled it with a clear liquid from a small glass vial.

He didn't hesitate. He injected the medicine directly into the IV port and watched the line for a second. Then, he gave us a polite, shallow bow and left the room.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

We stayed for two hours. Roonie spent most of it pacing the small room, checking his watch every five minutes. The tension was a physical weight. Every chime of the monitor felt like a countdown.

“We should head out,” Roonie finally said, his voice a low whisper. “We can’t do anything else here tonight. I’ll drive Hana back to her brother’s place.”

Hana looked like she wanted to argue, but the exhaustion was etched into the lines of her face. She gave a tired nod and followed Roonie out.

That left me and Seraphina.

The room felt even smaller now. Seraphina stood by the window, the moonlight catching the white silk of her blouse. She turned to look at me, her blue eyes reflecting the flickering light of the heart monitor.

“Elara,” she whispered.

I looked back at her. The air between us was thick with the cold, sweet resonance of our bond. I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell her about the knot of anxiety in my gut.

Then the machines went insane.

—BEEP. —BEEP. —BEEP.

The rhythmic sound turned into a frantic, high-pitched scream.

Francis’s body suddenly arched off the bed. His muscles went rigid, his jaw locking as he began to seize. The blue veins on his arm didn't just bulge now. They flared, a bright, toxic violet beneath his skin.

Seraphina’s hand went to the call button. “I’m calling the nurse!”

“No!” I shouted.

I didn't look at her. I rushed to the bedside cabinet, my hands blurring as I ripped open the drawer. I found a fresh syringe, the plastic packaging crinkling as I tore it open.

Francis’s heart monitor flatlined. The steady drone of the —BEEEEEEP was a physical blow to my ears.

“Elara, what are you doing!?” Seraphina’s voice was full of shock.

I didn't answer. I reached for Francis’s arm. I jammed the needle into the glowing blue vein and pulled back on the plunger.

The liquid that filled the syringe wasn't blood. At least, not entirely. It was a dark, viscous crimson shot through with shimmering threads of violet mana. It looked like liquid starlight mixed with iron.

I pulled the needle out and capped it just as the door swung open.

A flood of doctors and nurses rushed into the room.

“Clear! Get them out of here!” a doctor yelled.

I was shoved back, the force of a nurse’s shoulder pushing me toward the exit. I didn't fight them. I kept my hand deep in my pocket, my fingers coiling around the warm glass of the syringe.

Seraphina and I were pushed into the hallway, the heavy doors clicking shut behind us.

I stood there, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The adrenaline was a hot, electric fire in my veins.

I looked at the door, then at my pocket.

The syringe was tight in my grip.