2025-10-15 23:55:24Three 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 ICU, the place he belonged, the only place where noise turned into purpose.
An elderly woman, pale and fading, lay under the sterile light. Her monitor blipped weakly. Joseph murmured, “Just hold on a little longer.”
He worked quietly, sliding silver needles with trembling precision. Golden light pulsed faintly beneath the patient’s skin. Her pulse steadied. Nurses gasped. “Vitals stabilizing!”
He exhaled in relief, until the monitor spiked. Beep. Beep. Flatline. “No.”
The old woman’s body convulsed violently, machines screaming. Staff rushed in, shoving Joseph aside. “Clear!”
The defibrillator fired once. Twice. Nothing. “She’s gone.”
Joseph stood frozen, his hand trembling over the still-warm sheet. He could still feel her pulse, strong, rhythmic, just moments ago. It was impossible.
A young nurse whispered behind him, “He touched her with the forbidden needles.”
From across the room, Marcus Caracas watched silently, expression unreadable, until the corner of his mouth twitched.
The doctors’ lounge smelled of antiseptic and politics. The coffee machine hissed softly, drowning out secrets.
Marcus sat alone, staring into his cup, when two men in black suits approached. Silver caduceus pins glimmered on their lapels, Syndicate envoys.
One spoke, voice smooth as glass. “Dr. Caracas, we understand you were present during Dr. Briggs’s treatment this morning.”
Marcus hesitated. “Present, yes. But I didn’t. ”
The second envoy slid a digital tablet across the table. “We’re investigating unauthorized use of divine acupuncture. You’ve seen… anomalies, yes?”
He looked down. The screen showed the woman’s death log, Joseph’s signature glowing faintly at the bottom. “I… saw a golden light,” Marcus admitted.
“That confirms the report,” the envoy said. He tapped the tablet, switching to another screen: a pending research grant proposal, Marcus’s name at the top.
“The Syndicate values loyalty. The Council appreciates clear testimony.”
Marcus stared at the offer, throat tightening. “If I sign this?”
“Truth is rewarded,” the envoy said simply.
Marcus’s fingers hovered over the screen. He thought of Joseph, the reckless genius, the miracle-maker who always stole the spotlight. His hand trembled. Then he pressed Sign.
“I saw Dr. Briggs apply forbidden techniques moments before the patient’s death.”
When the envoys left, Marcus sat in silence. The lounge clock ticked softly, each second heavier than guilt. He whispered to his reflection in the glass, “Forgive me, Joseph. You should’ve stayed ordinary.”
…
Night draped the hospital in silence. Joseph slipped through the morgue doors, flashlight trembling in his grip. The cold hit him like judgment.
The old woman’s body lay under the harsh fluorescence, covered in a sterile sheet. He whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He examined the meridian points carefully, no signs of trauma, nothing beyond ordinary puncture depth.
Then he saw it, something pulsing faintly beneath the translucent veins: black crystalline residue, flickering with traces of gold. “What in the world.”
He touched it. The residue shifted, sliding away from his finger as though alive. The System’s voice whispered faintly in his mind: “Toxin of the Void. External interference detected.”
He frowned. “Poison? Introduced after treatment?”
He turned to reach for a scanner, when the door burst open. “Freeze!”
Hospital security flooded the room, followed by two Syndicate inspectors. Their flashlights hit his face, then the body.
The lead inspector’s voice rang cold and final: “Dr. Joseph Briggs, you are under investigation for malpractice resulting in death.”
Joseph stepped back, shaking his head. “Wait, you don’t understand, there’s something inside her veins!”
Click. Flash. Syndicate press drones captured everything, the corpse, the needles in his hand, the golden mark glowing faintly beneath his sleeve.
Snap. Another flash. Another headline in the making. The trap had closed perfectly.
…
A sterile glass box. White light from above. The air hummed faintly, no windows, no warmth.
Joseph sat cuffed, wrists raw, eyes hollow. Across the glass table sat three Syndicate doctors. Their white coats gleamed like armor.
The lead examiner adjusted her silver-rimmed glasses. “Dr. Briggs, the evidence is overwhelming.”
Screens flickered to life behind her, footage of the failed treatment, falsified logs showing altered needle points, fake toxicity reports.
She said smoothly, “The patient’s organs liquefied within hours. Traces of divine resonance match your energy signature.”
Joseph leaned forward, desperate. “That’s impossible! The data’s been tampered with. The veins contained something alive, I saw it!”
Another examiner snorted. “Are you suggesting supernatural interference, Doctor?”
“Yes!”
The room fell silent. Then laughter, cold, polite. The woman with the glasses leaned in, voice razor-sharp. “You broke hierarchy, Dr. Briggs. Medicine is order. You are chaos.”
Joseph’s heart pounded. He heard the faint whisper of the System: “Do not answer in anger. They feed on it.”
He closed his eyes. Breathed. Silence was safer. The lead examiner straightened, satisfied. “Noted. Subject remains uncooperative.”
The recording light blinked red. Another signature sealed his fate.
…
Evening light filtered through reinforced glass. Joseph sat inside the holding cell, unshaven, pale, his spirit a thin thread between defiance and despair.
The door buzzed. Franca stepped in, corporate coat, Syndicate ID shining coldly. He tried to smile. “You came.”
She didn’t return it. “I came to tell you to stop.”
She set a tablet against the glass. Legal text glowed across it. “Confess to negligence. Accept permanent disbarment. They’ll drop the criminal charges.”
Joseph stared at the document, then at her. “You’re representing them now?”
“I’m representing survival.”
His voice cracked. “So that’s what we’ve become.”
Her eyes softened with guilt. “Joseph… please. This isn’t justice. It’s mercy. Take it.”
He shook his head slowly. “If I lie, they’ll bury every truth that could save lives. You know that.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Then they’ll bury you.”
He lifted his hand to the glass. She did the same, but as their palms aligned, the golden mark under his skin flared.
She flinched, pulling back as if burned. Fear rippled across her face. “Franca,” he whispered. “Don’t.”
“You’re changing,” she said, voice trembling.
He met her gaze. “No. I’m becoming what I was meant to be.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. She turned and left without looking back. The lock clicked behind her, final, echoing.
The System murmured faintly in his mind: “Emotional anchor destabilizing.”
He whispered to the empty cell, “I know.”
…
The auditorium of the Healers’ Syndicate was a cathedral of light and judgment. Rows of white-robed doctors and politicians filled the seats, cameras hovering silently above.
Joseph was led to the center, cuffs glinting under the stage lights. At the dais sat Bill Gates, his mentor, presiding over the tribunal. His expression was unreadable, eyes red, lips pressed tight.
Maren Holt addressed the assembly. “The evidence against Dr. Joseph Briggs is conclusive. The patient’s death, the forbidden technique, the unregistered resonance, all point to reckless misuse of divine energy.”
Screens projected the falsified footage. Gasps rippled through the hall. Whispers hissed like wind. “Demon healer…Golden curse.”
Joseph’s voice broke through the noise. “You’re watching lies! That residue wasn’t mine, it was injected after I left! Please, look beyond the data!”
Laughter from the crowd. Murmurs of “delusion.”
He turned toward his master. “Bill… you know me.”
Bill’s hands trembled on the desk. “You were my brightest student,” he said softly. “But even gold can rot.”
Joseph’s heart cracked open. “Master, no.”
Bill met his gaze for a fleeting second, grief flashing across his eyes, before looking away.
The council chair raised a hand. “By the authority of the Healers’ Syndicate, Dr. Joseph Briggs is hereby stripped of all certifications and placed under ritual purification pending judgment.”
The crowd erupted. Flashlights burst like storms. Guards seized his arms, dragging him from the platform.
He shouted over the chaos, “You’re killing medicine itself!”
Bill’s voice barely carried through the noise. “Forgive me.”
Lightning flashed through the auditorium windows, a storm breaking outside. The golden mark on Joseph’s wrist blazed violently, searing through his cuffs.
“Host under threat,” the System’s voice murmured, sharp and urgent. “Activation protocols pending.”
Joseph’s eyes burned gold as thunder rolled overhead, and as the guards pulled him into darkness.
The storm answered with a roar, heralding not his end, but the beginning of something the Syndicate could never contain.
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CHAPTER 8. Chains of Shame
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
CHAPTER 7. Master’s Verdict
The incense smoke curled like ghosts around the edges of Bill Gates’s private study. Shelves of ancient scrolls towered to the ceiling; relics of forgotten healers glimmered faintly in the lamplight. On the table lay his ceremonial robe, gold-threaded, heavy with authority, staring back at him like judgment itself.Bill sat motionless, eyes fixed on the holo-screen looping Joseph’s tribunal footage.The moment played again.The elderly patient convulsing, the golden glow flashing from Joseph’s hands, the monitors spiking before death.He pressed pause. The screen froze on Joseph’s face, wide-eyed, horrified, still believing the world would listen.“Medicine,” Bill whispered, quoting himself from decades ago, “is the art of humility before mystery.”He smiled bitterly. “And you touched that mystery too soon, my son.”He closed his eyes. Memory flickered, Joseph as a boy, scrawny, bright-eyed, scribbling meridian diagrams in a notebook too big for his hands. “Master, why does healing h
CHAPTER 6. Framed for Death
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
CHAPTER 5. The Forbidden Rune
Basement Level 7, New York General HospitalThe elevator shuddered to a stop with a metallic sigh. Joseph stepped out into darkness.Only one flickering bulb lit the corridor, revealing peeling paint and a sign half-buried in dust: “ARCHIVES / RESTRICTED ACCESS.”He exhaled slowly. “So this is where they buried the truth.”A voice echoed behind him. “You shouldn’t be here.”Joseph spun. Vera Lin stood at the elevator doors, face pale. “They sealed this floor years ago. It’s off-record even for me.”He met her gaze. “Clara’s file was moved down here. You told me the Syndicate erased it.”Vera hesitated. “Then you already know what that means.”“It means they’re hiding something.”“And if you find it?”Joseph’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Then maybe I’ll finally know what’s inside me.”Their footsteps echoed through the dust-choked silence. Every door bore a golden seal burned into the metal, the serpent of the Syndicate.Joseph ran his fingers across one; the rune on his wrist pulsed
CHAPTER 4. Franca’s Ultimatum
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
CHAPTER 3. The Healers’ Syndicate Rumor
Hospital Cafeteria, Mid-afternoon.The hum of conversation floated over the smell of burnt coffee and antiseptic. Doctors clustered around screens, pretending to read reports, but every few sentences drifted back to the same name. “Briggs.”Joseph sat at the edge of the room, untouched sandwich growing stale. He could feel their whispers, though he pretended not to. “Word is, the Syndicate’s noticed him,” someone muttered.“Noticed? They’re furious. Unregistered divine acupuncture? That’s a federal breach.”“They’ll audit the whole division.”Laughter, nervous and clipped. Joseph’s friend, Dr. Vera Lin, slid into the seat opposite him, voice low. “You shouldn’t be here. The moment your miracle hit the news boards, the Syndicate opened an inquiry.”He looked up, tired but steady. “If they want answers, they can ask.”“They don’t ask,” Vera said. “They investigate. Quietly. And when they do, people vanish.”Joseph leaned back, watching steam curl from his untouched cup. “Then I’ll be t
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