The clinical suite of Dr. Armstrong was a sterile, white-on-white perfection, located in a subterranean wing of Freenly City's most exclusive medical district. Here, the air was scrubbed of all organic impurities, and the silence was only broken by the rhythmic, expensive hum of a Quantum Bio-Scanner.
Malcolm Ford lay on the cold, glass table of the scanner, his torso bare, while a ring of violet light passed slowly from his crown to his feet. Dr. Armstrong, a man with silver hair and a face lined by decades of guarding the secrets of the elite, stared at a wall of holographic monitors.
His hands, usually as steady as a surgeon's, were hovering over the controls with a visible tremor.
"Incredible," Armstrong whispered, his voice echoing in the pressurized room. "Scientifically... it's an impossibility."
Marcus stood in the corner, clutching his tablet. "What is it, Doctor? Is the rut coming back? Is he stable?"
