As I pushed through the heavy double doors, the fluorescent lights flickered on the pristine white-tiled floors. The antiseptic scent mingled with the underlying metallic tang of blood, a familiar bouquet that had become as commonplace as the scrubs I wore. My sneakers squeak with each step, a rhythmic counterpoint to the steady hum of medical equipment and the occasional murmur of voices.

"One more hour," I chanted under my breath, a mantra to keep the exhaustion at bay. The digital clock, a cruel taskmaster, ticked relentlessly toward the end of my shift. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the chart, the pen feeling heavy and unwieldy. Seventy-two hours felt like a lifetime; I was running on fumes, my body aching for rest, and my mind fogged with fatigue.

Grace, the Head ER Nurse, intercepted me as I scribbled my signature on the release form for the patient in E6. Her usual warm expression shifted to alarm as she took in my appearance.
"My goodness, Maggie, those bags under your eyes could carry a whole grocery list," she exclaimed, her gentle touch on my shoulder a momentary respite from the chaos. "When was the last time you slept soundly?"

My mind raced, struggling to recall. The days had blurred into an indistinguishable mix of beeping monitors and endless paperwork. "I... I honestly don't know," I confessed, stifling a yawn.
"What about the on-call room?" she pressed, her brow furrowed with concern. "You mentioned you'd try to catch a power nap in there."

I shrugged, the gesture heavy with unspoken exhaustion."I'm swamped," I replied evasively, skirting the true reason for my sleepless nights.

Grace's gaze softened her hand, a warm anchor on my shoulder, a brief comfort amid the storm raging around us. "Are you still having those dreams?" she asked, her voice laced with worry.

"Something like that," I mumbled, my gaze dropping to the floor. The dreams clung to me, relentless reminders of fragmented memories—a room, always the same room, bathed in a golden light, and eyes, icy blue, burning with a knowledge I desperately needed. But they vanished like smoke upon waking, leaving me drained and disoriented.

Before she could reply, a deafening crash echoed off the sterile walls, abruptly ending our conversation. Our eyes met a silent understanding passing between us. Without a word, we ran towards the source of the commotion.

Room E8 was chaos incarnate. A man, a behemoth of muscle, stood on the bed, an IV line dangling from his arm like a discarded toy. Jared, our portly phlebotomist, was suspended in mid-air, clutched in the grip of the frenzied patient. Syringes and gauze pads littered the floor, glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights like discarded shrapnel.

Drugs. The thought slammed into me. Some toxic cocktails and some illicit concoctions had to be fueling this impossible strength, this defiance of human limits. I'd heard whispers of such drug-induced feats—cars lifted, restraints snapped.

In situations like this, philosophical musings like "How is this possible?" were worse than useless. "What happened?" I demanded, my voice sharp and commanding. Jackie, the intern, swallowed hard before answering.

"We have a patient," Jackie stammered, her voice tight with nerves, gesturing weakly toward the man on the bed. "Brought in by ambulance, unconscious. Possible head injury suspected internal bleeding. We were prepping for an MRI when he suddenly bolted upright. Scared poor Jared half to death."

Jared, still clutched in the patient's iron grip, was a tableau of absolute terror. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. A whimper escaped his lips, a sound so raw it made my stomach clench. A spreading stain darkened his scrubs, the sharp, ammonia scent of urine piercing the antiseptic hospital air.

I needed to take control, but a direct confrontation with a patient in this volatile state was too risky. His apparent strength could endanger Jared, the staff, or even himself. "Jackie, 10 milligrams of Propofol, stat," I ordered, keeping my voice calm and steady. She nodded, already sprinting from the room.

"Sir," I began cautiously, holding my hands open in a placating gesture, desperate not to trigger another outburst.

He snapped his head towards me, his glacial eyes locking onto mine, a jolt of raw energy that stole the air from my lungs. Chiseled features, worthy of a sculptor's rasps, were marred by an underlying turmoil. The raw power radiating from him was both mesmerizing and unsettling. He looked like a warrior ripped from the pages of a fantasy novel – broad shoulders straining the seams of his torn black form-fitting t-shirt, muscles rippling beneath intricate tattoos that snaked up his arms and disappeared beneath a mane of dark, unruly hair. His eyes, a startling glacial blue, flickered with recognition as if the world was snapping back into focus. Abruptly, he released Jared, who crumpled to the floor with a thud, scrambling away and overturning his workstation in his panicked flight.

The patient ripped out his IV and slid from the gurney with unnerving grace, his movements so fluid they were almost silent. How could someone so imposing move with such ethereal lightness? Towering over me, he dwarfed my five-foot-ten frame. He took a step closer, and Grace, ever vigilant, grasped my arm, ready to pull me back. Though I sensed no immediate threat, caution was paramount.

He stopped so close I could feel the heat radiating from him. Then, to my utter astonishment, he sank to one knee.

"Princess Lyrical," he intoned, bowing his head. "I beg your forgiveness."

"Please, stand up," I urged, tugging gently on his surprisingly solid bicep. I had hoped to avoid an audience for this surreal scene, but fate seemed to have other plans.

The door swung open, revealing Jackie flanked by two imposing security guards. Jared had clearly wasted no time in summoning reinforcements. Jackie’s eyes darted between Grace and me, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern.

"I'll fill you in later," Grace mouthed, her wide eyes silently pleading for Jackie to play along.

Amidst the commotion, the man's unwavering gaze remained fixed on mine. His icy pools swirled with reverence and curiosity, unfazed by the presence of the security guards and Jackie.

The tension in the room thickened, becoming almost suffocating. Grace, hovering near the door, failed miserably at suppressing a giggle. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she quipped, "Well, this is interesting. Things haven't been this lively since last Christmas when that one dude went jingle all the way through the E.R. butt ass naked, with bells tied to his nuts."

I gave Grace a warning look and urged her to maintain professionalism. Turning back to the others, I forced a smile.

"I've got this," I assured the guards, hoping my voice didn't betray the whirlwind of confusion in my mind.

After the guards exited, I turned my attention back to the man, my thoughts scrambling for the right words. A medical degree should have prepared me for this, yet all I managed to utter was an eloquent "Uhm." Mentally, I kicked myself.

His head remained bowed, awaiting my response. "Please stand up," I repeated, gently tugging on his muscular bicep.

He rose fluidly, instantly towering over me again. Despite his imposing size, his movements were graceful, as if bowing in a crowded room was a perfectly normal occurrence. "As you wish, Princess," he rumbled, his deep baritone resonating in my chest.

My authority melted faster than ice cream in July, and I stammered, "I need to... give you a once-over. I mean, examine you medically. With my doctor skills." I cringed at my behavior, realizing I was acting more like a high school girl crushing on the senior quarterback than a professional.

"Way to bring that home, Mags," Grace quipped. I shot her a death glare as I realized she was right. I was off my game right now and needed to get the situation back under control.

A snort of laughter escaped me before I could suppress it. I turned to Grace and Jackie, shooing them toward the door with a playful shove. "Out, you two. This is a hospital, not a comedy club." However, at this point, I don't know which of us will be starring in one. I knew that with spectators, I would not be able to get this situation under control.

Grace winked, her lips twitching. "Don't worry, Maggie. We'll leave you to your 'royal' duties," she said, emphasizing the word "royal" with a teasing lilt. "But seriously, if things get too interesting, don't hesitate to call." She turned to face me. "I mean it," she said.
"Okay," I said, trying to usher them out of the room.

"However, if he needs a sponge bath," Grace flipped back to her wise-cracking self. "Let me know."

"Or a catheter," Jackie added, barely suppressing her laughter.

I rolled my eyes, herding them out of the room and firmly shutting the door.

"Honestly," I muttered, shaking my head at their antics.

Turning back to the man, I put on my most professional smile. "I'm sorry about that," I said, motioning towards the door where the girls exited.

“I assure you they are normally more professional than this.” I tried to explain. "Now, where were we?"

He leaned against the hospital bed that seemed so minuscule to his lumbering frame, a bemused expression flickering across his face. "You were about to examine me, your Highness," he reminded me, his voice a low rumble.

"Doctor," I corrected gently, not for the first time. "It's Doctor."
Amusement danced in his eyes as he nodded. "Of course, Doctor Maggie Lee." He leaned back against the pillows, his broad chest crossed by muscular arms. "Proceed."

I took a deep breath, trying to quell the butterflies in my stomach. This was going to be one for the books. "Okay, Sir," I began, opting for formality, "I need you to lie down so I can check for internal injuries."

He complied, stretching his long frame on the narrow bed. It was almost comical—his legs dangled over the edge while his head nearly brushed the wall.
As I checked his pupillary response, I posed a standard question for potentially disoriented patients: "Can you tell me your name?"

His response came without hesitation, clear and confident. "My name is Synikael."

"Okay, Cynical," I said, deliberately mangling his name to evaluate his reaction. "Got a last name?"

"It's Syn-ah-kale," he corrected smoothly. "And I am a knight." Intrigued, I nodded. "Alright, Mr. Syn-ah-kale. Any idea where you are?"

He glanced around the room. "A healing facility of some sort, I presume."

"Correct. Serenity General Hospital in Colorado Springs," I confirmed, making a note on his chart.

To assess his cognitive function, I asked, "Who's the President of the United States?"

A flicker of amusement lit his eyes. "I assume you'd prefer I say 'Trump.'" He delivered the name with a subtle, archaic pronunciation.

Pressing on, I inquired, "Do you remember what happened to you, Mr. Syn-ah-kale?"

“Indeed,” he replied without hesitation. “A blasted carriage struck me.”

“A carriage?” I echoed, my brow furrowing. The term felt strangely out of place. “Could you describe this carriage? What did it look like?” I leaned forward, my gaze attentive and professional, trained to catch the nuances of expression and posture that often revealed more than words.

His response caught me completely off guard.

“My apologies,” he said, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Humans call them ‘cars’ these days.”

The word “humans” hung in the air, heavy with unsettling implications. A chill ran down my spine as I fought to maintain my composure.

“Humans?” I repeated, my eyes widening involuntarily.

He stood abruptly, stretching his arms, displaying an undeniably impressive physique. “I assure you, I’m quite well.” His tone exuded confidence.

Inwardly, I had to agree. He appeared to be in peak physical condition. But professional protocol dictated further examination. “Nevertheless,” I said, “we should continue the examination just to rule out any underlying issues.”

I gestured for him to lie back down, and to my surprise, he complied without argument. As I methodically checked for fractures or other injuries, my mind raced, replaying his earlier words. The word "humans," the archaic speech… it all painted a picture I couldn't quite grasp.

“When you said ‘humans,’ what did you mean exactly?” I asked, striving for neutrality. A flicker of confusion crossed his face as he searched for words.

“It’s just a way of speaking,” he finally replied, hesitant. “Where I come from, we have different origins.”

As a doctor, I'm trained to handle unusual patient behaviors, but this man's words pushed my boundaries.
Was it the accident or something more profound? Maintaining my professional demeanor, I pressed gently. “Origins?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Could you elaborate?”

He paused, then continued in a low voice, “Well, some are born in the mortal realm; others are born… elsewhere. We possess different strengths and weaknesses.”

I nodded slowly, absorbing this. “I see,” I said carefully. “And you were born… not in the mortal realm?”

He met my gaze, a flicker of something—recognition? Amusement?—in his eyes. “That’s correct,” he confirmed, his voice steady. He shifted into a sitting position, blue eyes intense. “And neither were you, Princess.”

I shook my head, convinced he’d hit his head harder than we’d initially thought. “You’re confused,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Likely from the head trauma. I’m a doctor, not a princess.”

He looked at me with a mixture of certainty and… mystery. “You don’t remember anything now,” he said softly, “but you will soon. That I can promise you.”

I stared at him, drawn in by the intensity of his blue eyes. There was a nagging sense of familiarity, but from where? He was an enigma, a strange juxtaposition of intensity and… something almost theatrical. Then it clicked. LARPing. I had a colleague obsessed with live-action role-playing, particularly Viking re-enactments. That explained the black leather in the middle of summer. The head trauma must have triggered a persecutory delusion, blurring the lines between his game and reality. It was far more plausible than the princess theory.

“I would like to admit you for further testing,” I explained, my professional demeanor firmly reestablished. “At the very least, a CAT scan is necessary to rule out internal bleeding or brain swelling. Additionally, a panel of blood tests may be required to evaluate potential drug interactions or underlying medical conditions.”

I retrieved my otoscope from my pocket and meticulously examined his ears and eyes. Physically, he appeared in good health. Too good, I mused, quickly dismissing the inappropriate thought.

“Are you experiencing any discomfort, headaches, or sharp pain?” He shook his head, prompting me to continue. “I recommend scheduling a CAT scan of your brain,” I declared, struggling to regain my train of thought.

“Indeed, I am aware. You have mentioned this CAT scan twice,” he replied with a hint of amusement in his voice. One eyebrow arched knowingly, a slight smile playing on his lips as if he were privy to a private jest.

“I did? I mean… of course. Would you consent to this procedure?”

“I fail to see how placing a feline upon my head would be of any benefit,” he stated matter-of-factly.

I stifled a laugh before realizing he was not joking. “‘CAT’ stands for Computed Axial Tomography,” I explained. “It’s a scan of your brain.” He slid off the small hospital bed and retrieved what remained of his jacket from the lone chair in the room.

“Honestly, I am feeling fine. I require no brain ‘catting,’” Syn insisted.

He approached the door, grasped the handle, and turned toward me. “Farewell, Doctor Maggie Lee.” He bowed at the waist, a gesture both archaic and oddly appropriate.

“Mr. Knight,” I said, my arm extended to impede his departure, a sense of urgency rising within me. “You must understand that you cannot leave until I release you.”

“Don’t!” His sudden outburst startled me, its intensity chilling.

He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered, “Never release me.” A surge of fear and excitement coursed through me at his words and proximity. His powerful hands on my shoulders reversed our positions.

“Okay,” I whispered in reply, reeling from the unexpected intimacy. Mr. Knight turned on his heels and exited, leaving me stunned and alone in the room.

My heart pounded as I struggled to regain my composure. Only seconds had passed before I realized the situation. The door was still ajar. I swung it open the rest of the way and sprinted down the hall, attempting to catch up to him, my footsteps echoing off the walls of the narrow corridor.

The sharp bark of “Mr. Knight!” echoed down the sterile passage, but the man didn't turn.
“Syn!” I tried again, my voice tighter.

He rounded the corner without a flicker of acknowledgement. I sprinted after him, reaching the point of his vanishing act in seconds, but he was gone. The long corridor offered no hiding places, no side doors, just the exit at the far end – impossible for him to have reached in that timeframe.

For a moment, I considered the parking lot. Then, the heavy double doors at my back burst open with a resounding crash, and paramedics surged in, pushing a stretcher. The raw urgency in their movements sent a jolt of adrenaline through me.

“Incoming trauma!” one shouted, his voice slicing through the usual ER hum.

I stepped aside, my heart pounding, and watched them maneuver the stretcher toward the trauma bays. “What do we have?” I asked, falling into step beside them.

“Thirty-four-year-old male, Tom Robinson,” a paramedic replied, consulting his clipboard. “Fell from a roof. Lacerations to the upper torso. No feeling below the waist. Fourteen point five milligrams of ketamine were administered en route. Unresponsive.”

Tom Robinson. The name resonated. A local contractor known for his pro bono work in the community.

Grace and Jackie appeared as they wheeled him into Trauma One, their initial concern hardening into focused determination as they joined the paramedics.

“Crash cart!” Grace barked, her voice taking command. Jackie nodded, already moving to retrieve it. The air crackled with a sudden electric tension.

“Let’s get him on the monitor,” I instructed, taking my position at the head of the stretcher. His skin was ashen, his chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate gasps. “Start an IV. Prep for fluids.”

Just as we began our assessment, a shrill alarm blared from Room E5, a chilling reminder of the precarious balance we maintained here.

“Code Blue, E5!” a voice announced over the intercom, sending another wave of urgency through the already charged atmosphere.

Grace met my gaze, her expression grim but resolute. “Jackie, stay with Tom. We need to stabilize him. I’ll take the Code.”

Without hesitation, she sprinted towards the alarm, her footsteps receding down the corridor. The weight of the situation pressed down on me.

“Focus, Maggie,” I muttered, returning my attention to Tom. “We can’t lose him.”

The mystery of Syn’s disappearance, so pressing moments before, receded into the background, eclipsed by the immediate crisis. The chaos of the ER swirled around us, a constant, visceral reminder of the fragility of life and the weight of our responsibility.

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