17th of Gloamreach, Year 150 A.V.
Noxhollow General, South Ward
The ceiling above me hadn't changed.
Same dull ivory plaster, same faint veins of arcane thread pulsing under the surface like nerves under skin. Same quiet hum in the pipes above the walls, like the building itself was breathing.
But I had changed.
No more playing dead. No more pitiful patient waiting for the world to make its next move.
Now it was my turn.
I laid still in the bed, body calm, mind racing.
Dr. Cestel was gone. The interview was over. But something in his last glance had stayed with me. Like he knew. Not the full truth—he didn't know I wasn't Michael Vaelborne—but he knew I was more than what I seemed.
And that made this simple: I needed to disappear before anyone decided to dig deeper.
No alarms. No panic. Just vanish like fog off glass.
I need to find his coat. Get into the records. Forge the transfer. Walk out before the next bell cycle ends.
I exhaled slowly and turned my head.
The hallway outside my room was quiet. Dim light flickered beyond the frosted glass of the narrow door panel. A nurse's footsteps echoed faintly in the distance, heels sharp against tile.
I had time.
Not much—but just enough.
I sat up slowly, careful not to let the bed creak. My body was still aching, but the worst had passed. I rolled my shoulders. Flexed my fingers.
It would have to do.
This is it, Jack.
Time to debut your greatest role yet.
Doctor Michael Vaelborne. With a specialization in bold-faced lies.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet pressing against cold tile. The floor sent a chill up my spine—but it was grounding. Real. A reminder that this body, this world, was no longer a dream I could wake from.
I stood carefully, steadying myself. The bandages wrapped around my torso were tight, but not restrictive. I adjusted the back of the hospital tunic—pale gray, short-sleeved, no real pockets. Useless.
Coat first.
Dr. Cestel had left through the east hallway earlier. I remembered the way his coat swayed behind him. Floor-length. Black with silver lining along the cuffs and collar. The type of garment that did half the talking before you even said a word.
I wasn't about to steal it straight off him, obviously.
But I'd seen a coat rack outside a small prep room two doors down when I was wheeled in. And if I was lucky, someone had left something close enough for me to pass as official—especially in the dim lighting of a half-asleep hospital wing.
I cracked the door open slowly.
No alarms. No wards flaring to life. Just a soft creak and a breath of cooler air.
The corridor was empty.
I stepped into the hall, silent as I could manage. The gas-lamps along the walls gave off a low, amber glow. Arcane veins pulsed faintly within the sconces—power lines feeding the building like lifeblood. I kept my head low and my pace natural, counting the steps.
Two doors down. Right side.
The prep room.
I reached for the handle—unlocked—and slipped inside.
The room was cramped and smelled like iron and alcohol. Shelves lined with gauze, glass vials, folded tunics and gloves. And there—hanging from a brass hook near the wall—
A coat.
It wasn't Cestel's, but it was close.
Deep navy. Long cut. Silver trim along the edges, not unlike his. A small stitched sigil marked the breast—worn, but intact. No nameplate. No ward markings. Perfect.
I slipped it on.
A little loose in the shoulders, but it added a weight I didn't realize I needed.
It felt… official.
One step closer.
The coat settled over my shoulders like it belonged there.
It was heavier than expected. Not just physically—but symbolically. People saw the coat, not the man. That was the whole point. Put a sigil on it, let it drag on the floor a little, and suddenly you had permission to walk through locked doors.
I stood for a moment, listening.
No footsteps. No voices. Just the faint, ever-present hum of arcane conduits in the walls.
Next step: paper. Seal. Ink. Authority on demand.
I moved toward the far cabinet, scanning shelves. Medical scrolls, glass-scribed patient logs, rune-banded labels. Each one had been prepared with a scribe's precision—clean, efficient. It made me uneasy how professional everything was.
I'd seen too many shows where "the bad guys" wore pristine gloves and trimmed uniforms. There's something cold about a place that catalogues you before it cures you.
Then I spotted it.
A stack of parchment—folded into thirds, tied with a thin gray cord. Blank. Standard transfer forms. The kind they send with patients when shifting them to specialty wings or external care.
Next to it, a box of sigil-ink pens. Not the kind used for writing. The kind that burned runes into treated parchment—semi-permanent, authorized. Dangerous in the wrong hands.
So obviously, I took one.
I laid a form across the empty steel table and ran a hand over its surface. My fingers trembled slightly. This wasn't like bluffing a friend or lying to a teacher back on Earth. This was structural. A single wrong glyph, a symbol out of place—and it wouldn't just get rejected. It could get noticed.
And attention was poison.
Okay. Think like Cestel. Short. Direct. Bureaucratic, but not indulgent. Impersonal.
I closed my eyes for a second and pictured his voice. Calm. Clipped. Confident. His sentences always sounded like he'd already decided the outcome and was simply informing the universe after the fact.
Here goes.
TRANSFER AUTHORIZATION
Issued by: Dr. Cestel A. Merrow, Veil-General Practitioner, South Ward
Patient: Vaelborne, Michael
Veil Identification Tag: 1-94-0712-A/NX
Status: Recovered (Temporary Amnesia)
Order: Immediate Reassignment
Directive: Patient to be transferred to Quiet Hours Observation Wing – Sublevel II
Reason: Elevated Resonance Detected / Confidential Sigil Fluctuation
Override Level: 2
Verification Glyph: [manually drawn]
The pen hovered over the verification line.
This was the part that mattered. The rest was just dressing.
I rolled my wrist, slowing my breathing. Not a perfect copy, but close enough. I'd watched Cestel sign five documents during our brief time together. The way his final stroke curved just slightly downward—not as flair, but with intent.
I mimicked it.
Good enough to fool anyone who doesn't know him personally. And if someone does?
Well, then I'm already screwed.
I folded the paper carefully and tucked it into the coat's inner pocket. The weight of it was electric. Heavy with potential. One sheet of paper, one lie—strong enough to open doors and silence questions.
But I wasn't done yet.
Michael's file. I still need to know where he lived—where I live now. If I walk out of here and get stopped, I need somewhere to vanish to. Somewhere no one else knows I'm headed.
I stepped out of the prep room, coat billowing just slightly behind me, and turned down the hallway like I knew exactly where I was going.
Truth was—I didn't.
But I walked like I did. That was half the battle.
Confidence creates reality. And in a city like Noxhollow, reality already bent easily enough.
I walked the corridor with my chin up and coat swaying just enough to catch the eye without demanding it. The halls were quiet—but not dead. Somewhere deeper in the ward, a bell chimed softly. The shift change was beginning.
I turned the corner, and that's when I saw them.
Two nurses. One older, one younger. Both in pale violet uniforms, both mid-conversation as they approached from the far end of the hallway.
Too close to avoid. Too far to ignore.
They saw me almost immediately. Their pace slowed.
The younger one squinted.
"Doctor…?"
Time stopped for half a breath.
My brain roared with possible responses. Authority? Deflection? Familiarity? Denial?
No. Blend all three.
I didn't stop walking. I adjusted the coat, let my shoulders square just slightly, and raised a hand as if in greeting—casual, but precise.
"Evening, Sisters," I said smoothly. My voice came out calm. Crisp. Like I had appointments stacked behind every door.
The older one straightened. "We weren't expecting Dr. Merrow this wing again tonight…"
I offered a tight, polite smile—just enough weariness behind it to feel real.
"Last-minute reassignment," I said. "Routine clearance from upstairs. Veil Resonance Watch flagged a pulse tied to a long-term patient file. You know how it is—no sleep for the ones doing the paperwork."
The younger one blinked. The older nodded slowly, brow furrowing.
"You're looking for someone specific?" she asked.
I gave the most important answer in any lie:
One. Word.
"Vaelborne."
Instant reaction. Their postures shifted just slightly. Recognition? Curiosity? Concern?
Didn't matter.
"You'll find the file wing's locked for maintenance," the older nurse said. "The scribes closed it after dinner hour. You'll need a Rune-Key or an override slip."
I widened my eyes just a bit, as if surprised—but not annoyed.
"Of course," I said, voice dropping to a tired sigh. "That would happen tonight."
The younger nurse offered a hesitant smile. "If you like, we can fetch the records you need?"
No.
Too risky.
They'd see the real file. Read it. Compare the signature.
I forced a chuckle.
"No need to drag you off-course. It's a simple background verification for the transfer doc." I patted my coat. "Already in motion. Just tying the threads."
The older nurse nodded again, this time more easily.
"Understood, Doctor. You'll find the override key at the scribe's alcove near the West Stair. Top shelf, under the copper bell."
Bingo.
I tilted my head in a half-bow. "Appreciated."
As I moved past them, the younger nurse hesitated again.
"Doctor… you look different."
I turned, just barely, offering a conspiratorial smile.
"New coat. Old circles under the eyes."
They laughed politely.
I didn't stop moving until I rounded the corner—and once I did, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
Jesus.
That had been close.
But it had worked.
That was the trick, wasn't it?
People see what they expect.
They believe what fits the shape of their world.
All I had to do was fill that shape for just long enough.
I found the scribe's alcove tucked in a corner stairwell, just like she'd said. The copper bell on the shelf was dusty. Beneath it, a ring of small rune-stamped keys.
I took one.
No alarms. No glyph triggers. Just a cold piece of carved brass, smooth in my hand.
One key to open the next door.
One more veil to pull aside.
The alcove door gave a soft click as the Rune-Key turned.
A pulse of dull light shimmered across the sigil-laced lock—then dissolved like smoke into the woodgrain. No alarms. No sparks.
He slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
The records room was colder than the halls. Not in temperature—atmosphere. It felt... still. Like the kind of place where voices didn't dare rise above a whisper. Even the air hummed differently here. Lower. Older.
Rows of tall filing shelves stretched before him, crammed with rolled parchment, bound ledgers, and sigil-marked crystal spines. Lanterns flickered dimly above, each one cradled in a metal hand reaching from the ceiling like some clockwork saint.
This doesn't feel like a hospital storage room. It feels like a tomb.
Not for bodies.
For lives.
He moved quietly, eyes scanning the tags on the ends of each shelf. Everything was organized by veil designation—an internal classification he didn't fully understand yet, but could guess from the structure.
The 'A/NX' tag from the forged transfer order guided him. Patient 1-94-0712-A/NX.
Eventually, he found it.
A single file, tucked in a narrow slot beside a heavier record set. Michael Vaelborne.
He pulled it free.
The leather binding was worn—handled often. The sigil stamped across the front shimmered faintly in the lantern light. A stylized eye, half-lidded, bound in a circle of nine slashes.
Not just a file. A warning.
He opened it slowly.
Inside: patient logs, scholastic records, veilsync reports. Detailed notations in tight, sterile script.
Name: Michael Vaelborne
Age: 17 (Solar birth: 3rd of Veilsdawn, 133 A.V.)
Affiliation: Noxhollow Institute of Esoteric Arts – Department of Metaphysical Structures
Status: Presumed Deceased. Resuscitated via unapproved contact (see Incident 7.12-B).
Veilmark Classification: Inconclusive
Sanctum Potential: Unverified. Possible proto-sigil resonance. Further study advised.
Presumed deceased.
Resuscitated.
Unapproved contact.
What the hell had he stumbled into?
He turned the page. More logs. Observational notes. Words that made his stomach twist:
> "Subject displays signs of fragmented dream-states and memory layering inconsistent with standard post-veil trauma."
"Note: spontaneous glyph activation observed during institutional evaluation. Trace resemblance to pre-Fall patterning."
"Mother: Thalia Vaelborne—scribe, formerly of the East Archive.
Father: Dalen Vaelborne—forgeworker, Noxhollow City Sector Nine."
"Remaining family: Simmon (eldest), Judith (third), Sorae (youngest). See registry cross-index 6b—'Echo-line Contingency.'"
He nearly stopped there.
Memory layering. Glyph resonance. Echo-line?
This wasn't a simple record. It was a blueprint for something deeper—something he wasn't supposed to see.
He flipped to the last page.
There it was. In red-inked script, recently updated:
> Current Registered Residence: 43 Drowmere Street, East Veilrise Sector – Keyholder Access Registered
Alert Status: Dormant
Access Code Phrase (if required): "The dream that breaks the mirror."
He stared at the phrase.
Not just an address. A trigger. A test. A doorway hidden in plain words.
He closed the file carefully and tucked it beneath the coat. The weight of it hit different now. This wasn't just a means to escape.
This was a map into someone else's forgotten life.
And now… it was his.
He stared at the file in his hands one last time.
Pages of ink and binding string—so fragile, yet all that tethered him to the life of Michael Vaelborne. His records, his history, his name. The only copy in existence.
No backups. No data cores. No floating servers or digital IDs.
This world doesn't run on computers. Just ink, memory, and bureaucratic faith.
He smirked.
God bless the dark ages.
With careful hands, he slipped the file beneath the folds of his tunic, pressing it flat against his ribs before tightening the belt of the doctor's coat around it. The bulk was minor. Just enough to feel like armor.
They'll never think to come looking.
Not when the record they'd check is already walking out the door.
He adjusted his sleeves, took one last breath, and turned back toward the corridor.
Time to vanish.
The halls were dimmer now. The shift had turned over completely. Most nurses were occupied, preparing the night trays, their footsteps soft as they drifted from room to room like ghosts in violet.
He moved with purpose—confident but not rushed, brisk but not suspicious.
Confidence, he reminded himself again. Confidence is camouflage.
A sleepy aide at the west stairwell barely looked up as Jack passed. One tired nod exchanged for another. No questions. No alarm.
The outer corridor led him toward the staff transit gate—a narrow courtyard exit framed by archways and ringed in silent lanterns. The gate itself loomed half-open, flanked by weather-worn stone pillars etched with curling sigils and ivy-like designs that shimmered faintly in the dark.
A single attendant sat slouched by the arch, ledger open in his lap and a half-drunk cup of something steaming by his side. His gaze barely registered as Jack approached.
"Off-duty, Doctor?" the man muttered.
Jack offered a soft grunt and patted the pocket of his coat. "Late transfer."
The man squinted. "Didn't hear anything about that."
Jack leaned in slightly. "Of course you didn't. That's what makes it urgent."
The attendant groaned and waved him through.
The gate creaked open.
The moment he stepped into the night air, Jack felt something shift.
The wind curled around him—cool, sharp, and heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone and smoke. Beyond the walls, Noxhollow stretched out like a painting smudged in shadows, all jagged rooftops, spiraling towers, and distant lanternlight.
Gothic arches leaned against industrial scaffolding. Steam vents puffed quietly beside marble colonnades. Bronze domes rose behind obsidian statues, while strange machines buzzed in the distance—half-built from gears, half from glowing runes.
It was steampunk and ancient, Victorian and mythic, all at once.
A city of lost dreams and buried truths.
He stood there a moment longer, coat flapping gently at his heels, the stolen file pressed to his chest like a second heartbeat.
He had escaped.
But this place?
This place wasn't going to let him go so easily.