Murin left an hour later, still grinning like an idiot. "I'll be back tomorrow morning," he said. "Try not to accidentally admit to any more crimes while I'm gone."

  "Get out."

  The room was quiet except for the distant beeping of monitors in other rooms and the occasional shuffle of nurses in the hallway. The blue tint over everything made it feel like I was underwater. I stared at the ceiling again. The text was still there.

  So this is real. Or I've completely lost my mind. Either way, I need to figure out what the hell this thing is. I tried to focus on the text, willing it to do something. Nothing happened. How do I... interact with this?

  I thought about touching it, but my arms were too heavy to lift. Besides, the text wasn't physically there. It was like it existed in some layer between my vision and reality. Maybe I just... think at it?

  I focused on the words System Status and thought, Show me more. The text flickered and expanded.

  I read it twice. So... it's not a cheat code. It's a... learning tool?

  That was almost disappointing. I'd half-expected some kind of miracle solution, like I'd suddenly know everything about medicine and become the world's greatest doctor overnight. But no.It was just a fancy study guide. Still, the phrase "accelerate medical learning through immersive observation" caught my attention.

  What does that even mean? I focused on Basic Observation and thought, Activate. The text shifted.

  That means if I look at something medical, it'll... explain it to me?

  I glanced around the room. There wasn't much to observe. A monitor beside the bed showing my vitals. An IV drip attached to my arm. So, I focused on the IV drip. Immediately, text appeared beside it, glowing faintly in my vision.

  I blinked. Wait. I just gained experience for looking at something? I looked at the monitor beside my bed.

  I felt a strange sense of satisfaction reading this. It wasn't new information. I'd memorized all of this for exams but seeing it applied to real data, in real-time, made it feel different. I looked at the blood pressure cuff on the wall and gained +1 XP

  I couldn't help but smile a little.But then I noticed at the bottom of my vision, a small bar had appeared.

  So I need to observe 97 more things to reach Level 2? Not bad for lying in bed.

  I kept going, looking at everything in the room. The call button. The oxygen outlet on the wall. The sharps disposal container. The hand sanitizer dispenser. Each time, the system provided a short explanation. Each time, I gained +1 XP.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  By the time I'd observed everything in the room, I was at 15 / 100 XP. But I was also exhausted. My head throbbed, my whole body ached. The blue tint over everything was starting to give me a headache.

  I closed my eyes and let out a long breath. Maybe I won't be such a disaster after all. The text in my vision faded slightly, and a new message appeared.

  Even the system is telling me to go to bed.

  I closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I'd figure out what this thing could really do.

  Next Morning

  I woke to voices outside my door. "...should be fine to go home today... " "...just monitor for any changes..." "...his mother is on the way..."

  My mother? Oh no. The door opened. Murin walked in first, followed by Akki limping behind him with one hand wrapped in thick bandages.

  "Look who's alive," Akki said, grinning. "Barely," I muttered, sitting up slowly. "How's your hand?"

  "Eight stitches. They said I'm lucky the knife didn't hit a tendon." He held up the bandaged hand. "Might have a cool scar though."

  Text appeared above his hand before I could stop it.

  I blinked and looked away quickly. This thing just... activates automatically now?

  "You okay?" Murin asked, sitting in the chair beside the bed. "You look like you're staring at something."

  "I'm fine. Just... headache."

  "The neurologist said you can go home today," Murin said. "Your mom's on her way."

  "Great," I said flatly. Because nothing says 'recovery' like your mother finding out you got hit by a scooter chasing a phone thief.

  Akki sat on the edge of the bed, wincing slightly. "So what's the verdict? Permanent brain damage? Lifelong Viagra vision?"

  "Shut up."

  "I'm just saying, if you're going to have a side effect, at least make it a useful one. Like super strength or—"

  "Akki."

  "—or X-ray vision. That would be helpful in anatomy—"

  "AKKI."

  He grinned. "Fine, fine. But seriously, you good?"

  "Yeah. I think so."

  Murin pulled out his phone. "Your mom's about 20 minutes away. She sounded... worried."

  "Worried" was probably an understatement. My mother had a talent for turning worry into a full-scale interrogation.

  A nurse entered with a clipboard. "Good morning, Ashrahan. How are you feeling?"

  "Better."

  "Any nausea? Dizziness? Blurred vision?"

  "No."

  "Good. I'm going to take your vitals one more time before discharge." She pulled out a thermometer and placed it under my tongue.

  She wrapped the BP cuff around my arm. I watched her hands as she worked. She pumped the bulb, released the valve slowly, listened carefully through the stethoscope.

  "118 over 76. Perfect." She unwrapped the cuff and clipped a pulse oximeter to my finger. I looked at it and gained +1XP, again.

  "97%. All good." She smiled. "The doctor will be in shortly to sign your discharge papers. Make sure you rest at home, no strenuous activity for at least a week."

  "Got it."

  She left. Murin stood and walked to the window. "At least you're okay. When I saw you lying there with blood everywhere, I thought—" He stopped, his voice tight.

  "I'm fine," I said quickly. "Really. Just a bump on the head."

  The door opened again. The neurologist from yesterday walked in, same calm expression, same clipboard.

  "Good morning, Ashrahan. How are you feeling today?"

  "Better, sir."

  "Good. I reviewed your test results. No fractures, no intracranial bleeding. The toxicology screen came back clean... " He glanced at me pointedly. "...as expected."

  My face burned. Murin coughed to hide a laugh. "The blue-tinted vision is unusual, but given the mechanism of injury and your current neurological status, I'm comfortable discharging you with outpatient follow-up."

  He handed me a sheet of paper. "Concussion care instructions. Rest, avoid screens as much as possible, no driving, no alcohol. If you experience worsening headaches, vomiting, confusion, or seizures, come back immediately. Your vision should normalize within 24 to 48 hours. If it doesn't, we'll schedule an MRI." He signed the discharge papers. "You're free to go once your mother arrives."

  "Understood. Thank you, sir."

  He nodded and left. Akki grinned. "So, no screens. Guess you'll have to actually study from books like a caveman."

  "Or I could just not study at all. It's vacation."

  "Fair."

  Twenty minutes later, the door burst open. My mother swept in like a hurricane, her face a mix of worry, relief, and barely suppressed fury.

  "ASHRAHAN!"

  Oh no. She rushed to the bed and grabbed my face, turning it left and right, inspecting me like a broken appliance. "Are you okay? What happened? Why didn't you call me immediately? I had to hear from Murin's mother that you were in the hospital."

  "Mom, I'm fine."

  "Fine? FINE? You got hit by a scooter!"

  "It was just a small—"

  "And what were you doing chasing a thief? Are you insane? You could've been killed!"

  "I wasn't thinking—"

  "Clearly!" She turned to Murin. "And you! Why didn't you stop him?"

  Murin looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. "I—uh—it happened too fast—"

  "Too fast," she repeated, shaking her head. She turned back to me. "Get dressed. We're going home. Now."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Akki and Murin exchanged glances and quietly slipped out of the room, leaving me alone with the Hurricane.

  30 Minutes Later,

  I sat in the passenger seat of my mother's car, dressed in the clothes Murin had brought from the hostel—wrinkled shirt, jeans that smelled faintly of old pizza.

  My mother drove in silence for the first ten minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel, jaw tight. Finally, she spoke. "You're lucky, you know that?"

  "I know, Mom."

  "Do you?" She glanced at me, eyes sharp. "Because it doesn't seem like you understand how serious this was."

  I didn't answer. She sighed. "I know you were trying to help your friend. And I'm proud of that. But you can't just throw yourself into danger without thinking."

  "I wasn't thinking."

  "Exactly." She turned onto our street. "From now on, you think first. Understand?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The car pulled into the driveway. Finally home. I stared at the house where I'd grown up in, the same faded paint, the same crooked mailbox. My mother turned off the engine and looked at me. "Go inside. I'll make you something to eat."

  I nodded and got out of the car and walked to the front door. Inside, everything looked the same. I looked at the family photos on the wall—me as a kid, gap-toothed and grinning, holding a toy stethoscope.

  I sank onto the couch and closed my eyes. Ding. A new message appeared.

  Finally, Some peace and quiet.

  But even as I thought it, I knew this wasn't over. Whatever this system was, whatever it wanted from me—it wasn't going away. And deep down, beneath the exhaustion and confusion, a small part of me didn't want it to.

  Because for the first time since I'd started med school, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I had a chance to actually get better.