The doctor's suit crinkles with each movement, the material catching the harsh fluorescent lights. It reminds me of those movies where scientists study deadly viruses. Except this time, I'm the virus.
"The suit protects against magical backlash," Logan says, his thumb rubbing circles on my hand. It's his go-to way to keep me calm, I think. "Standard procedure."
The doctor's gloved hands press against my neck, checking my lymph nodes. The touch feels distant, disconnected, like it's happening to someone else. His movements are precise, clinical, but I notice how he maintains a careful distance, never getting too close.
"Temperature's normalized," he says, voice muffled through the clear face shield. "Blood pressure stable. Heart rate within acceptable parameters."
The words wash over me, my eyes glazed as I repeat those five names in my head. Names I refuse to forget.
Private Cooper. Dr. Santos. Nurse Practitioner Chen. Nurse Walsh. Nurse Martinez.
