Kai pushed open the rust-bitten door, and it whined on its hinges like it didn't want to let him in.
The inside of the clinic was colder than outside. Concrete walls. Flickering tube lights. A stained partition curtain fluttered in the corner, dancing without wind. There were no patients in the chairs. No receptionist. Just a long table with tools laid out—some surgical, some not.
And behind them, the doctor.
A wiry man with pale skin and round lenses thick as glass discs. He didn't look up right away. Just finished cleaning something metallic with a rag that was already red-streaked. He set it down. Then finally raised his eyes.
"New," the doctor said, not a question.
Kai nodded once, leaning on the doorway like his bones weren't his.
"You don't look good."
"Feel worse," Kai rasped, voice dry and cracked.
"Name?"
"Kai."
"Last name?
"Apolix"
The doctor didn't press. He circled the table slowly, appraising Kai like an old machine brought in for salvage.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the metal table in the center of the room. Kai stepped toward it, dragging his leg. The ankle screamed under his weight.
He climbed up with effort. The cold of the table cut through his clothes.
"Let me see the worst first," the doctor said, snapping gloves on with a practiced rhythm. "Remove your shirt."
Kai peeled off the layers, stiff with dried blood and rot. The fabric cracked as it moved.
The doctor winced the moment the burn came into view.
Chest. Left side. Black and curled with deep infection. The smell hit seconds later—sweet, sour, metallic.
"What caused this?"
"Hot iron," Kai murmured.
The doctor didn't ask why. Just nodded and leaned closer.
"This is bad. It's cooked deep. Smell says it's gone septic. It hisses when touched, right?"
Kai nodded.
The doctor carefully pressed the edge with a metal probe. Kai jolted like he'd been struck with lightning.
"Yeah. That's necrotic. You're still alive by spite alone."
He moved to the arm.
The forearm skin was peeled back in a long vertical strip, exposing muscle that pulsed with each heartbeat. Dried blood mixed with dirt in thick layers. It wasn't healing. It wasn't even trying.
"Jesus," the doctor muttered. "Did you do this to yourself?"
"No."
"Doesn't matter. This'll take grafts. Probably won't get them. I'll clean it and wrap it."
Kai didn't respond.
The doctor worked methodically. He inspected the ankle—swollen, purple, stiff—and nodded without comment. Moved up to the shoulder and ribs. Peeled off makeshift bandages that had already fused to the skin. Kai flinched, but didn't cry out.
"Cuts are deep. Spiritual in nature. They bled right through the resonance layer."
Kai blinked. "You can see that?"
The doctor shrugged. "Been in this city too long."
He looked over Kai's hands next.
Seven fingernails missing. Nail beds raw, cracked, bruised. Every movement sent small shudders through Kai's arms.
"These… are infected too."
"They itch."
"Don't scratch."
"I do anyway."
The doctor snorted. "Well, of course you do."
He placed a hand gently on Kai's throat. Kai tensed, but didn't resist.
"Bruised trachea. You have trouble swallowing?"
"Yeah."
The doctor didn't linger. He turned and brought out a vial. Poured some over the exposed thigh wound.
Kai nearly passed out.
"You're holding systemic infection. Burn's worst. But your chest and ribs are leaking pus. Your ankle's one twist from shattering. Your ears are...hmm. Inner canal damage?"
Kai nodded.
"I've got antibiotics. Not good ones, but they'll help. And anesthetic. You're going to sleep."
Kai's voice came low, almost dazed. "What's the catch?"
"No catch," the doctor said, shaking a small canister with faded red markings. "You die, I get no payment. You live, you might crawl out of this place and owe me later."
"Fair."
"I'm not a miracle worker, Kai. I can't fix what's already dying. But I can stall the clock. Give you time to figure out if you want to live."
"…Good enough."
The doctor retrieved a black rubber mask from a hook on the wall and began prepping the sedative tank.
"Breathe deep. Don't fight it. Count back if it helps."
Kai leaned his head back. The mask lowered over his face. Cold rubber. Chemical stench.
"Start from ten."
He exhaled.
"Ten…"
The lights above him stretched.
"Nine…"
The doctor's voice faded behind the hiss of gas.
"…Eight…"
The city, the tower, the blood, the bone—all blurred.
"Seven…"
The cold reached his chest.
"Six…"
His fingers twitched once.
Then nothing.
Dark.