"Your Highness?" The old man's voice conveyed surprise as the young man briskly pushed past him to enter the restricted area. "I must implore you, Sire, to reconsider. This is a restricted zone. Without the requisite protective gear, you are at risk of infection."

The young man halted abruptly and turned back to face the old man. "I beg your pardon. Nevertheless, I am in urgent need of locating this Mey person, regardless of their identity. I require answers to some pressing inquiries. Could you direct me to where I might find them?"

"Oh, you mean the lady. She is presently engaged in the ward with the patients. Shall I summon her for you?"

As John was about to reply, he cast a glance through the imposing glass doors. Within lay an intensive care ward, starkly white, with rows of beds meticulously arranged against the walls. The scene was overwhelmingly grim. The ward resembled a hive of frenetic activity—doctors and nurses moved with a sense of urgent precision. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of antiseptics mingling with the raw, metallic tang of blood. The space was filled with the dissonant sounds of strained breathing and the low murmur of distressed voices, creating an atmosphere thick with despair.

The glass door was locked, barring entry. In the distance, John observed a group of nurses gathered around a bed. A young woman in a white coat, her face obscured by a large mask, was issuing rapid, authoritative instructions. With each word spoken she seemed to direct a flurry of activity around her. The nurses moved with an almost frantic efficiency—some attending to other beds, others procuring additional medical supplies. The girl began administering chest compressions to a patient lying motionless on the bed. The gravity of the situation was palpable; the intensity of the scene was nearly suffocating.

"Sire?" The old man's voice, riddled with concern, drew John from his somber observation.

"Yes?" he responded, turning his attention back to the old man.

"Shall I call for the lady?" the old man inquired, gesturing toward the glass doors. John followed his gaze to the girl still at the center of the tumult.

"Her? She is Mey?"

"Indeed, Sire. Shall I bring her to you?"

"No no," John replied , waving his hand. "It is evident that the situation within is exceedingly critical. Furthermore, why would you risk infection to fetch her if she is needed there?"

"Pshaw. Sire, it poses no significant risk. I have witnessed many such crises in my time and have remained unaffected," the old man said with a touch of pride. The young man could not help but smile at the old man's bravado.

"No, we must remain here. It is imperative that we do not disturb their efforts and adhere to the appropriate protocols," John said, his gaze returning to the increasingly somber scene. A few nurses were now gathered around the bed. The girl, with the green mask, was covering the deceased patient with a white sheet. The earlier urgency had given way to a slow, mournful process. The atmosphere had transformed from one of frenetic activity to a heavy, melancholic quiet. The nurses, though their faces were hidden, conveyed sorrow through their demeanor. The stretcher was wheeled in, and the lifeless body was gently but swiftly removed. One of the nurses began to weep openly, while two others besides her offered comfort. The masked girl directed the transfer with an almost serene efficiency, her composure unshaken even as the body was swiftly carried out. Within moments, a new patient was brought in and placed in the now-empty bed, underscoring the relentless cycle of suffering.

The girl approached the grieving nurses and spoke to them slowly. The young man could not discern the specifics of her words, but he observed that, as she spoke, the flurry of activity resumed, almost as if the scene had reset. Despite the disarray, the girl remained composed, moving with an almost detached efficiency that was both impressive and slightly unsettling.

As he observed her, the young man felt a pang of unease. While he admired her professionalism, he could not entirely dispel a lingering discomfort. It seemed to him that a moment of hesitation, a sign of human empathy in the face of death, was absent from her demeanor. He pondered this internal conflict, recognizing a personal bias that he quickly formed against her that he could not wholly justify.

Jolted from his thoughts, he turned to the old man. "How long will their duties persist?"

"Sire, Miss Mey labors tirelessly, often around the clock. She will be here until the evening. Afterward, she will visit the king and return by midnight."

"Do not the doctors work in shifts here? Why is she extending her hours beyond the allotted time?"

"From what I understand, she is quite the workaholic. It would be more efficient to summon her to you rather than wait."

"No, I would not wish to disrupt her invaluable work. I shall return in the evening when she is en route to the king’s appointment," John said decisively.

"Very well, let us leave them to their tasks. Accompany me, and provide me with a thorough update on the current plague situation within the country, if it does not inconvenience you. I have received various accounts in the passing but require a comprehensive briefing."

"As you wish, Sire," the old man responded, pleased with the prince’s decision. He fixed his hat and quickly lead the young man out of the premises.