Episode 1 – The Scalpel's Edge
The city never slept. New York's streets throbbed with life even in the darkest hours—sirens wailing, subway brakes screeching, drunk laughter spilling into the cold air. Inside a cramped, bummy studio apartment with cracked walls and a broken radiator, Michael Carter lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
He was twenty-two. A med school graduate. An intern. The lowest of the low in the medical hierarchy.
His studio was stacked with used textbooks, half-smoked joints in the ashtray, and ramen cups piled high like trophies of poverty. A faded photograph of his parents sat on the desk, scorched around the edges. They had died years ago—an "accidental hospital fire," the report said. But to Michael, it felt like a cover-up. No parents. No siblings. No safety net.
All he had was a dream: to become the best surgeon across all worlds.
⸻
The Grind
Michael's path had been brutal.
Bachelor's degree. MCAT. The sleepless nights, the caffeine overdoses, the panic attacks before exams. Then four years of med school—where he saw classmates betray each other for spots, professors tearing students apart, and stress breaking relationships.
And now, here he was: an intern at Roosevelt Memorial, a failing New York hospital. The place where rookies went to die, careers went to collapse, and patients went when there was no hope left.
The numbers were ugly. Highest mortality rate in the city. Nurses sleeping with doctors for promotions. Residents sabotaging each other's surgeries. Patients suing left and right.
It was chaos—raw, ugly, human chaos. And Michael was thrown right in the middle of it.
⸻
First Day, First Cut
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Michael slipped into scrubs. He smelled bleach, blood, and sweat mixed together. The OR was prepped.
"Intern Carter," barked Dr. Lang, a smug resident in his late thirties. "You're shadowing today. Don't fuck anything up. One mistake, and you're roadkill. Clear?"
Michael nodded calmly. He didn't talk back—yet.
The patient was a middle-aged man, multiple organ trauma from a car wreck. It was bad. Michael watched as Lang sliced into the man's abdomen, barking orders to the scrub nurse.
But then—chaos. A rupture. Blood poured out like a waterfall. The monitors screamed.
Lang cursed. "Fuck—pressure's dropping!"
Michael's body moved before his brain did. He reached out, hands trembling, trying to apply pressure, trying to stabilize. But it was useless. The man's heart rate plummeted, flatlined.
Silence.
Lang ripped off his gloves. "Another one bites the dust. Welcome to Roosevelt, rookie."
Everyone stared at Michael like he was cursed. He felt cold inside. His first day, his first patient—and he had failed.
⸻
The Awakening
That night, back in his shitty apartment, Michael drowned in silence. He lit a blunt, inhaled, and exhaled slowly. The weed didn't numb the ache. He could still hear the flatline.
"Fuck…" he whispered, staring at his hands. "Why am I here? Why the hell did I even think I could do this?"
And then—pain. His chest exploded in fire, his veins burning. He collapsed to the floor, gasping. His vision blurred, body convulsing.
Then, silence.
A glow.
His hands shined faintly with blue light, veins pulsating like circuits. His scars—old cuts from his childhood—vanished. His chronic back ache dissolved. His lungs cleared like he had never smoked in his life.
Michael sat up, shaking. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him with glowing eyes.
"What the fuck…"
And then, a voice in his head. Cold. Mechanical.
[You are Level 1 Healer. Prestige 0.]
[Ability unlocked: Cellular Restoration.]
[Heal any disease, any virus, any curse.]
[XP gained upon each successful save.]
Michael blinked. "No way… no fucking way."
The Test
The next day, Michael dragged himself into the hospital, still rattled. He thought maybe it was a dream, a weed-induced hallucination. But then, an emergency came in: a young girl, terminal leukemia, coded red.
Her parents were sobbing outside the ER. The attending shook his head. "She's too far gone. Comfort care only."
Michael felt his pulse racing. His hands began to glow faintly again. He pushed past the others.
"Carter!" Lang snapped. "What the fuck are you doing? Get out of here!"
Michael ignored him. He placed his hands gently on the girl's frail chest. The room froze.
The glow spread. Her pale skin flushed with color. Her shallow breaths steadied. The monitors screamed back to life—normal vitals, perfect rhythm.
Gasps erupted in the room. Nurses clutched their mouths. Lang's jaw dropped.
The girl opened her eyes and whispered, "It doesn't hurt anymore."
Michael stepped back, trembling.
And in his mind:
[XP +500]
[Balance: $1000 earned.]
He smirked.
"I am the cure."
⸻
Whispers and Heat
The hospital buzzed with whispers after that day. Nobody could explain how Michael's patient lived. Lang accused him of fraud. Some said he was blessed. Others said he was dangerous.
But Michael didn't care. Every patient he touched, every life he saved, the glow returned. Cancer dissolved. HIV disappeared. Wounds closed instantly. Each success gave him XP and cash. His body sharpened. His presence grew magnetic. Nurses lingered near him longer. Residents who mocked him before suddenly respected him.
One night, in the on-call room, a nurse leaned close, her breath hot against his ear.
"You're different, Carter… dangerous. I like that."
Her lips found his. Clothes hit the floor. Their bodies tangled in feverish rhythm, gasps and curses filling the room.
"Fuck…" she moaned, clutching him harder.
Michael grinned through the heat. Saving lives by day, fucking by night. This was his new reality.
And no one could know his secret.
⸻
The Scalpel's Edge
As the week ended, Michael stood outside the hospital roof, looking at the city lights. His phone buzzed with a deposit—thousands earned already. His XP bar glowed in his mind.
Level 1. Prestige 0.
A nobody. A rookie. But not for long.
There were limitless worlds. Limitless diseases. Limitless people to save.
And Michael Carter—the stoner, the flirt, the orphan—was going to become the greatest surgeon across the multiverse.
He lit another blunt, exhaling smoke into the night.
"I'm just getting started."