When Askold returned, he had indeed brought a nurse.
She stepped into the damp subterranean room—a tall, severe woman wearing a faded medical coat with faint yellow stains along the cuffs. Her cold, detached expression didn’t flicker once as she took in the squalor of Adam’s hiding spot.
Sitting on the edge of the sagging sofa, she pulled a tarnished stethoscope from her worn leather bag and pressed it against Adam’s chest. Her brow furrowed with every passing second. Next came an old mercury thermometer, which she tucked under his arm for what felt like an eternity.
"He’s developed severe pneumonia," she stated plainly, stowing her stethoscope back into her kit. "He’s going to need aggressive, high-grade antibiotics, intravenous detox fluids, anti-inflammatories, and fever reducers."
She flipped open a tattered notepad and began jotting down a long list of medications in a sharp, sweeping script. "None of this is cheap. You’re looking at around fifteen hundred—possibly more, depending on the pharmacy."
Without a word, Askold reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a matte-black card, extending it toward the woman.
Adam, who had been lying virtually motionless, suddenly bolted upright on one elbow. Clutching the threadbare blanket, he gasped out in a voice so frantic it made me jump,
"No! Absolutely not! You can’t use that card! Under no circumstances—do you hear me?!"
His eyes were wide with sheer terror. Askold froze in place, locking eyes with his friend for a long, agonizing moment before slowly, reluctantly, slipping the card back into his pocket. His jaw clenched so hard the muscles along his cheeks throbbed.
"Then I’ll just withdraw it as cash," Askold grunted under his breath.
"No! Askold, don’t you dare! You know what will happen if you trigger that account! They’ll—"
A violent fit of coughing cut him off, doubling him over as he clutched his chest, his face flushing a dangerous, dark crimson.
The nurse clicked the rusty metal latches of her medical bag shut, her face entirely devoid of empathy—as if she was discussing a broken piece of machinery rather than a man’s life.
"If you don’t start aggressive treatment within twenty-four to forty-eight hours max, it will be fatal," she said coldly, nudging her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose. "Pneumonia is no joke, especially bilateral, and especially in unsanitary conditions like this."
Her apathy was chilling. To her, Adam was just another nameless outcast from the lower territories who couldn’t afford a proper clinic—a statistic she had seen a thousand times over. Her soul had long since gone numb to it.
I looked from Adam’s ghastly, pale face to Askold, whose fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were stark white.
What about my money? a sharp thought echoed in my mind.
If that money was mine—if it was the unlimited card Magnus had handed me to replace my life—then I had every right to spend it as I saw fit. To save someone who actually mattered to me.
"I’ll pay for it."
Adam immediately began to protest, waving his hand frantically as he tried to push himself up from the sofa. "Jane, no! You shouldn’t! It’s too much money! I’m not worth that kind of expense!"
Askold stepped forward to cut me off as well, placing a large, calloused hand over my wrist. He squeezed gently, his eyes filled with grim restraint. "Don’t do it, Jane. Really. We’ll figure something out on our own."
Before Askold could take another breath to stop me, I had already produced the card and held it out.
The nurse didn’t ask a single question. Without so much as raising her eyes to mine, she reached into her multi-pocketed leather bag, pulled out a wireless payment terminal, and swiped the card. The soft, electronic beep of the approved transaction echoed through the quiet cellar.
Settling back onto the edge of the couch, she unlatched her medical kit to reveal a compartment crammed with pharmaceutical supplies. She systematically withdrew everything Adam needed—blisters of high-potency antibiotics, glass IV ampoules clinking softly against one another, sterile syringes, and rolls of gauze. She lined them up in precise rows across the battered wooden table against the wall.
Pulling out her tattered notepad, she scribbled down a detailed regimen—dosage instructions and administration times—in a tight, cramped medical script littered with abbreviations. Packing her terminal and snapping her kit shut with a harsh metallic click, she gave us a single, dismissive nod and walked out without another word.
Askold hurried up the basement stairs after her to guide her back through the maze of the ruined building.
Left alone with the soft sound of Adam’s labored breathing, my eyes drifted toward an old wooden chair resting beside his makeshift bed. Something sitting on the worn seat caught the dim light of the overhead bulb, pulsing with a faint, hypnotic luminescence.
Curiosity pulling me forward, I stepped closer and leaned down for a better look.
The object was sleek and almond-shaped, reminiscent of a cat’s eye. It appeared to be carved from an unusual, milky quartz or frosted glass that radiated a soft, pale-blue glow from deep within—a rhythmic light that ebbed and flowed like a slow, quiet breath.
Fixed at the very center was an intricate gold-alloy disc, from which delicate, razor-thin rays radiated outward—resembling the blades of a miniature windmill or the petals of a metallic flower. The craftsmanship was staggeringly precise, almost otherworldly in its elegance. At opposite ends of the core, two long, slender needles—polished to a mirror sheen—protruded like delicate stilettos.
Fearing I might break it, I pinched the object carefully between my thumb and forefinger, lifting it into the light. I turned it slowly, mesmerized by how such a magnificent piece of engineering could exist in a place like this. Whoever had crafted it possessed incredible talent—and dangerous patience.
The heavy iron door above creaked loudly on rusty hinges as Askold re-entered the basement. Catching sight of me holding the device, a low, prideful chuckle escaped his chest. He crossed the room and gently took the object from my fingers, handling it as though it were made of spun glass.
"You like it?" he asked, a faint smile softening his harsh features.
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