17th of Gloamreach, Year 150 A.V.
The sterile scent of herbs and powdered antiseptics clung to the air as morning light filtered through the pale curtains of the ward. A soft knock tapped against the door before it creaked open.
Dr. Cestel stepped inside with a clipboard, dressed in his dark-stitched coat, monocle glinting. "Ah, good. You're awake. I'd like to run a few examinations—just routine, to ensure you've stabilized. Then we'll go over some basic memory checks."
Jack, still pretending to be Michael, gave a cautious nod. "Alright."
The doctor began checking his vitals with various odd-looking instruments—arcane contraptions that hummed faintly when in use. As he worked, Jack's gaze wandered, distracted by his own thoughts.
This whole place feels like I've been dropped into a Gothic fever dream narrated by a thesaurus. And yet—somehow—I understand everyone just fine? He blinked, briefly zoning out as the doctor examined his pupils. I don't speak magic-Victorian eldritch, but here I am, hearing it in English. Either my brain's doing subtitles in real time, or this body knows the language and I'm just hitching a ride.
He nearly chuckled aloud.
God, I've watched enough anime to know this is the part where someone drops "language assimilation via soul resonance." Hell, most of the stuff I watched had subtitles anyway. Guess this is the immersive dub version.
"Hmm?" Dr. Cestel raised a brow.
"Ah—nothing." Jack cleared his throat. "Just thinking."
"Good. Thinking is a fine sign. Now then," Cestel said, setting the instruments aside and adjusting his monocle. "I'd like to ask a few questions, if you feel up to it. Your memory may still be... jumbled, but even fragments help us understand the nature of your recovery."
Jack nodded slowly. He could fake this—he had to.
Still, if there's one advantage to binge-watching hundreds of shows, movies, and anime, it's that I've got a decent idea of what to say—and what not to say—in this kind of situation. Worst-case scenario? I'll just half-ass it and improvise. That's what all the best protagonists do, right?
He sat up straighter, offering Dr. Cestel a sheepish smile that walked the line between innocent and idiotic.
The doctor, clipboard in hand, adjusted his monocle and flipped to a fresh page. "Let's begin with the simple things. Your full name?"
Jack hesitated—just long enough to look like he was digging through fog.
> "Michael… Vaelborne," he said slowly, then added with a half-shrug, "I'm, uh, pretty sure about that part. Though if it turns out I'm secretly royalty, please give me a crown and a warning label."
Cestel didn't laugh. He simply scribbled something down with his ink-quill.
"Do you recall your birth date?"
Jack gave a low whistle. "Now you're just being cruel."
Another long stare from the doctor.
> "Mid… Gloamreach?" Jack guessed. "Year... uh, 130-something. Ish."
The doctor didn't correct him, but his pen scratched a little harder this time.
"Your field of study?"
This one was trickier. Jack closed his eyes for a second, letting the haze of Michael's memories swirl beneath the surface—books, diagrams, strange geometric symbols. A room full of brass tools and glowing parchment. Lines. Structures.
> "Esoteric architecture," he said. "Or—something like that. I remember… shapes. Not just shapes. Systems. Truths arranged like buildings."
That part wasn't a lie.
Dr. Cestel's expression didn't change, but his eyes lingered a second longer.
"Do you know where you are?"
> "Hospital. South Ward." Jack gestured vaguely. "Big scary city with too many spires and a bad habit of glowing in the dark. Noxhollow, right?"
The doctor didn't smile, but there was the slightest twitch of his brow.
"Last question—for now. Do you remember what happened before you lost consciousness?"
Jack stared at the ceiling for a beat, letting the silence stretch.
Then he looked back down with a dry grin.
> "I remember stars. Too many stars. Then trees. Then… a girl with a cloak and a really judgmental stare."
Dr. Cestel blinked. "You mean the one who brought you in?"
> "Probably. She looked like she was two seconds away from dragging my corpse out of spite."
"Mm."
Another note. Another unreadable expression.
Jack leaned back against the pillows.
> "Look, doc… I'm trying. Things are fuzzy. I've got fragments. Feelings. A memory of someone humming while drawing symbols in the air. But nothing's stitched together yet. Just threads." He let the grin drop for a second. "But it's coming back. I can feel it."
Cestel studied him in silence.
Then, without warning, he snapped the clipboard shut.
> "We'll stop there. I've seen enough."
> "Already? Was I that impressive?"
> "You were... consistent," he said, stepping away. "For someone with foggy memories, you have remarkably clear instincts. That may be more telling than you think."
Jack's grin froze just slightly.
Cestel paused at the door, fingers resting on the frame.
> "If anything else returns—visions, thoughts, dreams—log them."
Cestel walked to the door, grabbed the handle and walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him, and for a long moment, I just lay there.
Still. Quiet.
That went… well?
I wasn't sure if I should be relieved or more worried. Dr. Cestel hadn't called for guards. He hadn't whispered into a crystal or marked me with a sigil of containment. That was a win, right?
But there was something in his eyes. A kind of calm that made my skin crawl. Like he'd already made up his mind about me—like the test wasn't about whether I remembered anything.
It was about whether I was dangerous.
And maybe I am.
I'd lied. Not completely, but enough. Twisted the truth into shapes I could control. Said what I needed to. Played the fool. Soft voice, half-smile, bit of confusion. Enough to look vulnerable.
But I watched him too. The doctor. His hands. The way he paused after certain answers. The questions he didn't ask.
He knew more than he let on. Probably more than anyone else I've met in this world so far. Which means I need to be careful.
No more playing unconscious patient. No more waiting.
I need to get out of here. Today.
Because if there's one thing I learned from all those mysteries, thrillers, and noir stories back on Earth, it's this:
When someone in a nice coat starts writing things down without telling you why?
You're already under investigation.
That thought landed like a stone in still water. Quiet, but deep. Expanding in ripples.
I'd played the fool. Flashed the half-smile. Fumbled my answers just enough to be pitied, not feared. It was a tactic. A deflection. Let them think I'm a bit cracked. Easier to watch a broken toy than a loaded weapon.
But under that performance, behind the half-closed eyes and dry sarcasm—my mind had never stopped working.
I've watched people lie for a living. Watched actors, conmen, politicians. I've read the scripts, devoured the tropes. And more importantly—I've studied the masters of seeing through them. The ones who turned chaos into clarity.
Sherlock Holmes.
Batman.
Detective Conan.
Will Graham. Adrian Veidt. Light Yagami. Adrian Monk.
Hell—even Patrick Jane from those old procedural shows.
I used to joke that I had a degree in overanalyzing fictional detectives. Turns out that's not a joke anymore.
Back on Earth, it was just a hobby—an obsession maybe. A way to escape. But now? In a world built on mystery, whispers, and lies?
It's a survival tool.
Everything I ever absorbed—body language, deception cues, cold reads, strategic improvisation—it all applies here. The world may be arcane, but the people? The people still tell on themselves if you know what to look for.
And I do.
I may not remember everything this body knew… but I remember everything I learned.
Let them underestimate me.
Let them call me confused, broken, unstable.
Because the fool they see?
Is just the first mask.
Beneath it is a genius. A liar with a purpose. A detective with no badge and too many questions.
And I'm about to start solving everything this world has tried to bury.
But for now, I need to figure out how to vanish from this place without raising alarms, tripping wards, or ending up dissected for "further observation."
Escape by force? Too noisy. Through a window? Possible, but risky—this body's still running on fumes. Hiding in a laundry cart? Please. I'm not a cartoon.
No. I need something smarter. Something they wouldn't question.
That's when the idea struck.
What's the one thing no one questions in a place like this?
Orders from above.
If there's one thing hospital staff fear more than arcane infection, it's paperwork signed by someone with more epaulettes than them. A sudden transfer? Urgent directive? Emergency reassignment?
They wouldn't even blink.
And I wouldn't need to fake anything flashy. Just the right parchment. The right ink. The right phrasing. I'd seen enough of their documents on Cestel's clipboard to mimic the tone. Bureaucratic confidence with a hint of mysticism.
All I need is one clean page. One forged order.
And maybe… a borrowed seal.
Alright, think.
I need paper, a seal, and a way out that doesn't involve climbing through a window or getting stabbed by arcane security.
So who walks freely through this place? Who doesn't get questioned, stopped, or even looked at twice?
Dr. Cestel.
Every time he entered the room, the air shifted. People stepped aside. Doors opened without a word. No hesitation. No second glances. He didn't even carry a weapon—his coat and clipboard were power enough.
It's not magic. It's presence.
And presence? I can fake that.
I've watched enough to know how. Conan, hiding in plain sight. Sherlock, fading into the fog. Batman, orchestrating entire rooms without speaking. Veidt, bending a world to his design while smiling through the performance. They all wore masks.
So why shouldn't I?
Dr. Cestel is just another role. A part to be played in this veil-draped production.
Step one: Study.
I need his voice, his rhythm, his mannerisms. The way he taps his pen when he thinks. The pause before he delivers a diagnosis. That slight tilt of his chin when he expects obedience. Small things, but the right small things.
Step two: Clothing.
Doesn't have to be his exact coat. Just close. Something dark, formal, layered. It needs to carry authority. Maybe there's a supply closet. Maybe a rack in a patientless room. I'll make it work.
Step three: Timing.
Shift change. Perfect blend of motion and chaos. Nurses tired. Scribes distracted. No one questions a confident silhouette.
Step four: The Order.
I've seen enough of his notes. I know how he writes, how he abbreviates, how he uses arcane sigils like punctuation marks. I'll forge a transfer document. Just vague enough to feel urgent. Just official enough to be left unquestioned.
Step five: Disappearance.
I walk out like I belong. No sneaking. No hesitation. Authority is about expectation. I'll speak softly, frown just enough, and mutter something about Quiet Hours oversight or spontaneous veil response. Something official-sounding.
They'll nod. They'll step aside.
Because the one thing no one in a system like this wants… is to be the one who got in the way.
But before I walk out that door, I need one more thing.
Michael's file.
If I'm going to wear his face, I need to know where it sleeps. Where it eats. Where it's expected to be. I need an address. A past.
A place to disappear to.
Because surviving is one thing.
But staying hidden?
That's the real performance.