Julian didn't remember falling asleep. But he remembered waking up.
His body ached in strange places—down his back, across his ribs, like bruises blooming under the skin. But it was the pressure in his chest that pulled him fully into consciousness. Not painful. Just weight, like something foreign nestled too deep to touch.
He sat up slowly in the dorm bed, eyes adjusting to the silver-gray morning that crept through the thin window curtains. The others were still asleep, tangled in sheets and dreams. Even George, who rarely let himself rest, snored softly for once.
Julian exhaled, shallow and steady.
Tick.
That sound again. Always softer in the morning, like it hadn't yet decided to torment him.
---
The decision to visit Dr. Shane's clinic wasn't impulsive. It was the kind of thought that had been pacing in Julian's mind for days—weeks, maybe. Ever since he collapsed on stage, something had felt off.
Uncle Shane's clinic sat nestled between two commercial towers like a secret.
It didn't glow like the others, and there were no projected ads or announcement in neon signage. Just tinted glass and a plaque by the door: Dr. S. Vale | Private Internal Medicine.
He wasn't a hypochondriac. Nor was he being dramatic. He knew what it was to be tired. Hungry. Sick. He had lived with bones half-healed and stomachs half-full. But this… this was different. He didn't know what it was, only that it wasn't normal.
And Shane—their old doctor, the one who had helped them in the trainee days—he knew something. Julian could tell. The man's eyes always lingered a second too long, like he was smugly watching for something.
---
The clinic was quieter than usual.
Julian showed up unannounced. No calls. No appointment. But it didn't matter, uncle Shane had promised to make time for him.
Reception was empty when he arrived. A single nurse sat behind the glass partition, tapping away at a screen. She barely looked up.
Julian waited. His reflection stared back at him from the polished wall. Pale skin. Tired eyes. Something too smooth about the curve of his chest, like he'd been drawn rather than born.
"Julian Ash?" the nurse finally said.
He looked up.
"Dr. Shane will see you now."
---
Shane's office hadn't changed since the last visit.
It smelled like sanitizer and mint. The walls were white, not medical white, but expensive-white—the kind you only find in places that never actually get dirty. There was a chair. A sink. A monitor that blinked quietly. And a bed he didn't want to lie down on.
Too clean. Too white. The kind of place where secrets lived in drawers.
Julian sat on the exam bench. Shane stood across from him, arms folded. His coat was spotless. Not even the hint of a wrinkle.
"You've been pushing yourself," the doctor said, not a question.
Julian didn't answer right away.
"I've been feeling… off."
Shane gave a slow nod. "Describe it."
Julian hesitated. "Heavy. Inside. Like something ticking. Or winding down."
Shane's eyes flicked down, then up again. "Pain?"
"No. Not really. Just… not right."
"Let's have a look, then."
He checked vitals. Applied a diagnostic patch to Julian's chest. The monitor screen blinked and buzzed.
Shane's face didn't change. But he tapped twice on the screen. Brought up a window Julian couldn't read.
"You're stable," he said. "But... you are showing some irregular compression feedback."
"Compression feedback?"
"Nothing dangerous." Shane said it too quickly. "But your implant is under more stress than usual. Probably overuse."
Julian narrowed his eyes. "Implant."
Shane paused. "The support system around your cardiac center. We always called it an implant, remember?"
Julian didn't remember calling it anything.
He shifted on the bed.
Shane moved to the side cabinet, pulled out a diagnostic patch. He pressed it gently to Julian's chest, over the faint indentation near his heart.
The screen lit up. Shane read it in silence.
Julian watched him closely.
"What do you see?"
Shane didn't answer. Not directly. His brow furrowed, then smoothed. "Same irregularities as before. Slight fluctuations in rhythm. Nothing life-threatening."
"But it's not human, is it?"
The words were out before he could stop them. They hung in the air like a challenge.
Shane didn't flinch. But then he burst out laughing a full belly laugh that shook his whole being. He was holding on to the table trying to steady himself.
As relief washed over Julian, unease caught in his throat, perhaps uncle Shane's laughter had gone on for a tad too long. Fear clawed his throat, "why the theatrics he wondered and what's with the exaggeration". A flicker of anger crossed Julian's eyes but then he caught uncle Shane's eyes
"Julian," Uncle Shane said slowly, carefully, "I think you need to focus on rest. Recovery. You're in a high-stress program, and that pressure can do strange things to the body."
"That's not an answer."
"Yes, yes it is."
---
He left the exam room an hour later, holding a tiny white box of pills, along with a Doctor's note. As for the pills. He didn't open them.
Julian had left the office with more questions than he brought in.
The hallway was too quiet.
As he turned the corner, he saw them—three members of Group B, the group with unblinking eyes and now they looked different at least far different from his memory.
Not Group A, the perfect headliners.
Group B. The ones everyone had almost forgotten.
He recognized two of the members, and they did not look like that. They were standing near the waiting room, talking in low voices. One of them looked at Julian and nudged the others.
They fell silent.
They looked tired. Tense. One of them was rubbing their wrist like it had been bandaged. Another leaned against the wall, whispering to the third.
Their eyes followed him. Not like rivals. But suspiciously like they also knew why he was here.
Julian walked past them. He didn't look back.
But in his periphery, he saw the nurse again. Watching. This time, her gaze held something else—recognition.
---
He didn't go straight back to the dorm.
He wandered the edge of the complex, hands deep in his pockets, mind burning.
Something was wrong. He knew it now.
Something Shane wasn't telling him. Something no one would say.
And yet... whispers. He had heard it in how the others—staff, producers, even the other sponsors and managers—looked at them. Like they were marked. Like they knew.
But what did they know?
---
Back in the dorm, Marvo looked up from his bed. "You were gone long."
Julian shrugged. "Walked."
Marvo stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "We've got evaluations in two days. You good?"
Julian lied. "Yeah."
He could feel the silence pressing against his ribs.
---
That night, as he lay in bed, Julian stared at the ceiling. Tick. Tick. Tick.
He pressed a hand to his chest.
He didn't know what was inside him.
But he was starting to understand… it wasn't something he was born with.
And that meant someone put it there.
And that meant someone took something else away.
His fingers curled against his sternum.
He thought of Uncle Shane.
He thought of the nurse.
He thought of the way Group B had looked at him.
Something was coming.
And he didn't know if he had the will to survive it.