The emergency klaxons died with a mechanical wheeze, replaced by something far worse—the sound of ancient drums beating directly inside my skull like a migraine made of malice. The LED lights in the corridor exploded in showers of sparks and broken glass, and the walls began to melt like black ink, flowing across the floor to wrap around Zero's ankles like living shackles that pulsed with their own heartbeat.
The air filled with the cloying scent of aged sandalwood mixed with something that made my medical training scream warnings about hallucinogenic compounds and probable death. Zero, apex predator that he was, arched his back and lashed out with claws extended, but the ink-black substance solidified into restraints that pinned him in place like a butterfly in a collector's case.
Weiss went pale as death itself, his mental threads snapping audibly as he stumbled backward with the grace of someone who'd just realized they were about to become collateral damage. "Don't look ahead!" he gasped, terror making his voice crack like a teenager's. "S-class psychic overlay—it's that ancient bastard's 'Butterfly Dream' technique!"
*Butterfly Dream? What is this, a philosophy lecture or a prison break? And why does everything in this place have to be so dramatically named?*
Before I could process that information properly, four paper figures emerged from the darkness—funeral attendants that moved with the jerky motions of marionettes, carrying an ornate sedan chair that looked like it had been carved from nightmares and expensive mahogany. Paper money fell from the air like cursed snow, and when a piece landed on my shoulder, it burned through the fabric instantly with a hiss, revealing the corrosive nature of whatever psychic toxins were saturating the atmosphere.
"Who dares disturb my eternal slumber?" The voice that drifted from the sedan chair was lazy, cultured, and absolutely dripping with otherworldly menace that made my spine crawl with professional concern.
The space around us twisted like reality was having a seizure. The sterile prison corridor dissolved like sugar in acid, replaced by a traditional garden courtyard paved with human bones that gleamed white under an impossible moon. The sedan chair floated above a pond of boiling black water that definitely violated several health and safety regulations.
A pale hand pushed aside red silk curtains with theatrical flair, revealing the occupant—Lord Jun, Subject 03, S-class illusionist and apparently part-time emperor of the underworld. His phoenix eyes were narrow, deep, and completely unhinged in the way that made psychiatrists reach for their prescription pads.
**[LIVESTREAM - VIEWERS: 47,891,234]**
→ @BloodRose_666: WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO REALITY RIGHT NOW I'M SCARED
→ @ChaosQueen: The special effects budget for this prison is absolutely INSANE
→ @ShadowLord donated 25,000,000 credits: "MOST EPIC VILLAIN ENTRANCE IN HISTORY"
→ @OmegaLover: Those eyes are beautiful and terrifying and I'm so conflicted
→ @Anonymous_7749: This is like watching a horror movie but the doctor is the final girl
The psychic pressure hit like a sledgehammer to the soul, making my knees buckle with the weight of imperial authority that had probably crushed lesser mortals for centuries. "Kneel before your emperor," Lord Jun commanded, voice carrying the kind of power that rewrote reality to suit his whims.
My knees stiffened for a moment—the compulsion was real and powerful, like invisible hands trying to force me to the ground. But instead of dropping like a good little subject, I walked toward the edge of the black water pond and stopped at the shore with the casual confidence of someone who'd dealt with worse things than delusional royalty.
A dismissive snort echoed from the sedan chair, followed by what sounded like genuine amusement.
*Time for a reality check, Your Majesty. Let's see how your fantasy holds up to medical science.*
I waved my hand in front of my nose like I was clearing away a particularly offensive smell. "Ether concentration is over 200% normal levels," I said conversationally, pulling out my modified ophthalmoscope with the efficiency of someone conducting a routine examination. "Combined with what smells like datura extract and various hallucinogenic alkaloids. Definitely not regulation air quality."
I pushed up my non-existent glasses—a nervous habit that had survived even when I wasn't wearing them—and clicked on the medical flashlight with the kind of professional authority that had gotten me through medical school.
"Based on your delusional symptoms and obvious visual field defects," I continued in my best clinical voice, the one I used for particularly difficult patients, "I'm diagnosing you with severe bilateral angle-closure glaucoma. The palace and ghostly apparitions you're seeing are classic signs of retinal macular degeneration caused by elevated intraocular pressure."
**[LIVESTREAM CHAT]**
→ @BloodRose_666: DID HE JUST DIAGNOSE AN S-CLASS ILLUSION AS EYE DISEASE?!
→ @ChaosQueen: THE ACADEMIC ROAST IS ABSOLUTELY BRUTAL
→ @ShadowLord: Most savage medical consultation in recorded history
→ @Anonymous_0001: DIMENSIONAL REDUCTION ATTACK BY MEDICAL SCIENCE I'M DYING
→ @OmegaLover: The audacity to medical-splain to an ancient emperor I LIVE FOR THIS
"I recommend immediate referral to psychiatry," I added helpfully, voice carrying the kind of professional concern that made patients want to punch me. "Or we could just remove your eyeballs entirely. Much more cost-effective in the long run."
The silence that followed was deafening, like the moment before a bomb explodes. Then Lord Jun's voice turned deadly cold, dropping several degrees below freezing.
"You dare mock me, mortal physician?"
The black water began to boil violently, and skeletal hands erupted from the surface like something out of a necromancer's wet dream, reaching for me with bone claws that promised creative dismemberment and probably several violations of the Geneva Convention.
But I didn't move—instead, I pressed the button on my flashlight with the calm of someone who'd spent years dealing with medical emergencies.
The beam that emerged wasn't ordinary light. It was concentrated S-class purification energy, compressed into a lance of pure, undiluted reality that cut through illusions like a scalpel through tissue. The air itself seemed to scream as truth met fantasy in violent collision.
"Pupillary light reflex absent," I observed clinically, aiming the beam directly at Lord Jun's approaching face with surgical precision. "Definitely pathological. Contract those pupils immediately or I'm calling ophthalmology."
The light hit him like a physical blow from an angry god. Lord Jun's scream was inhuman—the sound of someone having their carefully constructed fantasy world dissolved with industrial-strength acid. The ink-black realm shattered like glass, the bone garden crumbled to dust, and the ornate sedan chair revealed itself to be nothing more than an illegally modified drone that probably violated several aviation laws.
Lord Jun crashed to the ground from about six feet up, landing face-first on the concrete with a wet smack that definitely broke something expensive and probably irreplaceable.
I clicked off the flashlight and walked over to where he lay groaning like a wounded animal. From my pocket, I pulled out a bottle of cheap antibiotic eye drops and tossed it onto his elaborate golden robes with the casual accuracy of someone who'd spent years throwing medical supplies at difficult patients.
"Four times daily, two drops each application," I said matter-of-factly, voice carrying the authority of someone delivering a terminal diagnosis. "Less daydreaming, more sunlight exposure. And maybe consider therapy. Next patient, please."
I turned to walk back toward Zero and Weiss, who were staring at me with expressions of shock, awe, and what might have been professional admiration mixed with healthy fear.
Behind me, Lord Jun struggled to sit up, clutching the eye drops with trembling fingers that shook like autumn leaves. When he looked up at me, his phoenix eyes were red, swollen, and streaming tears—but there was no anger in them. Instead, there was something far more disturbing: obsessive fascination that burned like fever.
He raised an ornate fan to cover the lower half of his face, but I could see the predatory smile underneath as his gaze fixed on my neck with the intensity of someone who'd found their new favorite obsession.
"My harem," he whispered, voice hoarse but filled with dark promise that made my skin crawl, "has been lacking a physician with such... spirited bedside manner. Such beautiful defiance."
I paused mid-step and looked back at him with the expression I usually reserved for medical waste that had achieved sentience and started making demands.
"Want to enter my examination room?" I asked sweetly, voice dripping with false politeness. "Make an appointment first. And bring insurance."
**[SYSTEM ALERT: UNPRECEDENTED ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED]**
**[THREE S-CLASS SUBJECTS SUBDUED IN 10 MINUTES]**
**[LIVESTREAM VIEWERS: 50,000,000+ AND CLIMBING]**
**[SPECIAL EVENT TRIGGERED: AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION VOTE]**
A massive holographic interface materialized in the air, visible to everyone including the livestream audience that was probably having collective heart attacks:
**[POLL: THE LONG NIGHT APPROACHES - WHO DESERVES PRIVATE MEDICAL CONSULTATION?]**
**A) The Loyal Hound (Zero) - 34.7%**
**B) The Mad Doctor (Weiss) - 28.3%**
**C) The Blind Emperor (Lord Jun) - 31.2%**
**D) REJECT ALL (Warning: 0.01% survival rate) - 5.8%**
I looked at the three psychopaths who were all staring at me with varying degrees of obsessive hope, desperate need, and barely contained violence, then down at my surgical scalpel, which was looking decidedly worse for wear after tonight's activities.
The voting timer showed 47 seconds remaining, and all three S-class subjects were watching me with the intensity of predators who'd found their perfect prey and were trying to decide whether to devour me slowly or savor the experience.
*Maybe I should have gone into accounting instead of medicine. Numbers don't try to kidnap you and make you their personal physician.*
**[LIVESTREAM EXPLOSION]**
→ @BloodRose_666: THE POLL IS TOO CLOSE TO CALL THIS IS ABSOLUTELY INSANE
→ @ChaosQueen: All three options lead to different types of beautiful death
→ @ShadowLord: Plot twist - he chooses option D and burns everything down
→ @OmegaLover: I can't decide if I want him to survive or get claimed by all three
→ @Anonymous_0001: Most stressful medical drama in existence
The numbers kept shifting as millions of viewers cast their votes, and I could feel the weight of their collective gaze like a physical presence. Whatever happened next, it was going to be spectacular, terrifying, and probably require extensive therapy for everyone involved.
*This prison really needs to be demolished. Preferably with me somewhere far, far away when it happens.*