It wasn’t confusion.
It wasn’t defiance.
It was something quieter.
Heavier.
As if he understood something the rest of us didn’t.
I reached toward the cast, intending only to check circulation and swelling.
Everything changed instantly.
Before I even touched it, Mason jerked back with surprising force, pulling his arm away and twisting his body as his voice broke out in panic.
“No… please, don’t touch it!”
Tears streamed down his face as he curled inward, shielding the cast—not like it was helping him, but like it was something he had to protect.
The reaction didn’t fit.
And that’s when instinct took over.
The door flew open as two staff members rushed in, drawn by the commotion.
“It’s okay, you’re safe, we’ve got you,” one said gently, trying to calm him without escalating things.
His mother stepped forward then—but not with comfort.
With urgency.
“He’s just scared,” she said quickly, her voice tight. “Just treat the fever and let us go home.”
But I wasn’t looking at Mason anymore.
I was looking at the cast.
Something about it wasn’t right.
Even before I could explain why.
The surface wasn’t smooth—it looked uneven, thicker in certain areas, almost layered. And there was a faint chemical odor in the air that didn’t belong in a proper medical setting.
That’s when Dr. Rowan Pierce entered.
Calm. Focused. The kind of doctor who didn’t rush unless something truly required it.
He said nothing at first. He crouched, studying the cast from different angles, then tapped it lightly with his pen, listening closely.
The sound was wrong.
Too dense.
Too solid.
