Lakeview Medical was busy enough to feel like a transit station.
Stretchers floated past every few minutes.
A prisoner with half his hair burned away argued about contribution charges.
Another sat calmly while a healer regrew two fingers.
Behind a glass wall, a woman practiced reconnecting severed muscle fibers on what Ethan sincerely hoped was a synthetic arm.
Nobody screamed.
That was almost more disturbing.
Pain control in this world was excellent.
Which meant people could do horrifying things clinically.
Dr.
Crowe’s bird mask was not unusual here.
Several medical arcanists wore specialized face gear.
One had mirrored lenses.
Another wore a porcelain mask with six small eyes.
Ethan asked why.
Crowe answered immediately.
“Contamination protection, spirit focus, identity separation, and tradition.”
“Identity separation?”
“Some procedures are easier if patients remember the role instead of the face.”
That sentence was psychologically loaded enough that Ethan chose not to unpack it.
Crowe guided him past a room marked TEMPORARY DEATH LAB.
Ethan slowed.
Chloe’s attention snapped to the sign.
Crowe noticed both reactions and explained without being asked.
“Controlled soul-separation procedures.
Continuous cardiac support, monitored reattachment, strict time limits.”
Ethan looked through the narrow glass panel.
“People volunteer for that?”
“Patients consent when the diagnostic value exceeds the risk.”
Chloe leaned closer to the projection boundary.
“What can you learn?”
“Whether a disorder follows the body, the soul, or the connection between them.”
Crowe kept walking.
To her, the answer was ordinary medicine.
That was more unsettling than enthusiasm would have been.
Lakeview Medical smelled like oranges.
Ethan did not trust that.
Hospitals should smell like disinfectant.
Maybe coffee.
Fear, if ventilation was bad.
Oranges implied somebody had made a choice.
He followed a nurse through a white corridor.
His left cheek had swollen.
Two ribs were bruised.
One finger was broken.
His lip had reopened three times.
Compared with Adrian, he had won.
Compared with the condition he preferred to keep his body in, victory seemed poorly designed.
Chloe walked beside him.
“You did well.”
“You already said that.”
“I’m reinforcing behavior.”
“Please stop becoming the Observer.”
“I’ll stop when you stop needing supervision.”
“Then we’re doomed.”
The nurse opened a door.
“Bed seven.”
Ethan entered.
Then stopped.
A person in a black bird mask stood over the bed.
Long beak.
Round dark lenses.
White surgical coat.
Black gloves.
Leather hood.
For one second Ethan thought the Four Pillars had found him again.
The masked figure turned.
“Mr.
Hayes.”
Female voice.
Cheerful.
Too cheerful.
Ethan looked at the nurse.
The nurse had already left.
Coward.
The masked medic pointed at the bed.
“Sit.”
Ethan sat.
Chloe leaned close to the mask.
“Is she a bird?”
“I don’t know.”
The medic tilted her head.
“You may ask.”
Ethan froze.
“You can hear her?”
The medic paused.
“Hear who?”
Chloe grinned.
“Got you.”
Ethan closed his eyes.
“Nothing.”
The medic opened a floating chart.
“Facial fracture minor.
Finger fracture simple.
Rib trauma non-displaced.
Mild concussion.
Blood loss trivial.”
“Trivial to whom?”
“Medicine.”
“Medicine is arrogant.”
She removed one glove.
Her hand was human.
Pale.
Fine-boned.
A silver sigil glowed on the palm.
“Evelyn Crowe.”
Ethan looked at the mask.
“Seriously?”
“What?”
“Your name is Crowe.”
“Yes.”
“And you wear a crow mask.”
“It’s a plague-beak.”
“That does not improve the coincidence.”
Dr.
Crowe stared through black lenses.
“I chose medicine before the mask.”
“That somehow makes it funnier.”
Chloe sat on an empty instrument cart.
“I like her.”
Dr.
Crowe touched Ethan’s broken finger.
He hissed.
“Pain response normal.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She pulled.
The bone clicked into place.
Ethan swore.
A blue light passed through the finger.
Pain vanished.
He flexed it.
“Okay.
That’s incredible.”
Dr.
Crowe nodded.
“Basic.”
“Your basic would bankrupt hospitals where I’m from.”
“Where are you from?”
Ethan smiled.
“Complicated.”
“Everything in Lakeview is.”
She turned to his ribs.
“Shirt.”
He removed it.
Dr.
Crowe examined bruising.
Her fingers were cold.
A silver thread emerged from one fingertip and entered his skin without breaking it.
Ethan stared.
“That feels illegal.”
“It is diagnostic.”
“I said feels.”
“Two ribs microfractured.
One intercostal tear.
Minor internal bleed.”
“Minor sounds reassuring.”
“It should not.”
She withdrew the thread.
Ethan’s interface showed a prison medical consent form.
STANDARD REPAIR.
Contribution cost: 1.
ENHANCED REPAIR.
Contribution cost: 4.
SURGICAL PRACTICE AUTHORIZATION.
Contribution cost: 0.
Potential compensation: variable.
Ethan stared.
“What is surgical practice authorization?”
Dr.
Crowe became extremely still.
“Where do you see that?”
“Consent form.”
She leaned closer.
“You’re eligible?”
Something changed in her posture.
Interest.
Too much interest.
Chloe leaned back.
“Oh no.”
Ethan agreed.
“What does it mean?”
Dr.
Crowe sat beside him.
“Lakeview participates in the Advanced Correctional Medical Training Program.”
“That sounds like a sentence written by lawyers.”
“It allows qualified medical arcanists to practice techniques under controlled conditions.”
“On prisoners.”
“With consent.”
“Free repair.”
“Yes.”
“What kinds of techniques?”
Dr.
Crowe’s voice became warmer.
“Bone reconstruction.
neural stitching.
organ replacement.
spirit-body interface surgery.
experimental scarless restoration.
limb regeneration under supervision.
sensory rerouting.
temporary circulatory separation—”
“Stop.”
She stopped.
Ethan looked at Chloe.
Chloe’s eyes were wide.
“She really likes surgery.”
“Yes.”
Dr.
Crowe said, “I provide excellent care.”
“I believe you.”
He did.
That was the problem.
“You get experience from operating on us.”
She paused.
“Training.”
“Experience.”
“Clinical development.”
“Experience.”
“Yes.”
Ethan looked at the zero-cost option.
The system made sense again.
Prisoners received free advanced medicine.
Doctors received endless difficult cases.
Institution received lower medical expenses and better staff.
Everyone benefited.
Provided you ignored the part where condemned prisoners became renewable training material.
“So Lakeview is popular with medical arcanists.”
Dr.
Crowe’s eyes almost glowed behind the lenses.
“Extremely.”
“Because Deathmatch produces injuries every day.”
“Yes.”
“Near-death injuries.”
“Yes.”
“And if you make a mistake…”
She hesitated.
Ethan waited.
Dr.
Crowe corrected herself.
“Lakeview’s treatment environment has unusually tolerant outcome protocols.”
Chloe burst out laughing.
Ethan stared.
“You mean if the patient dies.”
“We revive them.”
“If revival fails.”
“That is statistically rare.”
“If it fails.”
Dr.
Crowe became very professional.
“The patient was incarcerated in a high-risk correctional environment and voluntarily enrolled in advanced medical training.”
“Meaning nobody sues.”
“I did not say that.”
“You practically sang it.”
She folded her hands.
Ethan looked at the orange bowl on the side table.
There were actual oranges.
“Do patients get fruit?”
Dr.
Crowe blinked.
“What?”
“After surgery.”
“Free?”
“Yes.”
Ethan nodded.
Chloe stared at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Building goodwill.”
“With the woman who wants to remove your organs?”
“Especially her.”
Ethan turned back.
“Dr.
Crowe, do you provide nutritional recovery support after experimental procedures?”
Her posture brightened again.
“Absolutely.”
“Protein?”
“Yes.”
“Fruit?”
“Yes.”
“Extra meals?”
“Depending on metabolic demand.”
Ethan smiled.
“I may come back often.”
Dr.
Crowe leaned closer.
“You fight regularly?”
“I have started.”
The word came too fast.
She realized it.
“Medically unfortunate.”
“Sure.”
“I mean, if you require treatment, we provide it.”
“Of course.”
“And if you happen to consent to surgical practice…”
Her voice became casual with the subtlety of a collapsing building.
“…there would be no charge.”
Ethan waited.
Dr.
Crowe shifted.
“Actually.”
There it was.
“You don’t need to pay anything.”
“I noticed.”
“No contribution.”
“I noticed.”
“I would perform the procedure free.”
“Yes.”
She moved closer.
“Entirely free.”
Ethan leaned away.
Chloe whispered, “Run.” Ethan whispered back, “Chip won’t let me.” Dr.
Crowe blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
She brought up a diagram.
“Your rib injury is simple.”
“Too simple.”
Ethan stared.
“For normal treatment.”
“Good.”
“But since you have a high resurrection tolerance rating…”
“Why do I have that?”
“Prior chest penetration survived during arrest.”
Nathan’s sword.
Of course that was in his medical file.
“…you would be an excellent candidate for minimally invasive thoracic reconstruction.”
“My ribs are barely cracked.”
“We could reconstruct them.”
“Why?”
“Practice.”
“That’s not a patient-centered reason.”
“Your outcome would be stronger ribs.”
Ethan paused.
“Stronger?”
Dr.
Crowe sensed weakness.
“Marginally.”
“How marginally?”
“Three to seven percent improved structural density.”
Chloe jumped off the cart.
“No.”
Ethan said, “Interesting.”
“No.”
Dr.
Crowe opened another chart.
“We could also reinforce the damaged finger.”
“No.”
“Potential tendon efficiency improvement.”
“No.”
“How much?”
Chloe stared at Ethan in betrayal.
“Ethan.”
He ignored her.
Dr.
Crowe’s enthusiasm became impossible to hide.
“Five percent, perhaps more depending on compatibility.”
“Risks?”
“Pain.”
“Expected.”
“Temporary nerve dysfunction.”
“Less good.”
“Regeneration error.”
“How bad?”
“Usually cosmetic.”
“Usually.”
“Rarely functional.”
Ethan leaned back.
The prison had turned medicine into progression.
Of course it had.
Everything in this world seemed to become a system if observed long enough.
Sword training.
Contribution.
Deathmatch.
Public execution.
Now surgery.
He looked at Dr.
Crowe.
“Why me?”
She hesitated.
“Your body is unusual.”
Ethan’s humor disappeared.
“How?”
“Your baseline healing response is extremely high even without active medical spirits.”
The Four Pillars body.
Or Hayes.
Or something else.
Dr.
Crowe continued.
“Also your soul-body synchronization readings are…”
She stopped.
“Are what?”
“Strange.”
Chloe became serious.
“What kind of strange?”
Ethan repeated.
“What kind?”
Dr.
Crowe looked at his chart.
“Your soul signature does not perfectly match your historical biometric pattern.”
Silence.
Ethan’s pulse changed.
“Say that again.”
She looked up.
“After arrest, your body was compared with previous civic records.
Physical identity is confirmed.
Soul identity is within legal continuity tolerance.”
“Within.”
“Yes.”
“Not identical.”
“No soul remains perfectly identical over time.”
“How different?”
Dr.
Crowe hesitated.
Ethan’s heart pounded.
This was the first medical evidence.
But something.
He was not imagining everything.
Maybe.
Dr.
Crowe said, “Enough that I requested a second reading.”
“And?”
“Denied.”
“Why?”
“Four Pillars contamination protocol.”
Of course.
Memory specialists could not touch him.
Soul analysis was probably restricted too.
Ethan sat silently.
Chloe looked at him.
For once, she had nothing to add.
Dr.
Crowe misunderstood the silence.
“Would you like the surgery?”
Ethan looked at her.
The emotional whiplash nearly injured him more than Adrian had.
“You really want to cut me open.”
“Professionally.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“I can provide fruit.”
Ethan laughed.
He couldn’t help it.
The laugh hurt his ribs.
Dr.
Crowe immediately brightened.
“Pain on laughter confirms intercostal involvement.”
“Please stop enjoying symptoms.”
“I am not enjoying them.”
She paused.
“I am appreciating diagnostic clarity.”
Chloe whispered, “Same thing.” Dr.
Crowe’s specialty, Ethan learned, was reconstructive trauma medicine.
She said it with the pride of someone announcing a noble house.
“What does that cover?”
“Damage.”
“Specific.”
“Damage other physicians consider unpleasant.”
“Still broad.”
She counted.
“Crushed limbs.
ruptured organs.
failed resurrection tissue.
nerve fragmentation.
partial spirit-body separation.”
Ethan held up a hand.
“That last one.”
“No.”
“You didn’t hear the question.”
“I know the answer.”
“Is soul-body mismatch something you treat?”
Crowe became still.
“Sometimes.”
Ethan’s heartbeat changed.
“Could it explain my readings?”
“Possibly.”
“Could you test it?”
“Not without authorization.”
“What authorization?”
“High-risk spiritual diagnostics.”
“Contribution?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Senior medical approval and Public Safety clearance.”
Nathan.
Of course every road eventually found a government desk.
Crowe tilted her head.
“If you survive Judgment processing, I can request it.”
Ethan laughed softly.
“That is a significant if.”
“Medicine is full of them.”
Ethan looked at the consent screen.
Standard repair.
One contribution.
Practice surgery.
Free.
Potential physical improvement.
Potential clue about his body.
Potential doctor who clearly considered opening human beings recreational enrichment.
He selected STANDARD REPAIR.
Dr.
Crowe’s shoulders fell.
Chloe cheered.
Ethan said, “Today.” Dr.
Crowe looked up.
“Today?”
“Standard today.”
He pointed at the practice option.
“Maybe next time.”
The disappointment vanished instantly.
“Excellent.”
“I did not consent.”
“Potential future consent is clinically meaningful.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Thank you.”
She raised both hands.
Silver light spread.
Ethan’s ribs warmed.
The bruising faded.
Bone knitted.
Pain receded.
Chloe watched, fascinated.
Dr.
Crowe finished.
“Done.”
Ethan breathed deeply.
No pain.
He put his shirt back on.
Then picked up an orange.
Dr.
Crowe watched.
“That is for surgical patients.”
Ethan froze.
“You said patients get fruit.”
“Surgical patients.”
“You repaired my ribs.”
“Standard restorative procedure.”
He looked at the orange.
At her.
At the orange.
Dr.
Crowe extended one hand.
Ethan reluctantly returned it.
“This prison finally found my limit.”
Chloe laughed.
Dr.
Crowe placed the orange back into the bowl.
Then quietly handed him a banana.
“Don’t tell administration.”
Ethan stared.
The black crow mask gave nothing away.
He took the banana.
“You’re my favorite doctor.”
“I am your only doctor.”
“Strong positioning.”
He walked toward the door.
Dr.
Crowe called after him.
“Mr.
Hayes.”
He turned.
“If you get stabbed through the chest again…”
Ethan waited.
Her voice became bright.
“Please request me.”
He stared.
Then left.
Chloe followed.
The door closed.
They walked three steps.
Chloe said, “You know she’s hoping you get catastrophically injured.”
“Yes.”
“You’re going back.”
“Why?”
Ethan peeled the banana.
“Free healthcare.”
He took a bite.
“And she may be the first person in this world with evidence that I am not the original Ethan Hayes.”
Chloe stopped laughing.
Ethan kept walking.
At the end of the corridor, his Handbook chimed.
NEW MEDICAL CONTACT RECORDED.
Potential development path detected.
Ethan looked at it.
Then sighed.
The game did not care whether a person was a swordswoman, a fraudster, or a surgeon in a bird mask.
Everyone was a system waiting to become complicated.
And Ethan was beginning to suspect that surviving Lakeview would require learning every one of them.