My stomach dropped before I could stop it, like I'd missed a step that wasn't there. I shifted my weight. My boots squeaked against the linoleum. I pulled my shoulders back and down. I breathed.
"That's… not exactly reassuring," I said.
The words sounded too loud in the small room. Even the dim hum of the overhead lights seemed to pull back, as if listening.
Dr. Ryebald exhaled slowly through his nose. "No," he agreed. He tapped the tablet once. Then twice. The screen didn't change. "It's not."
I caught the glow of the display in his glasses. Just one word, centered and steady, as if burned into the glass.
ANOMALOUS.
My fingers tingled, pins and needles creeping up my palms. "So," I said, desperately propping up my jovial persona out of panic, "either you tell me what that means, or I assume I'm about to be recruited by the government."
That earned a short, humorless huff from him.
"Normally," he said carefully, "this is where I would explain next steps. Tests. Referrals." He paused, then added, quieter, "Documentation."
He finally looked up at me, and the concern on his face had lost its warmth and become something else. Unease. Maybe curiosity? Like I was no longer just a patient, but a problem he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch. A cool, clinical curiosity.
"I'm going to ask you a question," he said. "And I need you to answer honestly."
The room felt small again. My jaw tightened before I nodded. "Okay."
"Have you experienced," he glanced down at the tablet, then back up, "any unexplained physical changes in the last six months?"
I felt a single thud from my pulse in my neck. I thought of sleepless nights. Of that faint pressure behind my eyes that came and went. Of the way people had been… looking at me lately. Not staring, not exactly. Just observing.
"No," I said. After just half a beat, "Nothing that sent me to a doctor."
He didn't write anything down.
The tablet chimed softly. The word on the screen vanished, replaced by a spinning icon and a new line of text I couldn't quite read from where I stood.
Dr. Ryebald stiffened.
"Some updates have just come in," he muttered.
"What is it?" I asked.
Dr. Ryebald didn't answer.
"That can't be right," he said under his breath.
"What can't be right?" I pressed.
He didn't respond but just turned the screen toward me.
Instead of a spinning icon there were columns of data and lines stacked neatly on top of one another. My eyes went straight to the bolded entry near the top.
Blood Glucose: 4,912 mg/dL
I blinked once, slow. "That's… high?"
For a second, I thought he might laugh. Instead, he pressed his lips together so tightly they turned white beneath his moustache.
"Normal," he said, carefully, closing his eyes, "is under one hundred."
My palms started to sweat. I flexed my fingers.
"But I feel fine," I said.
"That's a problem," he replied.
He leaned closer to the tablet, as if the numbers might change out of embarrassment. "At levels above six hundred, patients are usually unconscious. Above a thousand, survival is… rare." He swallowed. "At your levels, organs should be failing. You should be in a coma. Possibly dead."
Dead. The word hung there, ugly and final.
But I was standing. Breathing. Annoyed more than afraid.
I looked back at the screen. The number didn't flicker or pulse. It just sat there, absurdly calm.
"Are you sure the machine isn't broken?" I asked.
Dr. Ryebald shook his head once. "We ran it three times. Different samples. Different analyzers."
He lowered his voice. "Your blood sugar didn't spike. It just stays there. I was sure, too, that it was an error. Perhaps some other condition interfering with the proper reading. But no. There is real sugar in that blood."
The room seemed to tilt, just a fraction. Vertigo? Maybe the reality of my seemingly undead variant of diabetes catching up with me? Maybe just shock.
A new line appeared at the bottom of the screen, highlighted in a warning yellow.
Metabolic Response: Unknown
My pulse was found near my ear this time. "Unknown how?"
He met my eyes again, and curiosity slipped into caution.
"Unknown," he said, "because the human body isn't supposed to be able to do this. Let me tell you something about what that word now means in a medical context. There is very little we now do not know that we should be able to know via ordinary scientific means. When something is unknown today, it means—"
"Magic."
I swallowed more loudly than it should've been in the quiet room.
"So, what happens now?" I asked.
Dr. Ryebald didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned the tablet face-down on the counter, like it might bite if left exposed. The gesture sent a small, irrational jolt through my chest.
"That depends," he said slowly, "on how much attention this draws."
A sharp knock cut him off.
Both of us flinched.
The door opened without waiting for an answer, and a woman in blue scrubs stepped halfway into the room. She stopped short when she saw me standing instead of sitting, her hand still raised from knocking.
"Doctor," she said. Her voice was controlled, but her eyes flicked to the counter. "Radiology called. They're asking why your patient's metabolic panel tripped a Level Three alert."
My stomach tightened. Level Three didn't sound like the kind of thing you wanted associated with your name.
"I didn't authorize any alerts," Dr. Ryebald said.
"I know," she replied. "The system did."
The room felt suddenly warmer. I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake the sensation crawling up my spine. It felt like standing under a camera I couldn't see. I wasn't alone with this strange man who feared me.
Through the thin walls, I could hear muted footsteps. Voices. Someone laughing too loudly down the hall. Normal hospital sounds, but now they felt pointed, like they all belonged to me.
Dr. Ryebald straightened. "Give us a moment."
The nurse hesitated. Her gaze lingered on me this time, sharper than before. Curious. Measuring. Like she was trying to memorize my face.
Then she nodded once and pulled the door shut behind her.
The click of the latch sounded like a locked opportunity, but my hope didn't deflate entirely. Whatever I was, I was not Dr. Ryebald's secret anymore.
Dr. Ryebald turned back to me. "You weren't supposed to trigger that."
"Sorry," I said. "I'll try to have more normal blood next time."
That earned me a startled bark of laughter. It came out rough, then stopped just as abruptly.
Before I could ask another question, the tablet on the counter chimed again.
Once.
Then again.
Then it didn't stop.
A rapid series of soft tones filled the room, overlapping, urgent. Dr. Ryebald swore under his breath and flipped the tablet back over.
My skin prickled as I leaned closer.
The screen was crowded now. Multiple panels, each stamped with the same identifier.
Subject: M-01347
"That's not my name," I said.
"No," he replied. "It's worse."
He swiped through screens faster now, his movements tight. "They've cross-referenced your results."
"With what?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he angled the tablet so I could see the comparison chart.
On the left: Standard Human Metabolic Thresholds
On the right: Subject M-01347
Red bars filled the right side of the display, blowing past the left like it wasn't even there.
My chest felt hollow. "You said there were no precedents."
"I said there were no medical precedents," he corrected.
A new notification slid into view, stamped with a seal I didn't recognize.
REQUEST FOR CONSULTATION – AUTHORIZATION PENDING
Below it, a name.
I frowned. "Who's that?"
Dr. Ryebald's jaw tightened. "It's too late."
The door knocked again, harder this time. I didn't know who to believe, what to fear, or where to hide. I believed nothing, feared everything, and could hide nowhere. I felt a fire kindle in the base of my spine, a wave rising up my back, and before I could scream—"
A strange, spreading warmth bloomed behind my sternum, like I'd taken a deep breath of sugar-sweet air. My pulse quickened, not in fear, but in anticipation. Instead of imposing itself in spikes of anxiety, it felt deeply buried in a soft feeling of love and affection, becoming a benign beat fueling a rhythm of optimism and eagerness for life I have never experienced before.
My fingers tingled, energy coiling just under my skin.
"Doctor," a new voice called from outside. "This is Madame Elaine Mercer. I believe you have something of mine."
Dr. Ryebald went very still.
"That's… faster than expected," he muttered.
I glanced at him, and this time I was the curious one. "Are you worried?"
He looked at me, really looked at me, and shook his head once.
"No," he said. "But that's a complicated question."
The door opened.
She didn't wear scrubs.
She wore a tailored black coat under flawlessly curled golden hair, her posture relaxed, her expression openly curious. Her eyes met mine immediately and lingered.
The warmth in my chest flared.
The sensation spread outward, slow and deliberate. Like pressure, dense and controlled, as if something inside me had finally found enough fuel to wake up. My breath deepened without effort. My vision sharpened, colors edging just a little brighter around the room.
I rolled my shoulders again. The tightness that had lived there for months was gone.
I pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek, grounding myself. The faint sweetness lingered at the back of my throat, imaginary but convincing, like I'd just taken a sip of something sugary without actually tasting it. A splash of cinnamon.
The tablet chimed again.
A new icon pulsed briefly on the screen before disappearing, too fast for me to read. Dr. Ryebald saw it. I could tell by the way his jaw tightened.
"What was that?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he took a step back from me.
She smiled.
"Well," she said, "you're standing. That's a good sign."
My mouth went dry. "Am I supposed to know who you are? I have a feeling that... well, that I should."
"Not yet," she replied. "But we're going to get very familiar."
She stepped fully into the room, the door closing softly behind her.
"Let's talk."