Gregory didn't sit. He couldn't. His temper roiled too violently beneath his ribs for stillness. He stood by the window of his office—tall, gilt-edged panes overlooking the city he once ruled—and pressed his phone to his ear as though sheer willpower could bend the world back into his favor.
The call connected almost immediately.
"Dr. Renfield speaking."
"Report."
Gregory's voice was low, dangerous in its restraint.
"Gregory…"
Basil replied, tone measured.
"I've just examined your grandson. His physical state is… perplexing. The symptoms remain unchanged—severe muscular pain, shortness of breath, near paralysis from exhaustion. I can find no biological cause. His vitals suggest he's been overexerted, yet every testimony in this house insists he's done nothing but rest."
Gregory's grip tightened around his cane.
"Overexerted, you say."
"Yes, sir…"
Basil continued, frowning faintly as he flipped through his notes.
