Chapter 1: The Diagnosis

Chapter 1: The Diagnosis

The cursor blinked mockingly on Leo Vance’s screen, a tiny, rhythmic pulse in the vast, grey fog that had become his life. He was supposed to be designing a logo for a new artisanal honey brand—all cheerful pastels and whimsical bees—but his own internal landscape felt more like a brutalist concrete car park. Lifeless. Exhausted. A dull, persistent ache had taken up residence deep in his bones, a weariness that no amount of sleep could touch.

For months, he’d been adrift in this sea of malaise. His doctor had run tests, shrugged, and muttered something about stress and getting more B vitamins. But Leo knew it was more than that. This wasn't just stress; this was a fundamental system failure.

Which is how he’d ended up here, three AM, scrolling through the murky depths of the internet, past WebMD and the Mayo Clinic, into the fringe territory of the “Holistic Harmony Hub” forum. And that’s where he found it.

A post by a user named ‘CosmicTraveler42’ described his exact symptoms: chronic fatigue, brain fog, low mood, and a peculiar, hard-to-define sense of… incompleteness. The diagnosis? A condition so obscure, so unheard of, that it felt like a divine revelation.

Anal Insufficiency Syndrome.

The forum post, written with the breathless conviction of a true believer, explained that modern sedentary lifestyles were causing a critical lack of stimulation and blood flow to the pelvic core, leading to an “energetic and physical atrophy.” The post went on, detailing how this deficiency starved the body of vital life force. The colloquial term, the one that caught on in the comments section, was blunter.

Bussy Deficiency.

Leo’s eyes widened. A jolt, electric and clarifying, shot through him. It was absurd. It was ridiculous. And it made perfect, undeniable sense. Every single symptom listed on the screen was a mirror of his own suffering. For the first time in months, a sliver of hope cut through the gloom. He wasn’t just tired or depressed; he was deficient. And a deficiency could be treated.

The problem was the doctor. Serenity Peak’s old GP had retired last year, replaced by a man who was already the subject of intense town gossip. Dr. Julian Thorne. A brilliant surgeon from the city, they whispered, who had flamed out in some spectacular, unspoken scandal. He was sharp, cold, and possessed a stare that could curdle milk. He was, in short, terrifying.

But desperation was a powerful motivator. Clutching a printout of the forum post like a holy text, Leo booked an appointment.

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Two days later, Leo stood outside the modern, sterile facade of the Serenity Peak Clinic, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. In his hand, a small, grease-spotted bakery box containing six perfectly golden lemon-poppyseed muffins—a nervous baking habit that had left his freezer stocked for a minor apocalypse. A peace offering. Or maybe a bribe.

The waiting room was silent and smelled of antiseptic and lemon polish. It was a stark contrast to his cozy, cluttered cottage. He sat, clutching the muffin box to his chest, his leg jiggling uncontrollably.

“Leo Vance?”

The voice was deep, smooth, and utterly devoid of warmth. Leo looked up and felt the air leave his lungs.

Dr. Julian Thorne was even more intimidating in person. He was tall, with broad shoulders that strained against the crisp white of his doctor’s coat. His dark hair was expertly cut, already kissed with distinguished silver at the temples, framing a face of sharp, aristocratic angles. But it was his eyes that held Leo captive. They were a piercing, intelligent grey, and they swept over Leo with an expression of profound, soul-wearying boredom.

“This way,” the doctor said, not waiting for a reply as he turned and strode down a hallway.

Leo scrambled to his feet, fumbling with his printout and muffin box. The examination room was just as cold and impersonal as the rest of the clinic. He sat on the edge of the examination table, the paper crinkling beneath him.

Dr. Thorne sat on a stool opposite him, crossed his long legs, and opened a file. “So, Mr. Vance. You’re feeling… unwell.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of weary fact.

“Yes, Doctor. I… I’ve been so tired. And my head feels foggy, all the time. I’m a graphic designer, and I just… I can’t focus. There’s this ache, too. It’s…” Leo trailed off, his courage failing him.

Julian’s gaze remained impassive. He made a small note. “Your previous bloodwork was unremarkable. Dr. Evans suggested it might be anxiety-related.”

“It’s not just anxiety,” Leo blurted out, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room. “I think… I think I know what it is.”

He took a shaky breath and pushed the crumpled printout across the small space between them. “I’ve done a lot of research.”

Julian picked up the paper with two fingers, as if it were contaminated. He scanned the title, his expression unchanging. He read the first paragraph, then the second. Leo held his breath, bracing for the inevitable scorn, the derisive laugh, the dismissal. He was ready to be told he was a lunatic, a hypochondriac wasting a busy doctor’s time.

But the laugh never came.

Instead, a strange stillness fell over Dr. Thorne. The mask of cynical indifference didn’t so much fall as it did crack, just for a second. His sharp, grey eyes lifted from the page and fixed on Leo. The boredom was gone, replaced by something else. A flicker of intense, focused, almost predatory interest. He leaned forward slightly, the fabric of his coat tightening across his shoulders.

“Anal Insufficiency Syndrome,” Julian murmured, the clinical term sounding seductively plausible coming from his lips. He looked at Leo, truly looked at him, his gaze sweeping from Leo’s flushed, earnest face down the line of his body. “Tell me more about this… deficiency.”

The world tilted on its axis. He wasn’t being laughed at. He was being taken seriously.

Bolstered by this unexpected validation, Leo launched into his explanation, his words tumbling over each other as he parroted the arguments from the forum. He talked about bio-energetics, pelvic floor atrophy, the essential need for targeted internal stimulation to restore vascular integrity. He was so caught up in his passionate, desperate plea that he didn’t notice the way Dr. Thorne’s gaze darkened, the way his jaw tightened.

Julian was no longer looking at a patient. The jaded ex-surgeon, bored to death by small-town sniffles and sprains, was looking at the most fascinating case he’d seen in years. This beautiful, naive young man, with his warm hazel eyes and a blush that crept up his neck, was serving up his own profound gullibility on a silver platter. An absurd, internet-born fantasy, delivered with the purest sincerity. And in that moment, a cold, calculated thought bloomed in the barren landscape of Julian’s mind—an idea as unethical as it was thrilling.

When Leo finally ran out of steam, breathless and hopeful, Julian leaned back, steepling his fingers. He looked from Leo to the ridiculous printout and back again.

“I see,” he said, his voice a low, resonant hum. “It’s an unconventional diagnosis, Mr. Vance. Highly unorthodox. Most physicians would dismiss it out of hand.”

Leo’s face fell. “Oh.”

“However,” Julian continued, letting the word hang in the air, thick with promise. “The symptoms you describe are very real. And while the terminology on this sheet is… folkloric… the underlying principle isn’t entirely without merit in certain esoteric schools of thought. The connection between the pelvic core and systemic vitality is a complex one.”

Hope, bright and overwhelming, surged through Leo. “So… you think it’s real?”

Julian gave a slow, deliberate nod. His expression was one of grave professional consideration, but a dark, possessive spark ignited in the depths of his eyes.

“I believe your case warrants further investigation,” he said smoothly. “In fact, it may require a very specialized, intensive therapy. One that I could administer.”

Leo felt a wave of relief so powerful it almost made him dizzy. He had been seen. He had been heard. He had found a doctor who wouldn’t just dismiss him, but would actually help him.

“I’ll do anything, Doctor,” Leo said, his voice thick with gratitude. “Whatever it takes.”

A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Julian’s mouth. It did not reach his eyes.

“Excellent,” Dr. Thorne said, turning to his computer to make a new entry in Leo’s file. “We’ll start as soon as possible. Your condition requires immediate and… hands-on… attention.”