The clinical suite of Dr. Armstrong remained a silent vault of white-on-white perfection, but the atmosphere today was thick with a heavy, unspoken defeat. The rhythmic hum of the Quantum Bio-Scanner was the only sound as the violet light finished its sweep over Malcolm's frame.
Malcolm sat up, his face a mask of cold, jagged granite. He didn't wait for the scan to process; he already knew the answer. He could feel it in his marrow—the silver essence was a quiet, vibrating constant, a ghost in his machinery that refused to be evicted.
Marcus stood by the door, his eyes darting between his boss and the doctor. "Well, Armstrong? We were at GEM. There was... a confrontation. My boss was injured, but he healed before we even left the hall. What does the data say?"
