Ethan returned moments later, leading a nurse into the room. She carried an air of professionalism mixed with quiet concern.
"Daniel, how are you feeling?" she asked gently, her eyes scanning him for any visible signs of distress.
Daniel's blank stare was her only answer.
Maxuel stepped forward anxiously. "He's not okay. He says something's wrong with his body—he keeps hearing a voice—"
"Alright," the nurse interrupted softly, raising a hand to calm Maxuel. "Let me check him first."
She knelt by Daniel's side, her hands moving efficiently as she examined him. Daniel flinched slightly at her touch, his senses bombarded by the antiseptic smell clinging to her skin and the faint hum of her breathing.
"You're tense," she observed, her brow furrowing. "I'm going to call the doctor to take a closer look. In the meantime, I'll have to ask you boys to step out. He needs some space."
"What?" Maxuel's voice rose in protest. "No! I'm not leaving—"
"Max," Ethan said softly, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Let's go for now."
Maxuel hesitated, his jaw tightening, but eventually nodded. He glanced back at Daniel, his eyes filled with worry. "I'll be back, okay?"
Daniel didn't respond.
The next few hours passed in a blur.
Doctors came and went, performing various tests and speaking in hushed tones as if their words would shatter Daniel further. When they tried to press for details about his visions or the voices he mentioned, Daniel clamped his lips shut. Their polite insistence only made his resolve harder.
Eventually, they sedated him, allowing his mind a brief respite from the chaos.
When Daniel woke again, the room was quiet save for the faint hum of machinery. A nurse hovered nearby, organizing supplies. She noticed his movement and approached.
"Good evening, Daniel," she said warmly. "How are you feeling?"
Daniel blinked at her, his expression unreadable.
"Your brother and friend left a little while ago," she continued, trying to engage him. "They said they'll be back tomorrow."
He nodded faintly.
The nurse hesitated, clearly unsettled by his lack of response. "They're very worried about you," she added softly.
"Okay," Daniel replied flatly, his voice devoid of inflection.
Her awkward smile faltered. After a few more attempts at light conversation, she excused herself, leaving Daniel alone with his thoughts.
~~~
The days that followed Daniel's awakening were grueling.
The doctors scheduled a battery of therapeutic procedures, convinced that Daniel's visions and voices stemmed from trauma related to the accident. They subjected him to therapy sessions, where he sat silently as professionals prodded him for answers he refused to give.
His physical therapy was even worse.
The first time he tried to stand unaided, he collapsed almost immediately. His legs quivered like jelly, unable to bear the weight of his unnaturally heavy frame.
A nurse hurried to his side, steadying him as he clung to her arm for support.
"Take it slow, Daniel," she urged. "One step at a time."
But slow wasn't enough.
For days, Daniel could barely manage a few trembling steps before collapsing, sweat pouring down his face as he gasped for breath. His limbs felt foreign, unwieldy, as though he were piloting a machine he didn't understand.
Nurses had to support him on both sides, and even then, he barely managed to walk for seconds at a time.
Each day, he tried again, his determination growing fiercer with every failure. Yet the frustration was excruciating, his body drenched in sweat after even the smallest progress.
The nurses' muttered comments didn't escape his heightened hearing.
"His body just isn't cooperating."
"He's heavier than he looks. I don't know how we're supposed to keep this up."
"He barely talks, barely eats. It's like he doesn't want to recover."
Daniel clenched his teeth against their words, pushing himself harder.
The changes in his body extended beyond his weakened limbs. His senses had grown unnaturally sharp, to the point of being unbearable. A curse even.
His sense of smell was the worst. Every scent in the hospital assaulted him simultaneously—the sharp tang of antiseptics, the faint sweetness of perfumes, the earthy musk of unwashed skin, the faintly metallic tang of blood.
It was like a cacophony of odors, each one distinct yet overwhelming. He could smell the fabric softener on a nurse's uniform and the stale coffee on a doctor's breath from across the room.
But it wasn't just the smells. His hearing had become similarly heightened. His ears were constantly barraged with a cacophony of sounds that made the world unbearable.
He could hear conversations from rooms away, each word clear as if spoken directly into his ear.
"You feel that around him? Like… something's off?"
"Yeah. He gives off this… negative vibe."
"Honestly, I don't blame him. Poor kid's traumatized, give him time."
"Still, he doesn't eat. Throws everything up. What is wrong with him?"
The voices melded with his own thoughts, a constant hum of judgment and pity.
But the most damning were the words he overheard from the doctors.
"I've never seen anything like it," one said to Maxuel. "He's lucid, but his body refuses to cooperate. It's as if he's relearning how to be human."
Maxuel's voice was strained. "What can I do?"
"You need to talk to him more," the doctor urged. "He needs to feel grounded. Right now, he's alone, and that's dangerous."
Dangerous. The word echoed in Daniel's mind.
Despite Maxuel's continued daily visits, Daniel found himself increasingly isolated. He overheard snippets of speculation from the staff about his condition.
"Could it be a neurological issue?" one suggested.
"Maybe spinal trauma," another guessed.
One doctor, more daring than the rest, whispered about a theory involving superhuman potential.
"If his body is adapting to harness a greater level of strength or endurance, it could explain the dysfunction," the doctor said. "But the trade-offs would be severe. His muscles and bones would have to be denser, which could account for his abnormal weight."
But none of their theories explained the truth—the truth Daniel wasn't sure he even understood.
Then, in the quiet hours, Daniel's nightmares returned.
They were a twisted blend of the accident, the reindeer, and the hate-filled visions. He relived the pain, the fear, the voices calling him names, and then he died.
Each morning, he woke drenched in sweat, his resolve shaken. And yet, Daniel continued to push himself relentlessly. He refused to give in to the despair that clawed at his mind.
Every day was a battle. Every step forward felt like an insurmountable climb.
Yet Daniel knew he wouldn't stay here forever.
Even as he struggled to take his first steps unassisted, even as his heightened senses overwhelmed him, Daniel's mind remained fixed on one goal:
He would recover.
And he would go out and find the truth.