To be honest, he was in love with the process of potion brewing.
It was insultingly simple.
Tap water in a pot. Apple. A spinach leaf. A honey drizzle. Ten minutes.
He did it once and waited like a man watching a microwave, offended that time still existed.
The moment the clock hit the tenth minute, four vials were sitting in the pot like the universe had always done glasswork for him.
He stared at them for a second.
No empty vial fee. No taxes. No shipping. No subscription.
He liked this system.
He fished one out carefully and held it up to the light. The potion was light red, like somebody had diluted optimism.
He tested the obvious by doubling the ingredients. He watched the clock again.
Eight vials.
He laughed once, sharp. "Blessed Brewing," he told the empty kitchen. "Or math. Either way, I am winning."
He kept going.
The kitchen turned into a small factory. Chop, stir, boil, wait. Vials appeared in the pot like they had been teleported in from a supply closet of the gods.
He brewed until he ran out of ingredients.
Apple and spinach are gone. Honey is nearly gone. Bananas and oats turned into stamina vials that looked suspiciously like breakfast with delusions of grandeur.
Once he was done, he sighed exaggeratedly and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, as he had just worked a shift in a coal mine.
"The hard life of an alchemist," he murmured. "My suffering is immeasurable."
Then reality returned.
He had a pile of vials on the counter and no sane way to move them without shuttling back and forth to the car like a delivery driver.
He stared at the vials. He stared at the evidence bag on the counter. He stared at the Nokia.
The Nokia pinged.
Of course it did.
He picked it up with the caution he would reserve for a snake.
Sender: UNKNOWN.
Put your hand above the vials and move them to your inventory, you moron. Where do you think the Grimoire goes when it disappears?
Lucius read it.
He disliked two things.
One, the tone.
Two, the fact that he has not thought of that.
This was EA Games' level of customer service. They gave you half the product, then put the rest behind DLCs and paywalls.
He was grateful, sure. But this was not the agreement he had with the SMS god... entity. Yes, unknown entity. In EA terms, this game was not what was promised in the 'Game Play' trailers he had watched.
He held his hand above the vials like he was blessing them.
He willed them to be stored. They vanished one after another. The counter cleared itself. When he wanted one in his hand, a vial appeared in his palm instantly, cool glass, real weight.
Basically inventory he has an inventory now. He turned the vial in his hand. He stared at it, then let out a disheartened thank you toward the ceiling.
"Thank you," he said. "Now, will you please stop talking to me like I am a malfunctioning toaster?"
No reply.
He pocketed the Nokia and moved.
He grabbed his keys and wallet. He checked the mirror by the door once to make sure he was presentable enough to offer miracles and not look like a drug dealer.
He walked out to the driveway.
The Tahoe started on the first turn. His first stop was Elmhurst Hospital Center.
He could have gone somewhere shinier, but Elmhurst was busy, crowded, and full of people who looked like the system had chewed them and decided they were not worth swallowing.
Also, if he was going to do something morally questionable, he preferred to do it where nobody asked polite questions.
He parked, walked in, and immediately regretted the smell.
Hospitals had a special scent. Bleach, plastic, old air, and the quiet fear of people who had been told to wait while calculating if they could afford a painkiller.
He passed the front desk and headed for the ambulatory clinic area. Polyclinic in his head, outpatient in the building, same idea. People sitting in rows with paperwork, some leaning forward with their elbows on their knees like they were holding their bodies together by force of will.
He looked for the worst.
Not the dramatic worst. Not the screaming. Not the obvious.
The slow worst.
The ones who had already accepted the ending and were just waiting for the credits.
He found an elderly man in a wheelchair near a wall, oxygen tubing under his nose, hands thin and spotted, eyes half open like the ceiling was more interesting than life.
A young nurse stood nearby, checking a tablet.
Lucius walked up with the confident stride of a man who belonged there. That was half of most scams. He stopped a respectful distance away.
"Good day,"
The old man's eyes shifted toward him. Lucius smiled, small and harmless.
"My name is Lucius," he said. "I am not a doctor. I am going to say that first so nobody throws something at me. I am a chemical engineering graduate."
The nurse looked up.
"Sir, you cannot approach patients like this."
Lucius held up one hand.
"I am not selling essential oils," he replied. "Relax."
The nurse's expression did not relax. The old man's lips moved.
"What is this?" he rasped.
Lucius leaned a little closer.
"I heard you were having a rough time," he said. "I have something that might help."
The nurse stepped in.
"Who are you?" She asked.
"A visitor," Lucius replied. "A concerned citizen. A person who is about to be escorted out if I say the wrong sentence."
He glanced at her badge.
"Kayla," he added, like he was being polite.
Her eyes narrowed further.
"Sir."
Lucius looked back at the old man.
"I am not asking for money," he said. "I am not asking for your social security number. I am not even asking you to like me. I am offering you a choice."
The old man blinked slowly.
"A choice," he repeated.
Lucius pulled a vial from his inventory and let it appear in his hand. He kept it low so it did not look like he was brandishing a weapon.
Light red liquid in a glass. The nurse's attention snapped to it.
"What is that?" she asked.
"A potion," Lucius replied.
She stared at him.
"You are joking."
Lucius gave her a friendly look.
"I wish."
He turned to the old man again.
"It will not make you immortal," Lucius said. "It will not turn you into Captain America. It is a healing potion. It fixes your health. The kind you cannot stretch or willpower your way through."
The nurse took a step closer.
"You cannot give him anything," she said. "This is a hospital."
Lucius nodded.
"Correct. That is why I picked it. The worst thing you can do is call security, and then I leave, and you all go back to watching him fade out slowly."
The nurse's mouth tightened.
"That is cruel."
Lucius shrugged.
"Reality is cruel. I am just being honest."
The old man's hand trembled slightly on the armrest.
"Kayla," he said, voice thin. "Let him talk."
She looked at him.
"Mr Henderson, no."
Henderson's eyes stayed on Lucius.
"Nothing they give me works," he rasped. "I am tired."
Lucius held the vial out.
"One sip," he said. "If you hate it, you can curse me with your last breath. It will be a good story."
The nurse reached for the vial.
"Sir, give that to me."
Lucius pulled it back slightly.
He looked at the old man again.
"It is your call," he said.
Henderson stared at the vial like it was a joke God had forgotten to explain.
Then he lifted a shaky hand.
"I have nothing to lose," he said.
Lucius placed the vial into his hand and stepped back.
Henderson popped the cap with clumsy fingers and took a sip.
His throat worked.
He coughed once.
The nurse tensed as if she were waiting for him to seize.
Henderson's eyes widened. His shoulders lowered, and he took a deeper breath. First deep breath without feeling any pain after a long time.
Then another.
The oxygen tubing looked suddenly unnecessary.
He blinked and stared down at his own hands.
"Hell," he whispered.
Lucius watched him and kept his expression calm.
Inside, he felt something settle.
It worked.
The nurse stared at the monitors attached. She leaned closer, checking numbers, blinking as if the screen was lying.
"What did you give him?"
Lucius smiled.
"An alternative," he replied.
Security showed up three minutes later, because hospitals did not tolerate mystery liquids.
Lucius left before the argument could become paperwork. He walked like a man late for another appointment. He visited nine more patients that day.
He picked carefully. People waiting for bad news. People already in it. People whose doctors spoke in soft voices and offered comfort instead of solutions.
The pattern repeated.
Scepticism, anger, desperation, a sip and a healthy breath. Of course, a nurse calling someone over with a voice that had turned sharp. By the time the tenth patient sat up and asked for water as he had woken from a long nap, the doctors were no longer calling it impossible.
Lucius left Elmhurst and drove to NewYork Presbyterian Queens.
He aimed for oncology.
Stage four patients did not have time for pride.
He found a man in his late fifties sitting in a chair near the oncology clinic, a blanket over his knees, a paper cup of water in his hand. His breathing was shallow, controlled, as if each inhale had to be negotiated.
A woman sat beside him, holding his wrist as if she could keep him tethered.
Lucius approached with the same calm confidence.
"Afternoon," he greeted them.
The woman looked up first.
"Who are you?"
Lucius glanced at the patient.
"Do you want the honest answer or the safe answer?"
The patient wheezed something that might have been a laugh.
"Honest," he managed.
"I am a stranger," Lucius replied. "And this is going to sound insane."
The woman's grip tightened.
"We are not interested. Leave, please."
Lucius held up a hand.
"I am not here to flirt," he replied. "I am here to offer something."
He produced a vial of light healing potion.
The patient stared at it.
"What is that?" The woman demanded.
Lucius looked at her. "A shortcut."
The patient coughed, then spoke.
"I do not have time for scams," he said.
Lucius nodded.
"That is the fun part," he replied. "Neither do I."
The woman's eyes flashed.
"You cannot do this here."
Lucius leaned in slightly, voice quieter.
"I can leave," he said. "Or you can let him try one sip and then decide."
The patient's hand lifted, trembling.
"What is your name?"
"Lucius,"
"Lucius," the patient repeated, tasting it. "What do you call it?"
Lucius held the vial up.
"Light Healing Potion," he said. "LHP."
The woman stared at him.
"You are mocking us."
Lucius shrugged.
"I am saving time," he replied.
The patient took the vial.
He drank, slow at first sips. Then faster. His shoulders lifted on a deep inhale. He blinked hard and coughed, then looked at his own hands like they had betrayed him.
The woman leaned forward.
"Are you okay," she asked, voice cracking.
"I am," he whispered.
A nurse nearby looked over, then did a double-take.
Within an hour, people in scrubs were crowding close, checking oxygen saturation, heart rate, blood pressure, and asking the patient questions too quickly.
Lucius stood to the side like he was watching someone else's miracle.
He repeated it nine more times. Ten vials, ten patients. Ten small miracles. By the time he walked out of the building, two different doctors had asked for his number.
He had given none. He was not trying to get hired. He was trying to get found by the right people. He drove home. He turned on the television and waited for the rumour mill to do what it should in MCU.
He did not expect to see himself watching Brit Hume.
Special Report with Brit Hume.
He sat back with a grin.
"Already," he murmured. "I am efficient."
On the screen, Brit Hume looked serious in the way television anchors always looked serious, like gravity was a personal brand.
"Good evening," Hume said. "We begin tonight with an astonishing medical story out of New York City. Doctors at two Queens hospitals say ten critically ill patients showed rapid improvement after consuming an unknown substance described by witnesses as a 'red vial.'"
The program cut to footage of hospital exteriors. Ambulances. A shaky phone video from a waiting room where someone whispered, "He just walked in and gave it to him."
A lower third banner screamed something dramatic.
MYSTERY VIAL MIRACLE.
Lucius snorted.
Hume continued.
"Hospital officials are refusing to comment on what exactly was administered. The FDA tells Fox News it is 'aware of the reports' and 'monitoring the situation.'"
It cut to a doctor in scrubs, face partially blurred, voice altered like this was a mafia interview.
"I have never seen anything like it," the doctor said. "We had a patient with severe internal injuries, multiple complications, and within minutes, the vital signs improved. We repeated the assessments. We ran labs. It made no sense."
Then a patient interview.
An older man sitting up in bed, eyes bright, voice hoarse.
"I thought I was done," he said. "I was just waiting. Then this young man shows up, polite as can be, gives me this little bottle, and I swear to you, I could breathe again."
Lucius raised his eyebrows.
Hume turned to a guest, a medical analyst in a suit who looked like he had never touched a sick person without gloves.
"This could be dangerous," the analyst warned. "Unregulated substances, unknown compounds, we have no idea what is in these vials."
Hume nodded gravely.
"Yet," he replied, "the results appear undeniable."
Lucius enjoyed that word.
Undeniable.
The show rolled into its normal rhythm.
A correspondent package from New York.
A short interview with a hospital spokesperson who said nothing for two full minutes.
Then the All-Star Panel, because even miracles needed opinions.
Three pundits argued whether this was a breakthrough, a hoax, a crime, or a sign of the end times.
One of them suggested it was a foreign plot.
Another suggested it was a pharmaceutical company's worst nightmare.
The third suggested it was "a symptom of a system that has failed ordinary people."
Lucius watched them talk over each other and smiled. He had not done this for ordinary people. He had done it for bait.
Hume closed the segment with the same serious tone.
"If you have information about the source of these vials, authorities are asking you to contact local law enforcement."
Lucius leaned back on his couch.
He lifted a vial into view, admired the light red colour, then put it down on the coffee table like it was a chess piece.
"Good," he murmured.
Somewhere, the necessary people were going to start asking questions.
And questions were how doors opened.