Chapter Text
The clock ticked steadily in the corner of your office, its sound barely audible over the quiet sobs of the man sitting across from you.
His hands trembled as he clutched a faded photograph of his family—his wife and two young daughters, their smiles frozen in a time that felt like another lifetime.
“It’s been fourteen years,” he said, his voice raw, almost a whisper. “But I can still hear their screams. Every time I close my eyes... it’s like I’m back in Linkon City that day.”
Your chest tightened as you leaned forward, meeting his tear-streaked gaze.
In 2034, the opening of the Deepspace Tunnel had unleashed chaos on Earth.
Countless Wanderers had poured through, relentless and merciless.
Entire cities were reduced to ruins, and Linkon City bore the brunt of it, its population nearly annihilated in the carnage.
The Chronorift Catastrophe had left scars on the world—and on individuals—that even time couldn’t heal.
For those who survived, the memories were as lethal as the Wanderers themselves.
“You survived something unimaginable,” you said softly, your voice steady but kind. “The fact that you’re here, fighting to move forward, is a testament to your strength.”
His gaze lifted, glistening with unshed tears.
“It doesn’t feel like strength. It feels like I failed them.”
Your Evol stirred, the familiar pull of emotions brushing against your consciousness.
His grief enveloped you, raw and jagged, but you wove through it carefully, projecting calm and safety.
It wasn’t much, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly, his breathing slowing.
“Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting them,” you replied gently. “It means honoring their memory by living—for yourself, and for them.”
For a moment, the room fell silent, the weight of his grief heavy but shared.
You could tell that today’s session had only scratched the surface of his pain, but every step forward, no matter how small, mattered.
You glanced at the clock on your desk, noting that his session was up. Offering him a soft, reassuring smile, you said, “Our time is up for today, but I look forward to seeing you next time. And please—take it easy on yourself.”
As you spoke, you focused inward, allowing your Evol to gently weave through his turbulent emotions.
You narrowed your eyes slightly in concentration, nudging his spiraling sadness toward a calmer state.
It wasn’t a permanent fix, but it would hold for a while, like patching a dam before the cracks could deepen.
You’d done this countless times before, but with him, it always carried a heavier burden.
This wasn’t the first time he’d spiraled to the brink—nor the first time the hospital had fought to pull him back from the edge.
The number of times he had tried to end his life blurred together in your memory, each instance a painful reminder of how fragile hope could be.
As he stood to leave, clutching the photograph tightly, his steps seemed less weighed down than when he entered. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—for now.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the room. You exhaled slowly, the emotional toll of the session washing over you.
You didn’t need your Evol to feel the echoes of his pain lingering in the quiet space, reminding you why you’d chosen this path—and the sacrifices it demanded.
You stood up from the chair, hands sliding into the pockets of your white doctor’s coat, the fabric slightly wrinkled from long hours.
The rhythmic click of your heels echoed in the quiet room as you approached the wide window.
The sprawling city stretched out before you, its skyline bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun.
Amidst the buildings, the Chronorift Memorial rose tall and unyielding. Its steel spire caught the fading light, glinting like a beacon—a constant reminder of both humanity’s resilience and its irrevocable loss.
Your gaze lingered on it, but the present blurred as an old, familiar ache stirred within you.
The image of the spire faded, replaced by a vivid, agonizing memory.
“Mummy! Mummy!”
Your voice broke through the chaos, your small hands clutching your mother’s lifeless one. Her warmth had already begun to fade, even as your tears soaked her sleeve.
Around you, the world crumbled.
The walls of your home shook violently as the Wanderers descended upon Linkon City.
Their monstrous forms moved with terrifying purpose, their shrieks slicing through the night.
Glass shattered, smoke filled the air, and the ground trembled beneath their weight.
You remembered the sharp tang of blood in the air, the sounds of people screaming, fleeing—dying.
That night, you lost your mother, her final moments spent shielding you from the falling debris. But the devastation didn’t end there.
Your father had been a first responder, a firefighter determined to save as many lives as possible.
He had kissed your forehead that morning before rushing out, his words etched forever in your mind:
“Be strong for your mother, okay?”
He never came home.
“Dr. Elena?”
The voice jolted you, and you gasped softly, blinking as the Chronorift Memorial came back into focus.
You exhaled deeply, hoping to release some of its weight.
Turning, you saw her—Ayla Grant, your trusted nurse and closest confidant.
Ayla’s warm brown eyes softened as she took in the exhaustion written on your face.
“Your next patient is here,” she informed you, though her voice carried a hint of hesitation.
Clearing your throat, you nodded and moved back toward your desk.
“Send them in,” you said, adjusting the papers on your desk as if the simple action could center you.
But Ayla lingered, her brows knitting together in concern.
“Elena,” she said quietly, breaking her usual professionalism, “are you sure you don’t want to call it a day? You’ve been pushing yourself, and I can tell it’s taking a toll. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
She was one of the few who knew the price of your Evol.
Prolonged exposure to others’ emotions, especially the heavy weight of trauma, left you drained—physically, mentally, emotionally.
Sometimes, the fatigue grew so overwhelming that it edged dangerously close to a breakdown.
“I can handle a few more,” you assured her, forcing a small smile. “You know me—I’m tougher than I look.”
Ayla crossed her arms, her expression skeptical.
“Just remember, even the strongest need to rest sometimes.”
“Is that your subtle way of calling me stubborn?” you asked, smirking faintly.
She returned the smirk.
“Subtle? No. Honest? Yes.”
Her tone softened as she added, “And, by the way, I’m still calling you Dr. Elena. Professionalism, after all.”
You chuckled softly despite yourself, shaking your head.
“Go on, then. Bring in the patient before you start giving me another lecture on workplace decorum.”
Ayla winked and turned on her heel, her footsteps light as she left the room.
With a deep breath, you straightened up, brushing off the fatigue settling over you.
—
The rhythm of your heels matched the steady hum of activity, as junior doctors and staff nurses greeted you with polite bows and addressed you respectfully as you passed.
You stretched your arms above your head, a soft groan escaping as you said, "A nice hot pot would be perfect for dinner."
Ayla immediately pulled out her phone.
“Wait! I saw a post about this amazing hot pot place—"
Her voice trailed off, and she froze mid-action, her expression shifting to one of awe.
Her mouth hung slightly open, her eyes sparkling as they locked onto something—or someone—in the distance.
“Ayla?” you waved a hand in front of her face.
No reaction.
She let out a whisper, her voice tinged with excitement.
“Look… it’s Dr. Zayne.”
You followed her gaze and saw him, walking from the other end of the corridor.
Even amidst the bustle of the hospital, he stood out.
His black hair was impeccably styled, his silver wire-frame glasses catching the fluorescent light.
His tall frame—easily over six feet—moved with purpose, his signature stoic expression unwavering.
Zayne was flanked by his surgical team, and even from this distance, you could sense the intensity radiating from him.
He glanced over his shoulder at his team, muttering something before quickening his pace, his posture radiating urgency.
You recognized him instantly—after all, he was a renowned cardiac surgeon who had been at Asko Hospital long before you joined the trauma division.
Despite being there for over a year, your paths had never crossed professionally.
Ayla, still in her daze, let out a dreamy sigh.
“Why does he have to look like he walked straight out of a medical drama?”
You crossed your arms and said, “Yeah, I can see why you think so. He’s quite good-looking.”
Ayla’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“Quite?!”
You chuckled at her dramatic reaction, shrugging with a grin.
“Okay, fine. He’s extremely good-looking. Satisfied?”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a giggle, and for a moment, you both stood there, silently watching as Zayne disappeared around the corner with his team.
Ayla’s gaze lingered a little longer, her playful grin never leaving her face.
“Guess I’m not the only one who thinks so,” she teased, nudging you lightly with her elbow.
You nudged Ayla back gently, reminding her, “Don’t forget you have a boyfriend.”
She sighed dramatically, playfully rolling her eyes.
“If only my boyfriend had won several medical awards and made headlines for being the youngest heart surgeon in Linkon City.”
You laughed.
“Yeah, yeah, Dr. Zayne is amazing. Now, can we please go get our dinner?”
Ayla grinned and threw her arm around yours.
“Of course, but don’t forget—you’re pretty amazing yourself, too,” she said as she tugged you down the corridor. “I mean, the youngest psychiatrist heading your own trauma division? That’s pretty cool.”
You chuckled, shaking your head at her enthusiasm.
“Always the hype-woman,” you teased, but there was a warmth in your chest at her words.
It was easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of your professional lives, but having someone who truly believed in you made it all feel worth it.
"Dr. Elena! Nurse Ayla!"
A familiar voice called out urgently, snapping both you and Ayla from your conversation.
You both turned quickly to see one of your junior psychiatrists rushing toward you, his face pale with panic.
"It's bad—there’s an emergency in the ER. A Deepspace Hunter’s been brought in. Severe injuries from a Wanderer attack. He’s in complete shock and a daze. We need to prep for an immediate mental evaluation," he said, breathless.
Your heart clenched at the news. It wasn’t the first time you’d been summoned to help someone in the aftermath of a Wanderer attack, and it wouldn’t be the last.
The violence, the trauma—it was an endless cycle.
Without a word, you and Ayla exchanged a glance and immediately began following the junior psychiatrist toward the ER.
The emergency doors slammed open, and the intensity of the moment surged. The cold, sterile air was filled with a mixture of urgency and command.
You and your team rushed in, but it was Zayne who immediately caught your attention.
His cold, calculating gaze never wavered from the Deepspace Hunter, his body a tapestry of injuries, blood staining the transport stretcher.
The faint glow of protocore burns marred his chest, signaling an attack by one of the high-level Wanderers.
His body convulsed violently as nurses scrambled to stabilize him.
“Prepare the OR,” Zayne, clad in in scrubs and exuding an air of authority commanded, his voice like steel.
“Wait,” you interjected, stepping forward. “This man is in severe shock. Surgery now could—”
“We don’t have time,” Zayne interrupted, his tone sharp, his expression unyielding. His eyes flicked back to the Hunter.
“The protocore damage is spreading. If we don’t act now, he won’t survive.”
A surge of frustration stirred in you. You knew the urgency of the situation, but the patient’s mental state was just as important.
“I’ll assess his psychological state,” you countered, your voice firm. “If his mental trauma isn’t addressed, he might not even make it through the surgery.”
Zayne’s jaw clenched at your words, the strain in his posture telling you that he, too, recognized the gravity of the situation. Still, his resolve didn’t falter.
“This is a medical emergency, Dr. Elena,” he said sharply. “Not a therapy session.”
You stood your ground, meeting his unyielding gaze.
“Exactly,” you retorted, your voice calm but firm. “And if we don’t approach it holistically, he’ll die anyway.”
The tension in the room thickened. Zayne’s surgical team, already poised and ready, shifted uneasily under the weight of the argument.
On your end, your trauma division mirrored the discomfort, the line between two opposing worlds—medicine and psychology—blurring into a standoff.
Time seemed to stretch as Zayne stared you down, a flicker of something—doubt?—passing across his cold demeanor.
He let out a sigh, low and almost imperceptible.
“Fine,” he said, his voice clipped and reluctant. “But if his condition worsens, we’re proceeding. No delays.”
You exhaled slowly, a mixture of relief and trepidation flooding your senses.
You had gotten through, but the undercurrent of tension still lingered.
As the team wheeled the Hunter into the treatment room, Zayne brushed past you, his presence still commanding.
You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was stirring beneath his calm exterior.
The storm of emotions was there—raw, tumultuous—and yet, still hidden from view.
Your Evol stirred again, sensitive to the changes in the room.
You didn’t know whether it was the weight of the emergency or the weight of Zayne’s emotions—but something about him unsettled you.
For a moment, you simply watched his retreating form, trying to piece together what it was about him that felt so… different.