I was done—done with Apex Wellness, done with massage therapists, done with the entire concept of therapeutic intervention, done with hope itself.
Except Dr. Halverson refused to let it go.
She called me this morning before dawn while I was already at the Obsidian Aegis command center reviewing overnight security reports. Her name appeared on my private line, and when I answered, she did not bother with pleasantries.
"Cyprian, you need to go back to Apex."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I informed her that I was finished wasting time on incompetent humans who could not handle my anatomy, and she cut me off before I could finish the sentence.
"They have a new candidate. Someone different."
Different. The word hung in the air between us, weighted with implications I did not want to examine. My voice came out flat and cold when I asked what "different" meant, because I was not interested in another failure.
"She has a particular skill set," Dr. Halverson said carefully, choosing her words with the precision of someone navigating aminefield. "The clinic coordinator screened her personally. She has experience with high-intensity bodywork, and she is not intimidated easily."
The calcification in my shoulder ground audibly as I shifted in my chair, and I felt the familiar wave of helpless rage wash over me—another therapist, another failure, another reminder that my body was betraying me and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I informed her that I did not care.
"You will care when you are fully petrified and I have to hospitalize you." Her voice went hard in a way I had rarely heard from her, the professional veneer cracking to reveal genuine concern underneath.
I told her that would not happen, even as I knew it was a lie.
"It will," she said quietly, and the shift in her tone made something tighten in my chest. "And when it does, I will have you sedated and placed in a medical suspension chamber until we can find a way to reverse the calcification. You will be immobilized, conscious, trapped inside your own body—aware of everything but unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but wait for the stone to crack or for death to finally claim you. Is that what you want?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. I stared at the security feeds, at the empire I had built over centuries of discipline and sacrifice, and I felt the weight of my own mortality pressing down on me like a physical force.
"Go to the appointment." Her voice softened, but the steel underneath remained. "One session. If this therapist fails, I will stop pushing. But if you do not go, I will invoke my authority as your corporate physician and have you forcibly hospitalized. Do you understand?"
I understood.
I agreed to one session—one final attempt before I accepted the inevitable.
The Obsidian Aegis command center is silent except for the low hum of the holographic displays.
I sit in the reinforced chair, staring at the security feeds, and I feel the weight of everything I have built pressing down on me. This room is the heart of it all—obsidian black walls seamless and polished, holographic interfaces suspended in mid-air displaying real-time data from every contract, every vault, every high-security installation under my protection. The air is cool, climate-controlled to the exact temperature that keeps the servers running at optimal efficiency. I have spent decades building this empire, sacrificed everything to create something that would outlast me, and now my body is failing me when I need it most.
The eastern perimeter feed flickers. Motion detected. I lean forward, examining the alert with clinical precision. The movement pattern is consistent with a supply delivery vehicle—until I look closer. The biochemical sensors register unusual readings. Trace compounds in the air intake vents. Unfamiliar chemical signatures. Nothing dangerous yet. Nothing that triggers immediate alarm protocols. But unusual enough to warrant investigation.
I cross-reference the chemical profile against known industrial compounds. The results are concerning. Petrochemical derivatives. Crystalline lattice accelerators. Thermal catalysts. The kind of equipment used in advanced materials research—or weaponization.
I flag the alert and route it to Kael Thorne, my lead intelligence operative. If Sentinel Dynamics is experimenting with specialized compounds near my perimeter, I need to know why. If they are purchasing equipment that could be weaponized against non-human physiology, I need to know immediately.
The thought settles in my chest like a stone. Sentinel Dynamics has been circling Obsidian Aegis for months,attempting to poach contracts, undercut pricing, leverage political connections to erode my client base. But if they are moving into experimental weaponization—if they are developing compounds specifically designed to target supernatural physiology—then the threat profile shifts significantly.
I make a note:Investigate Sentinel Dynamics supply chain activities. Prioritize petrochemical compound analysis. Assess potential weaponization applications.
I flag it as high-priority. Everything is high-priority when your competitors are developing weapons that could exterminate your entire species.
I return my attention to the primary feeds.
I stand slowly, deliberately. My left shoulder grinds again, the calcification spreading down my arm in waves I can no longer ignore. I can feel the stiffness in my elbow, the tightness in my wrist, the way my left wing refuses to extend fully. The spurs at the wing joints vibrate with tension, the muscles straining against the petrification that threatens to lock me in place permanently.
I walk toward the exit, each step measured and controlled, rationing the energy required to move my massive body—four hundred pounds of slate-gray stone and muscle, and every ounce of it is fighting against me.
The private underground garage is empty when I arrive. I walk past rows of reinforced vehicles—armored transports, surveillance drones, tactical response units—until I reach my vehicle at the far end. A sleek, black, heavily modified sedan with reinforced suspension designed to handle my weight. I open the door and lower myself into the driver's seat. The seat groans under the pressure. The suspension adjusts automatically.
I start the engine.
The drive to Apex Wellness takes thirty minutes through empty city streets. The industrial district is dark, lit only by theoccasional streetlight and the glow of distant high-rises. I pass warehouses, shipping depots, abandoned factories. The city feels hollow, lifeless—a mirror of how I feel inside.
