Chapter 2: The Aegis Clinic

Three days passed in a haze of sleepless nights and mounting paranoia. Leo had managed to hide the mark from Cass, wrapping his hand in bandages and claiming he'd cut himself on broken glass. She'd fussed over him with typical concern, but the lie sat like acid in his stomach every time she looked at him with those trusting brown eyes.

The number hadn't changed—still a burning seven beneath his skin—but everything else had. His reflection continued to show glimpses of that shadow figure, always lurking just at the edge of his vision. The whispers came at random moments, speaking in that ancient tongue that made his teeth ache. And the heat... God, the heat was getting worse.

By Thursday morning, Leo knew he couldn't wait any longer.

"I'm going to see Dr. Martinez today," he announced over breakfast, watching Cass's face brighten with relief.

"Thank God," she said, reaching across to squeeze his good hand. "You've been scaring me, Leo. Promise you'll tell him everything?"

Everything except the impossible truth, he thought, but nodded anyway. "I promise."

The Westside Medical Center bustled with its usual controlled chaos of patients, visitors, and staff. Leo had been coming here since college, and the familiar antiseptic smell should have been comforting. Instead, it made his stomach churn with an anxiety he couldn't name.

Dr. Martinez's receptionist, a matronly woman named Helen, greeted him with her usual professional smile. "Leo! Right on time. The doctor can see you now."

As he followed the familiar path down the corridor, Leo's wrapped hand began to throb. The mark was reacting to something—the fluorescent lights, maybe, or the low hum of medical equipment. By the time he reached Dr. Martinez's office, sweat was beading on his forehead despite the air conditioning.

"Leo, my boy!" Dr. Martinez stood from behind his desk, a compact man in his fifties with kind eyes and graying temples. He'd delivered Leo into the world twenty-six years ago and had been his family physician ever since. "Cassandra called ahead. Says you've been having some unusual symptoms?"

"Something like that," Leo said, settling into the familiar chair across from the doctor's desk. The mark pulsed against his bandages, and he fought the urge to scratch at it.

Dr. Martinez opened a new file on his computer. "Tell me what's been happening. Start from the beginning."

Leo had rehearsed this conversation a dozen times, crafting a version of events that sounded medical rather than supernatural. "It started Monday morning. Sudden onset of fever, visual disturbances, some... skin irritation on my right hand. And I've been having these episodes where I kind of... zone out."

"Visual disturbances how? Blurred vision? Light sensitivity?"

"More like... hallucinations, I guess. Seeing things that aren't there. Shadows, mostly."

Dr. Martinez frowned, typing notes. "Any recent travel? New medications? Recreational drug use?"

"Nothing. My life's been pretty routine until this started."

"Let's have a look at that hand, shall we?"

Leo's heart hammered against his ribs as he slowly unwrapped the bandages. The mark blazed crimson beneath his skin, impossible to miss under the office's bright lights. But when Dr. Martinez leaned forward to examine it, his expression showed only mild confusion.

"I don't see any obvious injury," the doctor said, turning Leo's hand over. "Some redness, perhaps, but nothing that would account for—"

He stopped mid-sentence, blinking hard. For just a moment, his pupils dilated, and when he spoke again, his voice carried a strange, hollow quality.

"We'll need to run some tests."

The words sent ice through Leo's veins, though he couldn't say why. Dr. Martinez had suggested tests countless times over the years for everything from strep throat to suspected appendicitis. But something in his tone now felt wrong—too clinical, too distant.

"What kind of tests?" Leo asked, rewrapping his hand.

"Blood work, primarily. There are some... rare conditions that can cause the symptoms you're describing. Better to rule them out now than wait for them to progress."

The doctor's movements had changed, becoming more mechanical. He pulled out a requisition form and began filling it out with unusual speed, his handwriting neat and precise in a way that seemed somehow inhuman.

"The lab is just down the hall," Dr. Martinez said without looking up. "They'll take good care of you. Room 247."

Leo stood on unsteady legs. "Doctor, are you feeling alright? You seem—"

"Room 247," the doctor repeated, and when he finally looked up, his eyes reflected the light like mirrors. "They're waiting for you."

The corridor felt longer than usual as Leo made his way to the lab. Room 247 was at the far end, past the familiar departments he'd visited over the years. As he walked, he noticed that the usual bustle of hospital activity had diminished. Fewer staff members in the halls, and those he did see moved with the same mechanical precision he'd observed in Dr. Martinez.

The lab door stood slightly ajar. Leo pushed it open to find a sterile white room dominated by gleaming equipment. A technician in scrubs and a surgical mask looked up from a computer terminal.

"Leo Vance?" the technician asked, though Leo was certain he hadn't given his name.

"Yes."

"Please, have a seat. We'll just need a small sample."

As Leo settled into the blood draw chair, the mark on his hand began to pulse faster. The technician prepared the needle with practiced efficiency, but something about the setup felt wrong. There were too many vials waiting on the counter—far more than any routine blood test would require.

"This seems like a lot of blood for basic tests," Leo said, trying to keep his voice casual.

The technician didn't respond, only wrapped the tourniquet around Leo's left arm with mechanical precision. The needle slid in smoothly, and dark red blood began flowing into the first vial.

That's when everything went wrong.

The moment Leo's blood hit the collection tube, it began to bubble and smoke like acid. The vial grew hot in the technician's hand, forcing him to drop it. It shattered on the floor, and where the blood splattered, the linoleum began to dissolve.

"What the hell—" the technician started, but his words were cut off by a sound that made Leo's bones ache.

It was a voice, but not quite human—something that bypassed his ears and spoke directly into his skull with the weight of centuries behind it.

RUN.

The command slammed into Leo's consciousness with the force of a sledgehammer. Every instinct screamed at him to obey, to get as far away from this place as possible. The mark on his hand blazed like molten metal, and suddenly he could see everything with terrifying clarity.

The technician's face was changing, features shifting beneath the surgical mask. On the computer screen, data scrolled past too quickly for human comprehension—but Leo could read every word. His name, his address, genetic markers he didn't recognize, and a single phrase repeated over and over:

SANGUINE ECHO CONFIRMED. INITIATE CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL.

"No," Leo whispered, ripping the needle from his arm. Blood welled from the puncture wound, but instead of flowing normally, it seemed to move with purpose, forming intricate patterns on his skin before being absorbed back into his body.

The technician lunged for an alarm button on the wall, but Leo was already moving. The voice in his head had awakened something primal, and his body responded with speed and coordination he'd never possessed. He vaulted over the examination table, crashed through the door, and ran.

Behind him, alarms began to wail. The hospital's PA system crackled to life: "Code Silver, Room 247. Code Silver, Room 247."

Leo didn't know what Code Silver meant, but the urgency in the announcement told him everything he needed to know. He was no longer a patient—he was a target.

The corridor had transformed into a nightmare of activity. Staff members emerged from rooms with equipment he'd never seen before—devices that looked more military than medical. They moved with inhuman coordination, all converging on his position.

At the far end of the hall, the elevator doors opened to reveal figures in full biohazard suits. They carried weapons that hummed with electrical energy, and their movements were too fluid, too precise to be entirely human.

RUN, the voice commanded again, and Leo obeyed.

He burst through the emergency exit, setting off another round of alarms. The stairwell echoed with the sound of pursuit—boots on concrete, radio chatter in languages that hurt to hear. Seven flights down to street level, and with each step, the mark on his hand grew brighter.

By the time he reached the ground floor, his vision had changed. Colors were more vivid, sounds more distinct. He could smell the fear-sweat of his pursuers, hear their heartbeats even through walls and doors. Whatever was happening to him was accelerating.

Leo crashed through the street-level exit into blinding afternoon sunlight. The normal world of traffic and pedestrians felt surreal after the sterile nightmare of the hospital. For a moment, he almost convinced himself it had all been some kind of breakdown, a stress-induced hallucination.

Then he heard the helicopter.

It appeared over the hospital's roof like a black metal wasp, sleek and unmarked. As it circled, Leo caught sight of figures rappelling down from the building's upper floors—more of the biohazard suits, moving with military precision.

They weren't hospital staff. They never had been.

Leo ran into the crowd, using the mass of humanity as cover. His hand throbbed with each heartbeat, and the voice in his head whispered warnings in that ancient tongue. Whatever Dr. Martinez had become, whatever those things in the hospital were, they had been waiting for him.

The routine blood test had been a trap.

As he disappeared into the city's maze of streets and alleys, Leo realized that his normal life wasn't just ending—it had ended the moment the mark appeared. Everything since then had been an illusion, a carefully constructed lie to get him where they wanted him.

But who were "they"? And what did they want with his impossible blood?

Behind him, sirens wailed and helicopters circled, but Leo was already lost in the urban sprawl. The hunt had begun in earnest, and he was running blind into a war he didn't understand.

The only thing he knew for certain was that the voice in his head had saved his life.

And somehow, that terrified him more than anything else.