There was a strange comfort in hospitals. The white walls, the quiet hum of machines, the orderly rush of nurses walking with purpose. Luna never liked being here, but she had grown used to the sterility of it all. It was familiar in the way loneliness often is—cold, predictable, and oddly grounding.
She sat in the waiting area of St. Eleanora's Medical Center, scrolling mindlessly through her phone. Her appointment wasn't for another fifteen minutes, but her nerves had insisted she arrive early. Just a routine check-up, she kept reminding herself. Nothing more.
Outside the large glass window, the city moved in slow motion. People walked by in pairs or groups, laughing, talking, living. Luna pulled her jacket tighter around her. Maybe it was just the hospital air, but something felt…off.
"Luna Sorell?"
She looked up at the sound of her name. A nurse smiled at her, clipboard in hand. Luna returned the smile and stood.
As she followed the nurse down the hallway, she didn't notice the man in the waiting room corner. He sat alone, dressed in clean-cut black, a magazine open on his lap but untouched. His eyes followed her—steady, patient. Not hungry. Not wild.
Just… decided.
He didn't move, didn't blink much, and when Luna disappeared into the exam room, he stood. Pulled out his phone. Dialed.
"She's here," he said simply. "Proceed."
Then he left, as quietly as he had come.
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Inside the room, Luna sat on the cushioned exam bed, kicking her legs gently. She hated the silence that came before a diagnosis—even a normal one.
"Alright," the doctor said after a few routine questions and checks. "We'll run a few standard tests. Just to be thorough."
Luna smiled politely. "I'm sure it's nothing serious."
He smiled back.
She had no idea that someone else had already rewritten what her results would say.
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