“…what the hell is going on…?” After I finished with all the critical patients. Somehow, The quiet felt wrong. After hours of noise—voices, movement, orders, the sharp edge of urgency—the sudden stillness pressed in too close. After waking up here and being rushed in urgency. It felt unreal.

I leaned back against the counter, exhaling slowly, my hands finally still for the first time since I woke up. Looking down and seeing Blood. It was everywhere. Dried into the lines of my skin. Under my nails. Staining the cuffs of my sleeves. And somehow—

My hands weren’t shaking. That bothered me more than anything else. I know I'm not scared of blood but seeing it.... in person. Makes me think 'could this be real?'

“…Doctor.” I flinched slightly, Her voice pulled me back from my thoughts.

I glanced up. She was watching me again. Not openly this time. Not like before. This was quieter. More careful.

“What?” I asked, a little sharper than I meant to. Her lips pressed together briefly.

“…are you alright?”

No. I'm not alright. I feel like I'm having a mid-life crisis.

“Yeah,” I said anyway.

A pause. She didn’t look convinced. Good. Because I wasn’t either. I straightened slightly, forcing my expression into something neutral.

“…what’s my name?”

The question slipped out before I could stop it. Her reaction was immediate. Confusion. Then something else. Something closer to concern.

“…your name?” she repeated slowly.

I nodded once.

“Yeah.”

A beat. Then—

“Dylan Mercer.”

The name landed heavier than it should have.

Dylan. That part felt familiar. My name is Dylan, at least that didn't change. But... Mercer— 

Was New. Unfamiliar. Like trying on something that almost fit.

“You’re thirty,” she continued, studying me now, more openly. “You’ve been running this clinic for three years. And—” three years.

She stopped.

“…what is going on with you?” I looked away.

Thirty. I was 25 before... but now I'm 30.

With a Clinic.

For Three years.

None of it felt real.

All of it felt surreal.

“…I just,” I exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “I don’t feel right.”

Not a lie. Not the truth. I don't know her well to trust her right now. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“You don’t ‘feel right,’” she repeated. “You’ve been off all morning. You asked for tools you always use. You hesitated on procedures you could do in your sleep. And then—”

Her voice dipped.

“—you performed like nothing was wrong.”

I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t have one. The silence stretched between us.

Then—

“…here,” she said finally, reaching into the drawer beside her. She pulled something out and held it towards me.

A card. I took it. Slowly. It felt heavier than it should have. My eyes dropped to it.

Dylan Mercer.

The picture—

I froze.

That was—

Me. But not. This version of me was Sharper. Cleaner. Hair lighter than I remembered—falling just past my ears in soft, uneven strands. My features looked… refined. Less rough. More—

Put together. My fingers tightened slightly around the card.

“…where’s the bathroom?” I asked.

She frowned. “You know where it is.”

“I just need—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “Where is it?”

A pause.Then she pointed.

“End of the hall. Left.”

I didn’t wait. I walked fast... I was almost tempted to run even.

With the bathroom in view, a sense of disbelief seemed to settle within me. The door shut behind me with a soft click.

I stared at the mirror. For a second—

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just looked. Then—

Slowly—

I stepped closer. That was me. It had to be. Same height. Same general shape. But everything else—

Was Different.

My hair—lighter. Softer. Falling into place like it had been styled without trying.

My skin—clear. Clean. No unevenness. No rough edges. And my eyes—

I leaned in slightly. Gray. Not fully gray. Something mixed into it—something warmer, shifting under the light. Not the dark brown I remembered. Not mine.

“…you’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered under my breath.

My hand lifted. Hesitated. Then pressed lightly against the mirror. Solid. Real. Not a dream.

Not—

A sharp knock interrupted me. I flinched at the sound. Just when I was about to pinch myself, she called out.

“Doctor.”

Her voice again. I quickly pinched the back of my hand.  "Ah?!" What?! It hurt?!

I straightened instinctively.

“There’s something you need to hear.”

I opened the door.

“What—”

“They’re asking about you,” she said quickly, stepping closer, her voice lower now. “Word’s spreading.”

“About what?” I just woke up and was urged in urgency to save people, and now rumors? what could possibly be spread about that?!

She hesitated. Just for a second. Then—

“They said someone from the Vale group might be coming in.”

Everything in me went still.

Vale.

The word hit like something heavy dropping into place.

Familiar. Too familiar. My grip tightened slightly at my side.

“…what group?” I asked, though I already knew.

She frowned. “You’ve treated their people before. Don’t tell me you don’t remember that either.”

My chest tightened. Is she making jabs at me?! Seriously?!

Yet, The pieces—

They were starting to connect.

Slow. Too slow. But it right there at the tip of my mind. What was it?

“…Vale,” I repeated quietly. Like that alone could help jog my memory.

And somewhere, deep in the back of my mind—

A memory surfaced.

A name.

A man.

Blood.

Betrayed.

Yet he surrendered in Silence.

“…Adrian.”