Bliss Hospital
I shifted in my chair for what had to be the tenth time, which was impressive considering hospital chairs were apparently designed by people who hated the human spine.
No position worked.
Not leaning back.
Not sitting straight.
Not whatever half-slouched, emotionally defeated pose I was currently attempting.
Beside me, Mom sat like a statue carved out of pure anxiety. Her posture was rigid, her eyes flicking between the wall clock and me like she was personally supervising both my condition and the passage of time.
If glaring could make seconds move faster, we'd already be in next week.
"Caleb Stellan?"
The voice sliced through the room.
I looked up.
A woman in a white coat stood across from us, holding a clipboard like it was both a weapon and emotional support.
Behind her, an X-ray glowed on a lightbox, casting this eerie, clinical light that immediately made everything feel more serious than I was emotionally prepared for.
Her eyes were locked onto the image and she did not look thrilled.
'Okay… that's mildly concerning.'
Meanwhile, my brain—being the reliable, overconfident idiot that it is—decided this was the perfect time to reassure me.
'Relax. You're fine. You're functioning perfectly. If something was wrong, you'd know. You're incredibly self-aware.'
Yeah.
That sounded right.
I nodded slightly to myself, fully convinced.
"Based on the initial scans," the doctor began, tapping the X-ray with a perfectly manicured nail, "there's definitely something… irregular in the pattern here."
She pointed to a shadowy area in my skull.
I squinted at it like I understood anything about brain scans.
'Ah yes. The brain. I have one of those.'
"Something funky, you mean," I muttered, attempting humor.
It died instantly.
No one laughed.
Not even a pity chuckle.
The joke just fell flat and stayed there, like my dignity earlier.
I glanced at Mom.
Big mistake.
Her glare hit me like a sniper shot—sharp, precise, and carrying deep disappointment.
Honestly?
Scarlett's knife earlier felt less threatening.
I straightened up a little in my seat. "…Not funky," I added quietly.
'I wonder if Scarlett would have let me cum before killing me. Honestly, I think I would have, if I'd just had ten more seconds. But thankfully, despite having blue balls, Vivienne came to my rescue—'
My brain really needed to stop right there.
I exhaled slowly, dragging my thoughts away from that very questionable direction and latching onto something safer.
'Vivienne.'
Yeah. Much better.
'My angel-like savior,' I thought, staring blankly at the glowing X-ray like it might suddenly turn into a dramatic slow-motion replay of her kicking Scarlett across the room. 'Why did she even help me?'
Rumors about her floated back—whispers in hallways, exaggerated stories.
'Didn't people say she sells fentanyl or something?'
I frowned slightly.
'Okay, but if she's that kind of person… why step in?'
My brain, once again proving it had no sense of priorities, immediately derailed.
'Also… does fentanyl even have a taste?'
…Why was I like this?
"Caleb."
My mom's voice snapped me back.
I blinked, realizing she had leaned forward slightly, her entire posture screaming pay attention without her actually saying it.
Right.
Doctor.
Brain scan.
Possible damage.
Minor details.
"It appears there's been some trauma," the doctor said, tapping the scan again. "Likely from your fall. It would account for the confusion you're experiencing and the… changes in your memory."
"Changes?" Mom repeated sharply, a crack appearing in her usually stoic demeanor.
For a split second, I saw something like fear flash in her eyes as they met mine.
'Was she scared for me?'
It was unsettling to see the angry facade of my mom waver, even slightly.
"Is it serious?" she asked, her voice controlled, but barely.
"Too early to tell," the doctor replied, calm and detached in that professional way that suddenly felt incredibly unhelpful. "We'll need to run more tests."
"Great," I muttered, slumping back in my chair. Because apparently today wasn't done with me yet. "Love that. More tests. Fantastic."
Honestly, at this point, I half expected them to discover I had a second brain growing in there just to complete the theme.
They'd already taken blood earlier—way more than felt necessary, considering I hadn't even eaten lunch.
"Until then," Mom said, straightening up again like she was rebuilding her armor piece by piece, "button up your shirt, Caleb. You're not at home."
I blinked and looked down.
'…Oh.'
A couple of buttons had come undone, exposing part of my chest like I was casually modeling for a very confused audience.
When I glanced back up, I caught the tail end of the doctor's gaze lingering a second too long before she abruptly looked away, a faint blush creeping across her cheeks like she'd just been caught doing something mildly illegal.
"…Uh, sure," I mumbled, suddenly very aware of my own hands as I fumbled with the buttons.
They didn't feel like mine—too slow, too clumsy—like I was controlling them through lag. I finally managed to fix my shirt, hiding whatever accidental show I'd apparently put on.
'Why is Mom acting like I just flashed off my boobs in the entire hospital?' I thought, mildly offended.
"Let's hope it's just a temporary glitch in your system," Mom murmured, her hand briefly brushing mine in a rare gesture of comfort.
'…What?'
That was new.
That was very new.
Before I could even process it, she'd already pulled back, folding her arms again like the moment never happened.
"Glitch," I repeated under my breath.
It sounded right.
But it didn't feel right.
Something about all of this—the memory gaps, the weird reactions, the way people were looking at me like I'd suddenly become a different version of myself—it felt less like a glitch and more like…
Like something was rewriting itself and I was the only one noticing.
'This must be a glitch,' I told myself again, clinging to the idea. 'Mom suddenly caring? Yeah. Definitely a bug.'
That made sense.
Way more sense than the alternative.
My thoughts drifted again as we left the room, my brain doing what it did best—escaping into nonsense when reality got too complicated.
'Okay, but seriously…
If drugs had flavors…'
I frowned slightly as I walked.
'There's no way cocaine tastes bad, right? It's gotta be like… I don't know… premium-tier flavor or something.'
I nodded to myself.
'Yeah. Definitely top shelf.'
Which naturally led to the only logical conclusion—
'Fentanyl probably tastes like absolute garbage.'
I shoved my hands into my pockets as we headed out, feeling oddly satisfied with that completely useless conclusion.
Because clearly, that was the most important thing my brain could focus on right now.