The Hall of Healing, New York General, Morning.The hall shimmered with polished marble and ceremony. Sunlight filtered through glass mosaics depicting ancient physicians and their sacred seals. Every apprentice stood in formation, white coats crisp, eyes forward. A single name murmured through the crowd like a ripple. “Joseph Briggs.”“Doctor Briggs,” a voice called over the comm, “please step forward.”Joseph hesitated, feeling every whisper pierce his back like needles. The applause was polite, hesitant, edged with envy.At the front stood Master Bill Gates, draped in his ceremonial robe of blue and gold, a symbol of the highest order of healers. His expression was composed, almost solemn.He lifted his hand, and silence fell. “Last night,” Bill said, voice deep and resonant, “one of our own achieved what centuries of theory claimed impossible, he revived the Golden Pulse.”Murmurs swept through the audience. Some astonished. Others doubtful. Bill turned toward Joseph. “Apprentice

Rain tapped the windows like an impatient heartbeat. The city’s lights bled through the glass, fractured and cold.Joseph slipped through the door, soaked and exhausted. His ID badge flickered red, “Access Under Review.” The silence inside was heavier than any reprimand.On the counter sat untouched dinner, cooling beside a tablet still projecting a Syndicate broadcast. Franca wasn’t in sight.He dropped his bag, running a hand through his damp hair. “Franca?”Her voice drifted from the balcony, calm but distant. “You missed dinner again.”He stepped closer, hesitant. “Emergency case.”“Always is.” She turned, the faint glow of citylight outlining her face, composed, tired, beautiful in its restraint. “Did they suspend you?”“Not yet.”She gave a small laugh, brittle, unamused. “Then they will. They’re erasing your records already. The Syndicate doesn’t forget disobedience.”He met her eyes. “I didn’t disobey. I healed.”Franca looked at him for a long moment, then set down her tablet

Three days after the rune explosion. New York Central Hospital shimmered under thin morning light. The city looked normal, but nothing felt the same. Not to Joseph Briggs.He walked through the glass doors, pale but alert, coat buttoned, the faint gold pulse under his skin hidden by fabric. The air buzzed faintly, he could hear everything: the thump of heartbeats, the flutter of lungs, the low hum of the hospital’s machines blending with the rhythm of life itself. Too loud.He winced as a nurse passed, her pulse jittered in arrhythmia, fear mixing with fatigue. “Morning, Dr. Briggs,” another nurse said, voice brittle. Her eyes didn’t meet his.Whispers followed in his wake. “He shouldn’t even be here.”“They said he caused an explosion in the basement.”“Why didn’t they arrest him yet?”He ignored them, scanning his ID at the security gate. The light blinked red. ACCESS: PENDING INVESTIGATION.He forced a smile. “System glitch.”The guard hesitated, then waved him through. He entered

The sun rose cold over New York City Medical Plaza, its brilliance cruel on the polished white marble. At the center stood the Syndicate stage, draped in banners proclaiming: “Integrity Preserves Divinity.”A voice echoed through the speakers: “Bring forward the condemned.”Chains rattled. Dr. Joseph Briggs emerged, escorted by two guards. His once-white healer’s coat hung in shreds; gray prison robes clung to him like mourning cloth.His eyes, still clear beneath the exhaustion, met the horizon, the same skyline he had once healed, one patient at a time.The crowd roared. Some shouted curses, others prayers. News drones hovered, recording every humiliation for the evening broadcast.A child held up a flower. His mother snatched it away. From the balcony above, Franca stood behind her father, Victor Harrington, watching. Her hands trembled, nails digging into her palm until blood welled, but she said nothing. Her father’s hand rested firmly on her shoulder, a warning disguised as co