Palo Alto, California. Home to the renowned Stanford Medical Research Facility. The year is 2040.
The sun dipped low on a lazy California evening. As it kissed the horizon, the main research center was bathed in a magic-hour glow—deep amber and soft crimson sliding across its towering glass façade.
Inside, just past the main entrance, a switchboard indicator blinked red.
"Sir." said a guard to his sergeant seated beside him, "we've got a proximity alert at the main entrance."
"Yeah, I've got eyes," replied Sergeant McNally, barely glancing up from his coffee.
"What do you want to do about it?"
"Forget it," McNally said. "She'll leave eventually."
But the guard kept watching.
The woman stepped closer to the gate. She pounded once. Then again. Her mouth moved, shouting something—but the feed was video only, and the doors were soundproof. Her desperation grew. Shoulders shaking. The child limp in her arms.
The guard straightened, voice dropping with uncertainty. "I don't think she's going away, sir."
McNally sighed and set his cup down with a dull clink. "Great. I was an hour from being home, and now I've got to deal with this."
The elevator chimed. Twin doors slid open.
Dr. Izumi Arata stepped out—coat folded over one arm, bag in the other. Mid-forties. Sharp-eyed, deliberate. Her movements were precise, her presence composed—measured calm layered over quiet intensity. There was a beauty to her, unmistakable, though it seemed curated to the background, dimmed on purpose—perhaps a necessary concession to be heard before being seen. The kind of person who never had to raise her voice to show her authority.
Halfway to the front entrance, the sergeant spoke up. "Hang on a sec, Doc. You might not want to go out the front entrance. We've got a little situation."
Dr. Arata slowed, her brows slightly furrowed. "What kind of situation?"
She stepped over to the console and peered at the screen. "Is she a patient here?"
"Doesn't pop up on facial recognition, sir. No record in the system."
Dr. Arata stared a moment longer. "Give me comms."
The intercom glowed green.
"Ma'am, this is a private facility. This is not the hospital. I need you to step back from the entrance. Ma'am, can you hear me?"
There was a pause. Then a voice crackled through—broken, strained, thick with accent. "Please… help. My girl. She sick. She die. You help, please."
The sergeant looked at the doctor and spoke. "Seriously, Doc, we got this. You should just use the rear exit."
The woman moved suddenly. Gently, she knelt and laid the girl down at the gate, then stepped back with her arms raised in surrender.
Dr. Arata exhaled slowly. With quiet sarcasm, she said, "Looks like this little situation isn't going away."
The guard shot a glance at his sergeant—a look that said I told you so.
Dr. Arata turned to the second guard. "Come with me."
"Ma'am, this is not protocol," said the sergeant.
Dr. Arata peered at the woman's face on the screen, then gave the sergeant a look. In an instant, he understood—he was no longer in charge.
Arata moved quickly through the lobby, flanked closely by the guard. At the access point, she motioned to the sergeant. "Open the inner doors."
He hesitated, disapproving, but complied. The doors hissed open.
Dr. Arata approached the outer doors. She paused, peered up at the woman, then down at the child. After a brief moment, she raised her hand to the scanner and unlocked the outer door. As it slid open, the guard beside her instinctively raised his weapon.
Without even looking, Dr. Arata raised a hand, motioning for him to lower it.
The woman stepped forward, hands still raised, her eyes locked onto the doctor's. "Please… help."
Arata crouched beside the girl and pressed two fingers to her neck, counting. There was a pulse—faint, but there. Eyes closed. Skin pale.
Without a word, Arata slid her arms beneath the girl's frail, limp body, lifted her, and turned.
The mother followed, hesitant but close, until the guard stepped in front of her. "For God's sake—do you even know where you're standing?"
Dr. Arata's voice was calm but deliberate, as if addressing a child. "Scan her for weapons, then let her in."
The guard sighed and waved the scanner across the woman's body. No alerts. No weapons. Just trembling limbs and desperation.
Dr. Arata tapped her comm. "Prep an observation room. I'm bringing someone in."
"There's… nothing on the docket doctor," came the uncertain reply.
"Yes, I know, just do it please."