The room was frozen in silence.

  Not metaphorically—literally. Frost had begun forming along the edges of the operating room lights. The patient on the table, once limp, now stared directly into Anatoly’s soul with eyes that reflected nothing back.

  Tankai cleared his throat loudly. “Sooo. You sure you don’t know this guy?”

  Anatoly didn’t answer.

  The patient’s voice had barely been a whisper. Just one word:

  “Anatoly.”

  The glowing veins on their arms pulsed again.

  Nurse Elena, who had been gripping the monitor cart like a lifeline, finally broke. “I—I’m going to inform the head physician—”

  Anatoly raised a hand without looking at her. “No.”

  She stopped in her tracks.

  Tankai blinked. “Uh. ‘No’? That’s not ominous or anything.”

  Anatoly finally turned to him, his voice calm but clearly strained. “No one else can know about this.”

  Tankai raised both eyebrows. “Okaaay, spooky. Can you at least tell me why before your cryptic nature makes me combust?”

  Anatoly looked back at the patient. The mark on their collarbone still glowed faintly.

  “I’ve seen that symbol before.”

  Tankai leaned in again, curiously poking at the space around the mark without actually touching it. “Where?”

  Anatoly was quiet for a moment. His voice dropped to a low murmur.

  “…In a journal. A long time ago. Before I became a surgeon.”

  Tankai froze. He rarely saw Anatoly talk about the past. When he did, it was always like this—guarded, like the truth was something sharp he might cut himself on.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  “I thought it was just superstition,” Anatoly added, his eyes narrowing at the patient. “An old story… about a failed medical experiment conducted during the war. Something about ‘eternal preservation.’ They said the body would never rot. That the soul, once tethered, could live on indefinitely through surgical runes carved into the skin.”

  Tankai looked between him and the patient.

  “…So what you're telling me is someone necromanced this person using ancient doctor rituals.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “I love this hospital,” Tankai declared. “This is the best week ever.”

  The monitors beeped wildly again. The patient’s body twitched, and their lips parted slightly.

  “…Help… me…”

  Anatoly stepped forward without hesitation, his doctor instincts overriding everything else.

  Tankai wasn’t far behind, his expression more cautious now. “They’re aware. Maybe they can tell us what happened—”

  But the moment Anatoly reached for their wrist to check the pulse—something lashed out.

  A tendril of glowing energy, like smoke and blood merged together, shot out of the patient’s side and wrapped tightly around Anatoly’s wrist.

  Anatoly didn’t flinch—but his whole body tensed.

  “HEY—” Tankai moved to intervene, but the tendril seemed to pulse again, and Anatoly gasped.

  Images.

  Flashes.

  Memories that weren’t his.

  A hallway of white roses drenched in blood. A scalpel carved into marble. Eyes—so many eyes—watching from the walls. And a voice whispering in Russian:

  > “You were meant to open the gate…”

  The tendril vanished as fast as it came. Anatoly staggered back, clutching his head. His breath hitched as he steadied himself against the counter.

  “Anatoly!” Tankai grabbed his shoulder. “Hey! Say something! Are you okay?! What was that?!”

  Anatoly’s voice came out hoarse. “It showed me something.”

  “You’re being weird and vague again—more than usual. What did you see?”

  Anatoly didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the patient. Then down at his wrist.

  “…This is connected to me,” he said quietly. “Somehow.”

  Tankai blinked. “You mean like… bloodline curse connected or ‘I accidentally made this happen once in a tragic backstory’ connected?”

  “…Possibly both.”

  Tankai groaned. “Great. Just great. That’s exactly what I needed. A haunted coworker.”

  Anatoly turned his head slowly to him, deadpan. “You’re not a coworker.”

  “I’m offended.”

  The patient had stilled again, slipping back into unconsciousness—but something had shifted. The temperature began to rise again. The glow dimmed. The frost melted slowly.

  Tankai exhaled deeply, combing his fingers through his hair. “Okay. We need to move them before someone else stumbles into this room and starts screaming about demons.”

  Anatoly nodded. “I have a secure operating suite in the west wing. Unused. No one should find us there.”

  Tankai stared. “Why do you have a secret operating suite?!”

  Anatoly calmly turned away. “For reasons.”

  “You’re the weird one here.”

  ---

  A short while later...

  They wheeled the unconscious patient into the west wing. The hallway was dimly lit, filled with old medical equipment no longer in use. Dust particles floated lazily in the air.

  Tankai tried not to cough. “Did someone seal this place in 1902 and forget about it?”

  Anatoly glanced sideways. “That’s not far from the truth.”

  “…I knew it.”

  Once inside the suite, Anatoly set to work preparing new monitoring equipment while Tankai slumped dramatically into a wheeled stool, spinning himself around.

  “I want answers,” he said finally, watching Anatoly check the patient’s vitals. “And not in your usual five-words-and-a-sigh way. What was that journal? Why is your name on their body? Why did that creepy energy vine wrap around you like it knew you?”

  Anatoly didn’t answer immediately. He tightened a strap on the patient’s wrist.

  Tankai groaned loudly. “Don’t you dare pull the ‘it’s complicated’ card.”

  Anatoly finally looked up at him, black eyes tired.

  “Because I’ve seen someone like this before,” he said quietly. “When I was very young.”

  Tankai blinked.

  “…Go on.”

  “It was a boy. In the same hospital I trained in. Same

  symptoms. Same markings. Everyone said he died.”

  “And?”

  Anatoly’s gaze darkened.

  “I was the one who signed the death certificate.”