"Charlie! You need to come to the hospital now!" Fear and worry filled Nancy's voice. "Mother is dying, she needs blood." The urgency in her tone left no room for questions."I'll be right there," I assured her before hurriedly grabbing my jacket and keys.Halfway to the gate, I bumped into a woman."I'm so sorry, I didn't see you," I said, trying to wear my jacket while opening the gate."You?!" She looked shocked. Though I was in a hurry, I stopped to take a second look at her face."Do I know you?""That's not important now. But you... where are you off to in such a rush?""Look, I need to be at the hospital. If you have something to say, please excuse me." I made to walk away, but she blocked me."A hospital is no place for a war god," she whispered. I stopped.I turned back, frowning."I know your accident was a serious one, and you lost both your powers and your memory, but the hospital is no place for you.""What’s this all about?" I raised my voice slightly. She glanced around

Linda led me through a private elevator that bypassed the main floors, descending into a wing few eyes had ever seen. The air was hushed, heavy with the sterile scent of disinfectants and the faint mechanical hum of life-support machines. The sign on the wall read: Skydome VIP Ward.“This,” she said, her voice low, “is where the untouchables come when money and power can’t buy them time. Foreign heads of state, billionaires, royalty. Their last hope sits here.”We stopped at the entrance of a glass-paneled room. Inside, a boy no older than seven lay pale on a hospital bed. His tiny chest rose and fell in shallow, fragile breaths, every exhale sounding like a whisper fighting extinction. His father, a man in a tailored suit whose aura screamed power, stood by the bedside, face carved with despair.I recognized him instantly—though not from memory, but from reputation. One of the city’s wealthiest magnates, a man whose signature could sway entire industries. And here he was, clutching h

The hospital room reeked of antiseptic and hypocrisy. The machines hummed softly, steady now that Nancy’s mother was out of danger. You could feel the shift in the air — gratitude from everyone, except the one person who should have had it most.Nancy stood by her mother’s bed, her hands trembling not from relief, but from anger she couldn’t quite explain. Carl was at her side, his arm around her shoulders, the picture of false comfort. The same man whose men had just tried to sabotage the procedure now looked at me like I was the inconvenience in his perfect little world.“Don’t think this changes anything, Charlie,” Nancy said, her voice sharp, brittle. “You might have saved her, but you’re still nothing without me.”For a second, I thought I misheard her. Even the air in the room seemed to pause. The nurses who had seen me work went still. One of them, a young intern with trembling lips, muttered something under her breath, and it wasn’t kind.A relative — Nancy’s uncle, I think —

The tension in Skydome’s upper floor could slice through glass. The sun was just tipping past the horizon, casting a pale gold hue through the tinted windows that overlooked the city. Charlie sat behind the long black table, every movement deliberate, every silence louder than thunder. He had been expecting Carl.When Carl finally arrived, he didn’t stride in with the arrogance that once marked him. His posture was measured—polished—but his eyes flickered with unease. His assistant lingered by the door, clutching a folder like a lifeline. Charlie didn’t rise; he merely gestured toward the seat opposite him.“Tea?” Charlie offered, voice cool, unbothered.Carl hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”Charlie poured two cups. The scent of oolong filled the air, subtle but sharp. Carl accepted his cup, but didn’t drink.“Let’s not make enemies,” Carl began. His tone was diplomatic, almost too smooth. “We’re both men of progress. The media’s stirring trouble, but you and I—we know how this game wo

The storm over the city broke just as the headlines began to twist.At first, the reports were subtle—murmurs of malpractice, whispers of patient disappearances, quiet claims that Skydome’s “miracle treatments” were killing more people than they cured. Within twenty-four hours, the whispers became war drums.Every news outlet carried the same footage: overcrowded hospitals, lifeless patients, doctors crying before cameras. The banners read: “Skydome Cover-Up Exposed.”Social media erupted. Hashtags multiplied like a virus. Commentators demanded arrests, investors fled, governments distanced themselves.In his high-rise office, Carl Donovan leaned back, watching the chaos unfold. His expression was calm, almost satisfied.“Forged footage, falsified patients, false deaths,” his aide reported. “Our operatives spread the material through four independent channels. It looks authentic.”Carl smiled faintly. “The truth doesn’t need to be real. It only needs to sound consistent.”He stood and