After spending some time with Rex, Doctor Jim stepped into the monitoring room.
The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the dimly lit chamber inside. Multiple monitors glowed with holographic projections, casting eerie reflections on the cold metal walls.
And standing in the center of it all—like a queen overseeing her dominion—was Rose Heart.
Black hair cascaded down her back in sleek waves. Her skin was almost unnaturally pale, yet flawless. Her face… well, it could make a goddess weep in envy. She wore a nurse's uniform, but the outfit was the only thing about her that was even remotely human.
To the right, a large monitor streamed live footage of Rex's hospital room. A speaker hummed softly, feeding them every sound from inside.
Jim bowed immediately, a full ninety degrees. "Madam Rose. Status?"
"Hoho~ You nearly broke character," Rose said, her crimson lips curving into a smirk. "What kind of doctor just blurts out, 'You've got ten years to live'? Were you trying to give him a heart attack?"
Jim rubbed the back of his head. "I thought it'd be more… believable."
"It was believable," she admitted. "But not subtle."
She turned her attention to the screen. Rex was talking to himself again, muttering while poking at his hospital bracelet.
"But it's confirmed," she added, folding her arms. "He's lost all memories. No emotional reaction to the family mention. The memory extractor bounced off him like a dead signal. Eyes didn't even twitch."
She narrowed her gaze. "What's intriguing is that his behavior perfectly matches Soulfade symptoms. But no one's ever survived it. Not once."
Jim's brows furrowed. "You're saying he's the first?"
"Maybe," she said, voice neutral. "Or maybe he's something else entirely."
Jim hesitated. "If that's true, Madam, then shouldn't we—"
"—use charm to test him? Oh, I did," Rose said with a wink. "Hit him with the full package."
"And?"
She sighed. "Didn't even flinch."
Jim's jaw dropped. "But… your charm is so strong. It's worked on generals… governors…"
"And one time, on a pope," she added casually. "But this guy? Nada. It was like trying to seduce a rock."
A beep came from her digital wristwatch. She glanced down, then turned for the door.
"Whatever he is, he's no use to us for now. Doesn't remember anything useful. Just keep observing him quietly. No more direct contact."
"Yes, Madam."
"Oh, Those dogs are acting up in District A again."
With a flick of her hair, she exited. Jim trailed behind, eyes still wide.
---
Meanwhile…
Rex—currently stuck as Ray Mortal—was having an identity crisis. Again.
His mind was a half-loaded hard drive. Just enough memory fragments to know who Ray was supposed to be. Barely enough to fake his way through a conversation.
When Jim had mentioned the Mortal family, Rex realized he couldn't even remember their faces.
'Family, huh… If they disowned me, guess I don't need to remember them.'
He sighed and flopped back on the bed, wincing as his spine made a cracking noise. Three months in a coma does things to you.
Later that afternoon, the hospital moved him to a general ward.
"Congratulations on being alive and poor again," the nurse said cheerfully while wheeling him in. Rex gave her a blank stare.
Apparently, he'd need 15 more days of rehab. Being unconscious for that long had turned his legs into limp noodles. So now his daily routine consisted of:
Walking around with a cane
Stretching awkwardly
Using the bathroom with the help of a disturbingly cheerful robotic nurse who made squeaky beeping sounds every time she offered him a towel
Still, compared to Earth hospitals, this wasn't bad. Food arrived on time. Water was clean. No one charged him a kidney for aspirin. So that's progress.
But that evening… something changed.
Rex finally saw himself in the mirror.
And immediately wished he hadn't.
He had avoided mirrors since waking up. Somewhere in his hopeful heart, he imagined the transmigration gods had at least given him a semi-handsome face.
Just a bit of glow-up, you know?
But when he finally peeled off his patient cap—
"...a zombie. With a glowing forehead."
The pale skin? Fine. Expected. He'd been unconscious.
The eyebags? Understandable. PTSD had a body count.
But the bald patch on top of his skull?
Perfectly circular. Shiny. Like someone had measured it with a compass.
"…They freaking target-locked my scalp."
Now it all made sense.
The nurses avoiding eye contact.
Doctor Jim's awkward coughs.
The patient cap he'd been told to never remove.
He slowly reached up, trembling, and touched the center of his head.
No roots.
The hair hadn't been shaved.
It had been ripped out.
'...Oh my god. I've been scalped by sci-fi monks.'
A single tear rolled down his cheek. Followed by another.
"Why…" he whispered. "Why didn't they just kill me…"
He stood there for a solid ten minutes, unmoving. Dead eyes locked on the mirror. The only thing missing was dramatic rainfall and sad violin music.
'Okay. Options. Think. I can either wear a hat forever… or become a bald badass.'
Neither sounded great.
"…There's gotta be a cure for this, right?" he asked the mirror. It did not respond.
His internal crisis was interrupted by a chirping sound from the hallway robot.
He blinked and sat back on the bed, emotionally destroyed.
Fifteen days left.
And three problems to solve before leaving the hospital:
1. Find out where Ray lived
2. Fix his tragic head situation
3. Unlock the stupid digital watch Ray left behind
He lifted the watch again. Sleek, matte black, futuristic interface.
It contained Ray's ID, social access, contacts, finances… everything.
And it was password protected.
No face scan. No hint.
Just a blinking "ACCESS DENIED" screen.
"…Ray took the password to the grave."
He sighed. "I can't even check the weather without this dead guy's permission."
Falling back onto the bed, Rex stared at the ceiling in silence.
"…Maybe I should've stayed dead."
[AN : let's go!]