The smell of coffee and toast hit me before I even opened my eyes.
That was my first clue that Ravel was already awake.
The second was her voice — crisp and sharp as ever.
"Master Zevion, it's nearly eight. Are you planning to greet the morning before or after it ends?"
I groaned into the pillow.
"Ravel… some of us like to make peace with the morning before facing it."
"Some of us," she replied coolly, "also said that yesterday."
Touché.
By the time I managed to sit up, she'd already set out breakfast on the small table — tea, toast, and a disgustingly healthy-looking fruit plate.
"You're disturbingly functional at this hour."
I muttered.
"I find sleep unnecessary when discipline exists."
Of course she did.
We ate in relative peace, or at least as peaceful as breakfast with Ravel ever gets.
Between bites, she asked.
"What are your plans for the day, Master?"
"Nothing dramatic," I said, trying to sound casual.
"Just thought I'd drop by one of the clinics nearby. London's got some of the best doctors, right?"
Her expression didn't shift, but her eyes sharpened slightly. "Are you unwell?"
"Nah. Just routine. Probably stress or… too much caffeine. You know how it is."
A moment of silence hung between us — the kind that said she didn't believe me but also knew better than to pry.
She finally nodded.
"Very well. I shall prepare an appropriate breakfast for your return."
"I'm not going in for surgery, Ravel."
"One must always be prepared."
I gave up.
She'd win that argument anyway.
The clinic wasn't far — about a fifteen-minute walk from the hotel.
The London air was crisp and a little damp, clouds drifting lazily across a pale sky.
The streets bustled with quiet efficiency — people heading to work, coffee cups in hand, lives moving at their own steady pace.
Compared to that, my own brain felt… less steady.
I couldn't really explain it, even to myself.
It wasn't about feeling sick.
Just… off.
I'd been forgetting things — small ones, like where I left my notebook or whether I'd already written a scene.
Sometimes I forget that I have captured fallen angels or someone's name.
Not like I was great before remembering them, but it still feels like it's a bit too much.
And sometimes, my emotions didn't match the moment — like laughing at things that weren't funny, or feeling too angry over something trivial.
I do know I wasn't the type to feel sad or crazy about a stranger's death, but now me killing or torturing with less emotional burden...
I wasn't falling apart, but it felt like my head had its own internal weather system — unpredictable and dramatic.
The clinic receptionist greeted me with professional cheer, and after a bit of paperwork, I was led to Dr. Calloway — a middle-aged man with a warm voice and an expression that said he'd seen too many patients pretending they weren't anxious.
"So, Mr. Zevion—"
"Just Zevion."
"Alright then, Zevion. What brings you in today?"
"Honestly? Just wanted to make sure everything's working properly."
I rubbed the back of my neck.
"Been a bit forgetful lately. Mood swings, sometimes. Probably just fatigue, but figured I'd check."
He nodded thoughtfully.
"A sensible decision. Let's have a look."
The usual tests followed: memory recall, coordination, some questions about stress, sleep, and diet (I tactfully omitted that half my meals were coffee).
Then he ran a quick neural scan — noninvasive, more curiosity than concern.
Half an hour later, he returned with a tablet in hand.
"Well," he began, "you'll be pleased to hear that physically, you're in good health. No neurological abnormalities, no signs of damage or degeneration."
I exhaled.
"So I'm not dying. Good start."
He smiled.
"No, quite alive. But—"
Ah.
The word everyone dreads.
"—your neural mapping shows something… atypical. Not dangerous, just unusual."
I tilted my head.
"Atypical how?"
"Well," he said, showing me the scan, "your brain activity displays overlapping emotional responses. In simpler terms, most people experience one dominant emotion at a time. You, however, seem to process several simultaneously."
"So I multitask… emotionally?"
"Exactly. But what's interesting is that your brain compensates by amplifying whichever emotion is strongest in that moment. Essentially, it secretes emotional hormones at a higher intensity for the dominant feeling — happiness, anger, sadness — while suppressing others."
"So I've got… emotional surround sound?"
He chuckled.
"That's one way to put it. You're not unbalanced, just wired to feel things more — both positively and negatively. It could explain why certain emotions hit harder or why your moods fluctuate more sharply."
I leaned back, letting that sink in.
"And the forgetfulness?"
"Likely a side effect," he said.
"When the emotional centers of the brain are highly active, memory processing takes a secondary role. It doesn't mean memory loss — just temporary interference. Think of it as your mind prioritizing the most 'emotionally relevant' data."
"So basically, if it's boring, my brain just… deletes it."
"In layman's terms, yes," he said with a small smile.
"It's not a defect, Zevion. More like a unique adaptation."
I sat there for a moment, quietly absorbing it.
A unique adaptation.
That phrasing stuck with me.
Maybe it made sense.
After all… this wasn't my original brain.
I'd come into this world in the body of a toddler, dragging an adult consciousness from another reality.
That kind of merge wasn't supposed to happen cleanly.
So maybe, when my soul fused with this mind, the brain had adapted — building new neural pathways to handle two lifetimes of memories, emotions, and perceptions.
No wonder I sometimes felt too much, or too fast.
It wasn't trauma or instability — it was a biological compromise.
I sighed lightly, rubbing my temple.
"So I'm not crazy, just… emotionally overclocked."
Dr. Calloway smiled politely.
"If you'd like to think of it that way. But no — you're perfectly healthy. Just uniquely structured. Try to rest properly, stay organized, and perhaps keep written reminders to offset forgetfulness."
"Notes to self. Got it. Do not fight emotional explosions with sarcasm."
He raised an amused brow.
"That might help."
After thanking him and leaving the clinic, I stepped out into London's soft drizzle.
The sky was pale gray, and the city buzzed faintly around me.
For once, I didn't feel worried.
So my brain was strange.
So what?
It was still mine — maybe too loud, too emotional, too cluttered with memories from two lives… but it worked.
It adapted when it shouldn't have been able to.
And that, in its own way, was kind of miraculous.
I smiled faintly to myself, watching a double-decker bus roll by.
"Guess I'm just… running dual processors," I muttered.
Somewhere, Ravel was probably sipping tea, pretending not to care.
But maybe I'd tell her later — just to see that tiny flicker of worry she hides behind her poise.
...Nah, forget it.
For now, though, I just wanted to walk.
London's chill air bit gently at my skin, and for once, everything felt perfectly balanced — or maybe just balanced enough for someone like me.
Guess I should take her out to the museum or art gallery now.
After all, today is the last day here.
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