The ambulance shuttle climbed through smoke and a night snowfall that would not stop. The shaking ceased as soon as the shuttle pierced the low cloud cover, but Cain's fingers had already gone numb — not from the cold, but from drained adrenaline. He sat strapped beside the girl whose name he'd invented to get aboard. A single word, tossed to the intake scanner — no one had questioned it. Maybe they never would. Hard to say if she was even alive at this point.
The medic, in a thick flight-suit bearing the white patch of Asclepius's staff, paid them little mind, too busy with his own procedures. Cain exhaled into his palms, rubbing them together until the faint tremor passed. He glanced again at the insignia, a staff rather than the familiar red cross. Regular ambulances used the cross. Cain tried not to think about it.
The shuttle jolted as the pilot adjusted course, threading a gap between two spires. Across from him, the medic turned his helmeted head toward Cain.
"Almost there," he said. The helmet's lenses stared blankly. "The girl — yours?"
Cain nodded. The medic wasn't really asking — he didn't care enough. He braced himself as the shuttle shuddered again, entering descent.
Finally, the landing skids kissed the ground. The turbines died, replaced by a heavy silence. The rear hatch opened with a smooth mechanical hum, letting in air that reeked of antiseptic and scorched plastic. A ground controller, lit by harsh overheads, signaled them forward. Cain rose and followed the stretcher down onto the pad. Several other emergency shuttles sat nearby, all marked with the same symbol as the medic's patch.
That's when it clicked. Not a red cross, but a staff with coiling serpents. These weren't public healthcare units — they were private sector. They were corporate emergency units — colloquially known as 'Trauma.' Trauma didn't normally respond to disasters. Their business was high-risk medical extraction for those who could afford their brand of insurance". Either the girl under the thermal cloak wasn't poor... or someone had paid a fortune to make sure survivors got treated. Cain exhaled — a quiet, bitter huff.
The intake zone was chaos — the kind that followed every major incident. Shouting. Scrambling. Auto-carts with IVs. Doctors in masks, absurd white caps, and blood-spattered aprons. Somewhere nearby, someone was retching.
Cain detoured around a knot of personnel, turned down the wrong corridor, and found himself in a quiet hallway that ended at a sealed door. He didn't feel like turning back. Instead, he slumped onto a plastic bench bolted to the wall. Medics, soldiers, technicians hurried past, paying him no attention.
Opposite him was a translucent glass wall, behind which bulky figures moved in heavy suits. Cain wondered idly if this was a Krosa-only ward, as they looked human, but... he wasn't sure. He snorted to himself.
The side door hissed open, and a man in tattered clothes tumbled out, convulsing violently. Cain rose on instinct, stepping back just as a woman in a hazmat suit sprinted out after him.
'Where's Doctor Stein?!' she barked, snapping a look down the corridor. She pinned the man to the floor with practiced strength, suppressing his spasms. He screamed again, louder, as three more figures rushed in. One swept a scanning wand across his body, as it blinked brightly.
"Emetic. Now!" one ordered.
Something was pressed into his hands — Cain couldn't tell what — and immediately clamped onto the man's face. A jolt. The device clattered away. The man arched, gurgled, as blood erupted from his mouth. His forehead swelled with pulsing veins. A second later, he collapsed.
Only then did Cain realize someone was standing beside him. The voice was calm, almost bored.
"Quarantine zone,' said the man in the gray doctor's coat. 'Wouldn't recommend getting too close."
"Sorry," Cain muttered, nodding. "Never seen anything like that before."
"Then you've been lucky. He came in from District Two. Our epidemiology unit's the closest. Things are... tense there."
"This happen often?"
"When a man doesn't know his next meal, he eats whatever he finds. They gamble with death."
"Nothing's worth that gamble."
"If you're starving, you might think otherwise." The doctor nodded toward a side hall. "Trauma Unit's that way. You took a wrong turn."
Cain nodded. No reason to argue. He wanted to forget what he'd seen as soon as possible. The lighting ahead grew brighter. The air thickened — antiseptic, blood, burnt cloth. He'd barely crossed the threshold when someone slammed into him. A young nurse in a fogged-up face shield, clutching a tablet, scanned him head to toe.
"Where from?" she snapped, already grabbing his shoulder. "Dizzy? Any injuries? Pulse!" She seized his wrist.
"I'm not—"
"This way!" she interrupted, dragging him to the nearest cot. "Sit. Look at me."
Cain sat too fast. His vision dimmed.
"Dizziness," she noted aloud. "Disorientation."
She pulled a penlight from her chest pocket and flicked it in his eyes, left, then right.
"Pupils responsive. No fever. Trauma brought you in? Right, like you could afford Trauma..." she muttered under her breath.
Cain blinked in confusion, but didn't get a chance to reply. She wasn't wrong. If anyone actually checked, the whole story would collapse. But people rarely did — not when chaos hummed louder than protocol.
"Name?" she asked mechanically, fingers gliding over her tablet.
He didn't answer. Not because he couldn't — because lies were safer than truths. Especially in rooms full of scanners.
Nearby, a stretcher rattled past. The patient was bandaged, soaked in blood, while a doctor barked orders over the clatter of falling instruments. The nurse glanced that way and muttered a sharp curse.
"Alright, alive's good enough for now. Bed behind the partition just freed up. Sit tight until a doctor sees you. If you start vomiting... or bleeding — from somewhere — call."
The curtain rustled — soft boots, a whisper of fabric. Cain looked up. It was the same nurse, holding an injector and a vial of clear fluid.
"Don't flinch," she said calmly. "Just standard protocol. Tetanus and base anti-shock."
The pneumatic hiss bit through his sleeve. Cain stayed still, doing his best to look dazed. Like someone post-trauma should.
"How you feeling?" she asked more gently, putting her tools away. "Still dizzy?"
He gave a faint shrug.
"You smell like... burnt plastic." She frowned. "Where were you hurt?"
Cain nodded vaguely, pretending not to understand. She paused, watching him for a second longer than necessary. Not suspicious — just... familiar. Like she'd seen too many patients lie, and knew what honesty looked like when it bled through exhaustion.
"Fine," she sighed. "We'll sort the rest later."
She tapped something into her tablet, eyes drifting toward the door.
"If anything changes, name's Medea," she said, pointing to a red triangle on the wall. "Press that. If something starts bleeding. Or anything else."
Cain nodded, watching her go. When the door slid shut, he collapsed onto the stiff, disinfectant-scented cot.
He kept still, quiet — not just to blend in, but because he knew no one was looking for him specifically. They were looking for terrorists, rebels, anyone but tired police consultant caught in the crossfire.
He wasn't quite asleep, but not awake — just suspended somewhere in between. Fragments of the battle replayed on loop — the blast that split the barricade, screams over failing comms, someone yelling his fake name. His mind wouldn't stop cataloguing it, breaking it down, looping it again. A few times he glanced at his phone, then set it aside.
The cot wasn't comfortable, but his bones felt heavier than steel. It wasn't just tiredness — it was residue. Battle left traces, even on survivors. Only near dawn did sleep finally claim him.
He awoke with a dry mouth and a dull itch at the injection site. Someone nearby was snoring. The air felt still, the tension finally eased. He sat up, found his phone near the pillow, and flinched. Five missed calls from Kasmina. How had he not heard it? There was a message, timestamped three hours back:
I'm fine. I'm at a friend's. Call me when you can.
Cain stared at the words, not quite grasping their meaning at first. Then the relief hit — sudden, full-body, like pressure bleeding from a sealed chamber. She was alive — but felt further away than ever.
He tried to write a reply, but the words wouldn't come. He just sat on the edge of the bed.
There was no sink, so he cracked open the door and peeked down the corridor. Cain spotted the restroom symbol and moved carefully, keeping to the wall. He still didn't trust his balance.
He avoided the mirror as much as he could. Face was sickly and gray, eyes sunken like he hadn't slept in days — because he hadn't. He let cold water run over his hands, rinsing away the dirt and blood of yesterday. Hygiene hadn't made the list.
Out in the hallway, a gurney squeaked by, followed by quick footsteps. Cleaned and clearer-headed, Cain made his way back to the ward. Medea was already there, standing beside his neighbor's bed. He struggled to recall her name.
"You're still here?" she said, smiling. Her face no longer hidden behind a fogged shield. "Thought they'd pulled you already."
Cain looked up at her.
"Security came by, asking questions. Looking for someone." She shrugged. No suspicion in her voice — just a need to share. "Anyway. I'll be back soon. Need to finish some labs before discharge."
As she walked off, Cain checked his phone again. Two bars of signal were better than nothing.
It rang. And rang. Then finally, a voice — broken by static.
"Hello?" Kasmina's voice cracked through the static — frightened, distorted. "Is that you? Cain?"
"Yeah, yeah, it's me," he said quickly — but the words drowned in static.
"Where were you?! You just vanished! I thought— I didn't know what to think! There was blood, gunfire— and you just—"
He heard her sob.
"I couldn't call before..." he began, but the line cracked and cut him off.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt? Where are you?" Her voice kept fading in and out.
"I... I'm at a hospital. I'm okay. Alive." He gripped the phone harder. "What about you?"
"I'm... at a friend's." The pause between "I'm" and "at a friend's" was too long. Like she was omitting something.
"A friend's? Send me the address. I'm coming."
"No, no! Don't!" she cut in. "Not now. Everything's blocked off. Patrols everywhere. You will get stuck till next week. Let me know when you are home, I will come see you. Alright?"
"Alright."
A moment of silence, fragile and warm, like glass.
"Take ca—" she began softly, but the phone buzzed and cut her off: connection lost.
Cain lowered the phone, staring at the dim screen.
Her phrase — "I'm at a friend's" — looped in his mind. It felt... off. Not the words. Not the tone. Something else. The placement? The rhythm? No. All wrong.
He walked to the window. From one of the tallest buildings in Amarant, the city stretched below — rooftops and snowfall fading into grey.
The door behind him opened, and Medea walked in."
"Planning to sneak out?" she asked, tired, but not annoyed. "You're not discharged yet."
"I need to get home," Cain said wearily. "What's the fastest way to the Third?"
"Fastest? No such thing." She shrugged. "Everything's sealed — metro, monorail, all down. I live there too - haven't even tried going. I wouldn't make it back in time for shift."
"You're the first patient who didn't scream or throw up on me this week. That's worth something," she added lightly, but her eyes lingered.
"Guess today is your lucky day. What about tomorrow?"
She looked at him thoughtfully.
"Tomorrow I'm off. Lucky you." She put the tablet down. "Shift ends in six hours. You can wait, can't you?" She smiled teasingly. Cain missed the hint.
"Yeah. Alright. Can I leave the building?"
Medea shrugged.
"No reason why not. Just sign out first. And don't be late — I'm two days without sleep, not waiting longer than I have to."
Cain nodded. Six hours wasn't ideal, but it was better than walking.
He wandered the halls, noting his turns, and eventually reached the ambulance bay at ground level. The vehicles here were old, scratched. Why they were still in service was anyone's guess, but they were only thing locals had - public hospital could not afford shuttles. They were not "Trauma".
The bay was mostly empty. A medic snoozed behind the glass. Cain stepped quietly down the ramp into the service zone. A male nurse smoked in the corner, half-hidden by shadow.
The concrete was cracked and sun-bleached, the painted lines long since worn away. A large waste tank squatted in the shade.
Someone was crouched beside it — a homeless man, draped in rags. Except... the rags weren't filthy. Grime imitated by wax, stains too perfect to be accidental. Might have fooled someone else- but not him. And the man didn't look like someone who hadn't bathed in years. He saw Cain watching, got up, and moved off — too fast, too purposeful.
Cain followed. Just as the man rounded a corner, Cain opened his mouth to call out — but the word that came was...
Wrong.
Lexically, phonetically, grammatically correct - and yet not. It carried weight, almost visible, like will poured into syllables.
"Stop."
The vagrant froze. The smoking medic paused mid-drag, blinking. Not fear — just hesitation. The word was too sharp to ignore. Too strange to obey.
Seconds passed.
The man bolted.
...too slow.
Cain slammed into him, throwing him hard against the concrete wall. This wasn't a beggar - not really. Normally, Cain would've flinched at the grime. But not now.. He yanked the man upright with unexpected strength.
"Talk." He tried to push the same force into his voice again. Nothing. The magic was gone.
The man stared in terror, limp in his grip.
"Who sent you to follow me?!"
"I... I don't know what you're talking about, sir..." the man stammered. "I just... I live here..."
"Don't lie to me. I know when someone lies."
"I... I don't..."
"Hey! Sir, let him go!" called a voice behind.
The nurse, cigarette finished, looked uncertain — not sure if he was intervening or just intruding. Cain was furious, but let go.
The 'vagrant' didn't flee — strangely, he just stood there.
"Easy now," Cain said, but the nurse moved — not to help, but to swing. Too deliberate. Too practiced. And then it clicked. He swung — slow, telegraphed. Cain sidestepped, caught the arm, twisted, dropped him, and held the lock until he passed out from the pain. Then stood.
"Who are you?" the vagrant croaked, stepping back, blocked by the wall.
"Sanitary inspector. There's a corpse on hospital property." Cain pointed to the fallen nurse. "And you'll be next unless you talk."
"You will be next. Drop — now!" The vagrant's voice changed — barking, sharp. Steel glinted in his hand as he drew the pistol out. "On the ground!"
Shooting here would bring half the city's police. Cain knew. Vagrant knew.
He wouldn't fire.
He closed fast, seized the barrel, twisted — one sharp move. The pistol's butt cracked into the man's nose, slammed him against the wall. Cain raised the gun, pointed it square at his head. Even this simple gesture was not as easy as it should have been. His muscles ached, head still thick with the hospital's sterile haze — but instincts were faster than fatigue. When it mattered, his body remembered what to do.
"Ready to talk?"
"I... I was sent to follow. There was a tip. No ID, no name..."
"Who?"
"If I tell you, they'll—"
"Talk." The Voice flickered again - not fully, but enough.
"Enoch," the man whispered.
Enoch. Cain had heard the name — though even that was generous. A legend. The so-called King of the Beggars. Said to have been powerful before the war, then vanished — left Earth before the final battle. Some said it was on orders. Others called him a traitor. Eight years later, he was but a ghost story.
Apparently, the ghost still breathed.
"Where can I find him?" Cain shook him hard.
The man grinned, blood on his lips.
"If you want that meeting so bad... he'll find you."