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Scene Ten: Lunch Hour Cravings
The overhead lights in Exam Room 3 were flat and functional, casting a dull sheen across the pale floor. Brian sat on the usual stool, legs crossed, his data pad resting lightly in one hand. His coat was neat, and his posture was relaxed.
Across from him sat a woman in her late twenties. She appeared exhausted, not from a single stormy night, but from a gradual, persistent weariness that had settled in over weeks. Her eyes were puffy, and her voice sounded slightly dry.
"I've just been really off lately," she said. "Tired no matter how much I sleep. I've gained weight. I'm freezing all the time, and now my periods are all over the place."
Brian nodded once, his gaze calm as he tapped a few notes on his screen.
She hesitated. "Also — "
She rolled up her sleeve. A faint patch of bruising bloomed across her forearm — soft, bluish. Fading around the edges.
"They just show up," she added. "I don't even remember hitting anything."
Brian leaned in briefly to glance. "No changes in medication?" he asked, while reading her chart.
"Nothing new," she said. "Urgent care gave me vitamin D. Said it was probably stress."
He nodded again, minimally. That made sense; it was what most doctors would say. On paper, she looked healthy primarily.
Brian glanced at her name on the chart.
"Alright, Mrs. Callahan —"
She shook her head quickly. "It's Miss Callahan, actually."
He looked up and met her eyes for just a second.
"Noted." He corrected it in the file with a subtle swipe. "Apologies."
She gave a small smile. "It's okay."
Brian nodded slightly, unaware of the tension in her voice. He checked the earlier labs that had been forwarded.
CBC — NORMAL.
TSH — NORMAL.
FREE T4 — BORDERLINE LOW.
CORTISOL DRAWN LATE MORNING — LOW NORMAL.
CORTISOL AFTERNOON LEVEL — LOW NORMAL.
IRON AND B12 — ADEQUATE.
There were no obvious red flags. She looked healthy, but her symptoms didn't match the reassurance.
"Any history of autoimmune disease in the family?" Brian asked.
"My mom has Hashimoto's."
"Mmh." He made another note.
This wasn't uncommon. A dozen things could cause fatigue and weight gain. The thyroid was the usual suspect, and hers was mostly fine. But borderline T4 and low-normal cortisol, combined with irregular periods and easy bruising, didn't all fit cleanly.
"Have you had a full hormone panel before?" he asked. "Including ACTH, prolactin, LH, FSH?"
She shook her head. "No, just thyroid stuff."
"Alright," Brian said. "Let's check that. I'll also order a morning cortisol, drawn before 8 A.M., just to be thorough. Nothing urgent, but better to rule out anything endocrine before we chalk it up to lifestyle or stress."
Her shoulders eased just slightly. "Okay. Thank you, Dr. Brian."
"That's what we're here for," he replied, standing smoothly. He didn't say anything else.
She left a moment later, holding the chart tighter than necessary.
In the hallway, Brian paused outside the door and rechecked her chart.
Her symptoms were nonspecific. Maybe secondary adrenal insufficiency. Maybe early central hypothyroidism. Maybe stress. Probably nothing.
But he ordered the full panel anyway.
Brian signed off the patient note. His clinic hours were complete, and he was right on time.
He stood, straightened his coat, and slipped the tablet under his arm. The hallway greeted him as he stepped out, and he nodded once at the nurse on station.
He had just passed the main desk when Olivia Cruz caught up to him, her breath just slightly uneven, like she'd been debating the move all morning.
"Dr. Mosbey," she said, adjusting the pen in her chest pocket, "heading out for lunch?"
He paused and turned. "That's the plan," he said with his usual composed ease.
She smiled, casually brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Mind if I join? Just to make up for yesterday's… hallway collision."
Brian didn't blink. "You barely brushed your arm."
"Well, maybe I just want company," she said quickly, nervously laughing. "You're always vanishing right after clinic. I figured I'd catch you this time before you disappear into thin air."
He offered a slight nod. "Fair enough."
They started walking together toward the glass doors near the staff cafeteria.
Lunchtime was the most challenging part of the entire day.
Brian didn't eat. Couldn't. His body had long since distanced itself from the rhythms of digestion. The organism in him didn't process food; it metabolized energy through photonic conversion and biochemical scavenging. And when that wasn't enough —
The cravings returned. Always the brain. Always the heat of a firing neuron.
He didn't want to risk faking it when Olivia would be close to him.
He kept his expression flat.
"I had a heavy breakfast this morning," he said lightly, as they neared the cafeteria. "Think I'll just walk a bit, get some air."
Olivia's smile didn't falter. "Sounds perfect, actually. I'll grab something from the window and join you."
She popped into the café with a paper-wrapped sandwich and bottled water. They strolled through the garden path behind the hospital. The hydrangeas were trying to bloom under a reluctant sun. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and overwatered soil.
"So," Olivia said between bites, "what's the toughest part of your day?"
Brian gave her a sidelong glance. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
He gave a faint smile. "The cafeteria coffee."
She laughed, a full sound that startled a bird from the bushes. "Seriously? Not… middle-of-the-night emergency calls, or emotionally needy patients?"
"Those are predictable," he said. "The coffee is harder."
She looked at him — the perfect coat, the distant posture, the calm. He never seemed tired. Never seemed hurried. And she could never tell if he was being gentle or just absent.
"I can't tell if you're deep," she said slowly, "or just… really hard to read."
"Probably both."
She didn't speak for a while after that. They walked, and she finished her sandwich in thoughtful silence. Her eyes flicked toward him, like she was trying to solve a puzzle whose edges didn't quite fit.
She was intrigued. He could tell.
That slight lean-in. The half-second longer eye contact. The questions were veiled as jokes.
He'd seen it before. And once, long ago, he might've cared. Now, all he cared about was time. And control.
Brian didn't feel warmth. Not truly. Not anymore.
He could simulate the rhythm of a nod, the softness of his voice, and the way he stood just close enough to be polite. But nothing stirred inside except the urge. The ever-present whirr in his nerves whispered not of desire, but hunger.
Still, he walked beside her.
She finished her sandwich and brushed off her hands. "I'm glad we did this," she said. "You're less… clinical outside the exam room."
"Let's keep that between us," Brian said. "Don't want to ruin my reputation."
They walked a little longer, then parted ways near the east stairwell. Olivia gave a small wave. "Next time, no excuses. I'm dragging you to the cafeteria."
There would be no next time. Not if he could help it.
"I'll start fasting now," Brian replied.
She laughed and disappeared around the corner.
Brian waited until her footsteps faded, then pulled out his phone.
Fourteen minutes left until his next consult. There was plenty of time.
Scene Eleven: Overtime
The sun had long vanished beyond the horizon as Brian climbed the San Francisco City Wall. No guards patrolled this stretch. Once over, the descent was steeper, but he handled it with practiced ease.
The land beyond was desolate — ash-grey ridges, twisted metal skeletons of buildings, thorned brush where cities once stood. His boots crunched on old asphalt. No drones flew here.
He walked.
Three miles northeast, past a dried reservoir and a broken irrigation trench, he reached a seemingly collapsed bunker door covered in algae-streaked camouflage netting. Looking up at the barren sky, Brian pressed his palm to a metal plate embedded in the ground.
A hidden needle pierced his skin cleanly and fast.
A thin strand of clear fluid welled up from the wound, viscous and faintly iridescent. The plate blinked green. The wound closed within seconds.
The locks behind the bunker door began to disengage. The door hissed open with a click of magnetic locks.
Inside, the stale, recycled air greeted him. This was no lab sanctioned by the city or the pharma sector. This was his.
Built brick by brick. A monument to solitude and obsession.
The lights flicked on in sections. Rows of glass tanks lined one wall, filled with dormant fluids, low-voltage sensors, and the floating silhouettes of failed specimens who were once human but now Hollowed.
Brian removed his coat and gloves, washed his hands in gloved ethanol foam, and sat before the primary terminal. The system buzzed to life, biometric sensors confirming his identity.
A moment passed.
"Welcome back, moZbie-01," the system's AI intoned — synthetic and polite.
"Primary biometric match confirmed. Neural signature aligned."
The terminal hummed with branching file trees, and Brian's personal research dashboard illuminated the dark room in a soft, icy blue.