The Doctor, as he was called, had been the Mafia's physician since its founding. Back then, the need to treat the wounded after the frequent minor skirmishes that made up the territory wars was commonplace. And although first aid was also common knowledge within the Mafia, surgeries, amputations, and other more complex procedures could not be performed with such a basic level of knowledge.
The need arose for a doctor who would embrace the dark world of the Savant Mafia.
At that moment, that same man held a clipboard, leafing through dozens of pages. Increasingly complex and delicate exams with increasingly detailed results were being analyzed with a precision worthy of his position.
At this point, it would have been easier to say that clipboard carried a diagram of Ryan's entire body, from the nervous system and the brain down to how every vein in his body branched out.
Many hours had passed since Ryan and John arrived at the Mafia's base, more than a day, but to them it felt like a single day that never ended. The tensions had yet to ease, and the results of those exams could be the spark needed to detonate a pile of dynamite.
At that moment, Ryan sat before the doctor, one eye hidden beneath bandages, much like most of his body. His skin was several shades paler than usual, and deep purple bruises covered his eyes and limbs. Overall, he looked as though he had taken the worst beating of his life.
He could no longer stand the sight of needles, and the number of transfusions he had undergone was no small matter either. Had Ryan not died from blood loss, he would have died from any one of a thousand other reasons. When the doctors said it was the worst biochemical weapon they had ever seen, they were not exaggerating.
Eventually, however, his body stabilized. No new bruises appeared, and the blood stopped flowing without cause. It was at that moment that the doctors finally began to win the battle.
Essentially, they only won because the opponent stopped fighting.
But a victory was still a victory.
While Ryan sat across from the Doctor, Aron and John exchanged suspicious glances, knowing that his word would mark the beginning of a war.
"So?" Aron asked. "Any signs of poisoning? Or did you find a virus?"
The Doctor abruptly stopped leafing through the pages. He was a man with a medium beard and white hair combed back. His eyes fixed on Aron with cold intensity.
"This boy is so healthy I almost think it is an error," he said, causing Aron and John to narrow their eyes in silent doubt. "No traces of poison, which does not say much, since many poisons kill without leaving a trace. Even so, no known poison is capable of this. This collection of symptoms is simply quite unique. I also rule out the possibility of a virus." He then gave a faint cough before continuing.
"Look at his bones," he said, holding up an X-ray of Ryan. "They broke, but they are still strong and healthy. I can conceive of a virus that weakens bones and then breaks them. But that is not what is happening here..." He paused then continued.
"In my opinion: All of this looks like ordinary bruising, although severe, caused by impacts such as punches and kicks. Some of them, I'd even say, could be cuts that managed to deeply pierce the skin, going through muscles and reaching internal organs, which would be hellish…" He then looked deeply into their eyes. " If you had told me this boy had been in a street fight, all of this would be much simpler. The problem is that it looks like there were a thousand street fights instead of just one. As if it were a concentrated accumulation of beatings. Again, the symptoms are too varied and too aggressive. It does not strike me as a virus."
Aron swallowed hard, exchanging a glance with John, and quickly asked, "If it is not a virus or a poison, what could it be?"
"An unknown syndrome. I have called it Foucault Syndrome," the doctor said, drawing a deep breath. "The cause appears to have originated in the nervous system, in the mind, but the rest I do not understand. It makes no sense whatsoever. It is a new disease yet to be studied. That is all I can say. Now leave me in peace, and do not drag me into your wars."
That said…
That should have been enough to say that it was neither a virus nor a poison. And possibly to put an end to the idea of war…
But the Doctor's last line rekindled the spark of war. After all, the problem originated in the brain.
After so many hours of investigation, the Alpha Helmet had been found by the investigation team, and it was confirmed that Ryan had been led to assemble and wear it. Shortly after, he began suffering from this new Syndrome.
Some would say it was a setup, a failed assassination attempt against the son of a once-great leader…
Aron again listened in silence, then rubbed his face with both hands, far from satisfied, and looked over at John, equally tense. "I know what you are going to say, John. I know about that helmet, but let us try to talk first. Things are not what they seem. We can clear everything up."
"That is your word. And I have seen you use it for many things in the past. If you think today is the day I'll choose to believe them, then I suppose you see me as a fool." John said, though he paused briefly to consider before approaching Ryan and kneeling down to meet his gaze, holding it steadily. "Young master, what do you make of this?"
Ryan's mind was racing. There was a great deal to think about. "Honestly, I want to discuss my health first..." He then turned to Aron. "But even so, I am not exactly convinced this was not a failed assassination attempt." Aron swallowed hard, visibly shaken.
Both factions grew even more tense.
Ryan's father had met a suspicious end.
Ryan had nearly met an end just as suspicious.
From Ryan's perspective, he had always seen the Alpha Helmet as a gift from his father. He had believed that the letter and the way it was delivered were characteristic of him. But he had forgotten that other people also knew his habits and could replicate them.
The Savant Mafia in particular had many people who were like machines, they had many assassins and numerous spies, meaning they had highly skilled individuals capable impersonating others, at imitating their handwriting and mannerisms.
Ryan had even known there were certain risks involved in using the helmet, but the letter itself made them seem like common errors and flaws of a machine still in testing, such as shocks or explosions. Ryan believed the worst outcome would be frying his brain the moment he turned it on. But knowing his father, he accepted those risks blindly.
That said, he had been transferred as data to somewhere else in a process he did not fully understand. His data had been corrupted at the slightest injury, and it risked destruction if he died inside the game.
Everything around him seemed to want him dead both inside the game and outside of it, to the point that it no longer seemed like a flaw in the game but rather an intrinsic and deliberate feature.
The data didn't even need to be directly exposed in the first place. If Ryan could control a body remotely, as happened at the end of the fight against the guardian, that would have been enough.
The Unnamed Game seemed purposefully designed to kill you upon leaving, even if you won. That did not seem right, not even for a technology still in testing. How was the tester supposed to exit the system?
Ryan also began to consider the possibility that it had been an assassination attempt against him and therefore, he was not innocent, he intended to spark the beginning of a war between the factions.
However, for now, Ryan turned to John once more. "Even so, let us try to keep the peace. War is a fight in which both sides have only losses to count." He then turned to Aron once again.
"I think you are intelligent, since you certainly look it, and you know very well that business thrives in times of peace. War only devours our resources until nothing but scraps remain. So this time, I will try to cool things down on this side, and you will do the same on yours." He said as bestial growls emanated from him. "But you do not dare cross that line again."
Aron felt the beast stirring ever more deeply, the growls growing ever louder. He clenched his teeth, knowing what he was about to say was a lie, a great lie. "All right, we will do it that way. We will keep the peace, and we as one, as we have always been."
He then looked at John, who simply nodded, and opened the door, stepping out of the room. "I will expect you both at the meeting table," he said, closing the door behind him.
John sighed heavily. "That conversation is not over, young master. Be prepared." He advised Ryan, who nodded, even without fully understanding why.