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Scene Fourteen: Test Results
The labs came in at 4:42 A.M., which was ahead of schedule and flagged automatically by pattern-matching software.
Miss Callahan knocked gently before stepping in.
"Morning," she offered with a shy nod. "You wanted to go over results?"
Brian gestured to the seat without looking up. "Have a seat."
She did, smoothing the sleeves of her sweater. The bruises were still faint, but visible. Her makeup didn't quite cover the shadows under her eyes.
He tapped the chart open.
"Your hormone panel came back. Some values are… off-pattern."
She stiffened. "What does that mean?"
Brian rotated the data pad toward her.
ACTH — LOW
Cortisol — LOW
LH, FSH — BLUNTED
Prolactin — ELEVATED
"Your pituitary output is suppressed. Most of the hormones it regulates are slightly below baseline."
She blinked. "So is that… bad?"
Brian tilted his head. "It means we need imaging, a pituitary MRI. There's likely a microadenoma. Don't worry, it's just a small, benign mass pressing against the gland. It's common. Often silent for years."
Miss Callahan took a slow breath. Her knuckles tightened on the edge of the exam table.
"So I'm not paranoid?"
Brian didn't flinch. "No. You're not."
A few seconds passed. Miss Callahan looked down. "I knew something was wrong. I could feel it."
"Most people do," he said. "But the system isn't built to listen."
Her eyes lifted. Something about how Brian said that made her pause. Like he wasn't talking about just her.
"We'll send the imaging referral today. You'll need to fast before the contrast scan. Once we confirm the cause, treatment is usually hormonal. Replacement therapy."
She nodded, still wrapping her head around it.
Brian stood and closed the chart.
"You'll be okay, Miss Callahan."
"Thanks," she said softly. "Really."
She lingered, but Brian was already walking to the door.
"Nora," she said behind him.
He turned.
"That's my first name. I figured since you saved me from spiraling."
Brian regarded her for a second — not cold, just still. "Noted," he said.
Then he left, his coat swaying behind him.
Outside the exam room, in the hallway, the sterile scent of antiseptic faded as Brian turned toward the staff stairwell.
He wasn't thinking about Nora Callahan anymore.
He was thinking about Marco and how his new test subject would turn out.
Scene Fifteen: Anorexic Stimulus
Lunch hour at the hospital was the closest thing to chaos Brian tolerated. The staff lounge buzzed with microwaves, vending machines clunking, and half-muffled laughter over meal trays. Brian sat by the corner, away from most eyes, of course. He was having a cup of coffee. Playing the part.
He was alone, seated by the window looking toward the hospital's rooftop helipad. The light pooled over his shoulders. Technically, he was having lunch.
This was how he recharged. The quiet, light, and stillness.
"Mind if I join you?"
A voice broke into the space like a needle on vinyl.
Brian didn't need to look. He knew it.
Olivia Cruz.
He looked up, just a second too late for it to be polite, but not long enough to be rude.
"Of course," he said.
She slid into the chair opposite him, sandwich in hand, hair tied back. Her lanyard badge swung once, then settled.
"I swear, it's like all the interns band together to make the microwave line a war zone."
Brian gave a light, noncommittal nod.
Olivia leaned slightly forward. "So. You always skip meals, or just avoiding the meatloaf?"
"Had a heavy breakfast."
A seamless, practiced lie.
"Lucky," she said, peeling the wrapper from her sandwich. "Mine was three sips of lukewarm coffee and a half-forgotten protein bar."
She took a bite, but her eyes stayed on him. There was something inquisitive in her expression. It was casual, but persistent.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, chewing more slowly now. "Not staff-to-staff. Just… person-to-person."
Brian looked up from the cup.
"Go ahead."
"What are you actually into? I mean, like — outside these walls. You're sharp, your work's meticulous, but no one has ever seen you doing anything besides rounds, reading charts, and disappearing before anyone can invite you to a happy hour."
Brian tilted his head slightly. Her curiosity wasn't clinical. She wasn't trying to uncover a secret. She just… wanted to keep talking.
"That's a lot of observation," he said.
"Occupational hazard," she smiled. "So?"
Brian considered how to answer. The truth was unshareable. The closest approximation was inadmissible. But then again…
"I'm working on a drug," he said finally. "You could say it's… experimental. Still in testing."
Her eyes brightened. "Wait — like clinical trials?"
"In a manner of speaking."
He sipped the coffee. It was bitter. He barely noticed.
"What does it treat?"
He glanced at her over the rim of the cup. A rare flicker of something close to amusement passed through his gaze.
"A very particular problem," he said. "Something degenerative. Consumes from the inside out. Eventually, it eats away everything human."
Olivia blinked. "Neurodegenerative?"
"In spirit, yes."
"God. That's intense. It's like the outbreak. She shook her head, sandwich forgotten for a moment. "I didn't think you were the 'save the world' type."
It is related to the outbreak, Brian replied in his mind.
"I'm not," he said dryly. "Just trying to ensure no one becomes what I've seen."
The words hung in the air, sharper than he intended. But Olivia misread the weight of them. She nodded thoughtfully.
"Still. That's amazing. You don't talk like someone who's trying to make headlines. That's… rare."
Brian didn't respond. Not right away.
Because the drug he referred to — Ecsta-Z — wasn't saving anyone.
And he wasn't curing a disease.
He was studying what came after humanity fell apart.
But Olivia was smiling again, unaware of the chasm between them.
"I'm serious," she added. "Next time, I want to know more. Maybe… I could buy you a coffee that doesn't taste like ash."
Brian set the cup down.
"We'll see."
"You don't talk much," Olivia finally said.
"That's true," Brian replied.
"But when you do, it's like you're always two seconds ahead of the world."
Brian looked at her. His pupils didn't contract in the sun. They couldn't. But his expression never changed.
"That's because I've already lived this conversation."
"What?"
"Nothing," he said with a slight shrug. "Just a bad joke."
She laughed anyway.
As Olivia opened her mouth to say something more, a voice crackled through the overhead speaker.
"Nurse Cruz to ER triage. Nurse Cruz to ER Triage."
She frowned, checking her pager, then sighed.
"Duty calls. That's my third today."
Brian gave a slight nod, neutral.
"Talk later?" she asked, already rising, hopeful but casual.
"If you survive the meatloaf warzone."
She laughed. "Deal."
She walked off, barging through the door with her sandwich still in hand, already typing into her tablet as the door swung closed behind her.
There were two nurses at the end of the room, one mid-bite into her salad, the other stirring yogurt. They leaned slightly toward each other. He wasn't looking their way, but their voices floated into his strong sense of hearing.
"Is she seriously trying to flirt with him?"
"Mmhmm. Olivia's way outta her league. Did you see how he looked at her?"
"Barely looked at her at all."
"Right? I swear we all tried last year. You remember that Christmas Eve in the hospital?"
"He said no to any advances made. Either he is a dunce or he is —. And I mean, look at him. My god." She took a heavy breath. "He is too perfect."
The second nurse mouthed to her colleague to lower her voice. Not that it mattered for Brian.
They laughed under their breath.
Brian's gaze remained steady on his cup. He didn't respond, not with a shift or a glance. But he heard every word. He always did.
And they weren't wrong — not entirely.
He wasn't "interested." Not in the way they meant. He understood desire, chemically. He could sense it in others like a second pulse. He knew that Olivia… she wasn't here for small talk.
She wanted something. Connection, intrigue, or to feel special.
Brian knew it the moment her pupils adjusted when he first said her name. He could hear it in the rhythm of her blood pressure when they shared space.
She didn't know what she wanted yet. But she wanted it from him.
And he couldn't give it because what she felt was human. And he was not. Brian waited a few minutes, then moved calmly through the hallway, turned a corner, and pushed open the door to the men's washroom. It was empty — mercifully.
The door clicked shut behind him.
He dropped to his knees in front of the porcelain edge, which gave him more support.
And then he vomited.
Violently.
The coffee — still warm, still bitter — came up like bile-black sludge. His throat burned. His vision narrowed. For a second, he saw static. Not just nausea — rejection. A full-body purge. Like poison being rejected at the root of something more profound than biology.
When it was done, he breathed in hard through his nose.
His body trembled once, then steadied.
He leaned against the sink, spitting out the last of it, and stared at the mirror.
He rinsed his mouth and washed his hands. He hated this part of the day more than anything.
Not the lies. Not the test subjects. Not even the violence.
This — charade of normalcy.
The pretense of appetite. The taste and smell of coffee made his cells recoil. Every sip was a reminder that he was a guest inside something that used to be a man.
He touched his wrist, thumb pressed to the pulse point. He was still steady and strong.
But he didn't feel it.
Not really.
He wiped his face clean. Adjusted his collar. Checked his reflection and walked out like nothing had happened.