Chapter 34: The Final Treatment
The next morning, Ethan unusually left the apartment building together with Sheldon and Leonard.
Ever since Leslie departed the previous evening, Sheldon had been relentlessly complaining about her 'fundamental inconsideration'—
She had corrected an equation on his whiteboard, and it absolutely shattered his composure.
Sheldon griped extensively at Ethan for a solid ten minutes and showed zero signs of stopping.
Ethan's temples throbbed painfully; finally he interjected, "Sheldon, I completely understand your feelings. Right now it's like you attempted suicide and someone forcibly saved you—absolutely miserable."
"What?" Sheldon stopped abruptly. "First, I would categorically never commit suicide. Second, if I hypothetically did choose to, I would logically select a location law enforcement couldn't reach in time to intervene."
"Okay, fine." Ethan raised his hands defensively. "Let's say it isn't you specifically. If some random person were about to jump off a building and the LAPD arrived, deep down would they genuinely want to be saved or prefer the officers just shoot them?"
Sheldon frowned thoughtfully. "...I suppose statistically most individuals would prefer being saved?"
"Exactly."
"So what's your point?" Sheldon said with obvious confusion. "You're suggesting Leslie represents 'law enforcement'? She violated my explicit preferences but performed something objectively beneficial for me?"
"Precisely."
Sheldon pondered for two seconds. "Still fundamentally inconsiderate behavior."
"Cops in America never really are considerate," Ethan concluded with finality.
Having to provide emotional counseling at seven in the morning—absolutely unreal. Ethan gathered his belongings to leave.
Leonard, who'd stepped out early, sounded increasingly frantic from the hallway:
"Sheldon! SHELDON!!! We seriously need to leave—right now!!!"
Sheldon and Ethan stepped out of the apartment together.
While methodically locking the door Sheldon observed, "Leonard, for someone who just engaged in sexual intercourse you're remarkably tense and anxious."
Penny stood in the corridor holding a laundry basket; she'd apparently been chatting casually with Leonard.
Penny: "Alright, we'll definitely catch up later, but I'm genuinely happy for you, Leonard.
Bye, guys!"
"Thanks, Penny."
"See you later~"
The instant Penny disappeared into her apartment, Leonard immediately lapsed into obsessive analytical mode. "What exactly did she mean by 'genuinely happy for you'? Is that positive? Or was that secretly..."
Why can't we have one peaceful morning? Ethan internally regretted leaving the apartment with these two neurotic physicists.
"Ethan?" Leonard looked at him desperately like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. "What's your professional psychological assessment?"
"I think I should seriously start charging consultation fees." Ethan rubbed his aching temples. "Leonard, hypothetically if Penny and I had spent last night together having sex, would you be happy for us?"
"Absolutely not!"
"Why not? Penny and I are both your close friends; shouldn't you logically be happy for both of us achieving mutual satisfaction?"
"I—I should be happy theoretically...but I genuinely like her romantically! If I witnessed you two together—ughhh..."
Three seconds of silence elapsed before Leonard asked again, "So when she explicitly said she was 'happy,' was that authentic emotion or passive-aggressive subtext?"
"I've got patients waiting at the clinic." Ethan jogged quickly down the stairs, desperately fleeing this psychological headache of a morning.
Ethan worked busily at the Rayne Clinic throughout the morning; at noon he grabbed lunch from a nearby deli and returned.
Compared with the chaotic morning rush, the clinic at two o'clock in the afternoon felt almost eerily desolate.
Afternoon sunlight slanted between the Brooklyn buildings, casting a faint golden patch across the Rayne Clinic sign.
Ethan leaned back comfortably in his office chair. Mary had called earlier: her planned afternoon shift was canceled; she'd come work the evening hours instead.
Ethan didn't particularly mind. In fact, the clinic experienced considerably heavier evening foot traffic—most working-class people maintained day jobs and only had available time at night, especially the uninsured lower-income population the clinic primarily served.
So if Mary preferred she could independently run the evening shift. Ethan occasionally stayed late as well, though typically he went home around sunset.
The quiet solitude made him increasingly drowsy. Ethan gazed absently at the empty waiting area; fatigue gradually crept in. He suddenly found himself missing Max's cupcakes—those soft, sweet treats that could perfectly fill this dull afternoon lull.
"Ding—" the door chime rang. A familiar figure stepped inside—John Kramer.
He still wore that dark charcoal trench coat, but his stride was noticeably steady, his complexion considerably healthier, the ashen pallor beneath his eyes almost completely vanished.
The bandage at the back of his skull remained, yet he projected genuine vitality, as if the dressing were merely decorative.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Rayne," he said calmly.
"Mr. Kramer." Ethan stood and studied him carefully. "You look remarkably well."
"The hospital oncologists expressed identical sentiments." John set a thick medical folder before him. "Tumor markers down significantly, surgical margins clearer, metastatic spread actively receding."
"Their official conclusion is probable initial misdiagnosis. After comprehensive follow-up imaging they'll determine whether to proceed with surgical resection or continue conservative management."
John Kramer's tone carried unmistakable mockery: "They're now projecting that with surgical intervention I could survive at least five additional years."
Ethan carefully reviewed the MRI scans. Since the previous treatment session the tumor shadow had once again demonstrably "retreated"; the cancer had regressed by at least six months' progression, though faint traces of shadow energy remained visible.
"Judging by the previous two treatment responses," he assessed professionally, "one final session should completely eliminate it."
"That's precisely my assessment as well." John nodded with satisfaction. He hung his coat methodically on the rack and surveyed the compact treatment room: the pristine surgical lamp, the sterile stainless examination table, and the clinic slogan visible outside—"Healing Beyond Conventional Medicine."
He smiled faintly. "I'm genuinely starting to believe your signage isn't merely marketing rhetoric."
"Please lie down on the table." Ethan closed the medical folder, pulled on sterile gloves, and systematically checked respiratory rate and cardiac rhythm.
"The methodology remains identical to previous sessions, except this time we'll extend the duration considerably.
So, John, you'll need to remain at the clinic for several hours."
The protocol had proven effective; repeating the established treatment approach was optimal.
"No problem whatsoever." John lay quietly on the examination table, gaze fixed calmly on the overhead surgical lamp.
Ethan stood beside the table, palms hovering above John's head. The spell sequence was identical; the only modification was that after each casting he withdrew his hands, paused, and allowed his energy reserves to stabilize.
Since he now understood that depleting all Holy Light simultaneously carried severe psychological backlash, he adopted a measured approach.
Maybe he'd been genuinely stupid before, constantly obsessing that he lacked sufficient mana—whether he possessed adequate reserves or not, there was absolutely no tactical necessity to blow every cooldown simultaneously; this wasn't a mythic raid speed-kill attempt.
Spacing the spell casts worked beautifully: ten-minute intervals between applications, and by the conclusion Ethan felt neither perspiration nor physical exhaustion.
"Treatment complete," he announced.
John opened his eyes, sat upright slowly, gently rotated his neck experimentally, and carefully registered the neurological feedback and auditory sensations inside his skull.
"Well?" Ethan asked expectantly.
"It's like the constant static interference in my brain has finally been permanently switched off," John answered with obvious relief.
His gaze was unusually bright and clear. "No residual pain, no intracranial pressure—even the persistent visual shadows at my peripheral vision have completely disappeared. Dr. Rayne, I genuinely believe this time it's comprehensive."
Ethan nodded cautiously, unwilling to make premature declarations. "I still strongly recommend comprehensive follow-up imaging. John, let the MRI scans provide the definitive verdict."
"Of course. I understand completely."
After the treatment session concluded, John Kramer slowly draped his trench coat deliberately over his shoulders.
He rolled his stiff shoulders experimentally, straightening his posture.
This final treatment had left him feeling even lighter than all previous sessions combined; it almost felt as if his entire brain had been surgically reborn.
"Dr. Rayne," he said quietly, studying Ethan intently for several seconds before speaking, "I have some questions I'd like to ask."
"Go ahead."
"From our very first meeting, you knew exactly who I was, didn't you?"
Ethan hesitated momentarily, then answered honestly, "Yes—the Jigsaw Killer from the news coverage."
"I never personally adopted that title. The jigsaw puzzle piece I extract from my subjects represents only symbolic meaning: a visible sign that they're missing a critical component of being human—the fundamental survival instinct."
John Kramer maintained steady eye contact. "Since you knew my identity, why didn't you immediately contact the LAPD?"
"I'm a physician, not law enforcement. As long as you don't directly harm me or people I care about, you're simply my patient."
Ethan's tone remained clinically calm. "I've gathered fragments of information from news reports—about your philosophical work. I don't personally condone your methodology, but I won't pass moral judgment."
"I see." John inclined his head slightly, a flicker of genuine understanding in his eyes.
"Good... Since you know my identity and still chose to treat me medically, let's speak with complete candor."
He leaned forward purposefully, voice low and crystalline:
"During our first encounter, you stated you don't play games—you save lives.
The second time, you claimed you're no moral arbiter, you don't determine who deserves salvation—you only practice medicine."
He paused meaningfully. "Because of that philosophical attitude, I observed you carefully for extended periods."
"You claim you don't make value-based judgments, and superficially it appears accurate—whether treating a petty street thug, a burglar, or an armed shooter fresh from a confrontation with multiple casualties... you never refuse anyone."
John continued methodically, "But you absolutely do choose. You specifically save those who genuinely 'want to live.' Terminal patients who've completely lost their will to survive come seeking only narcotic painkillers—you don't provide them with the intensive treatment protocol you gave me."
Ethan replied carefully, "I assess whether a life can realistically be saved, not whether it's morally worth saving.
The patient's will to survive represents a crucial factor in successful treatment outcomes. If someone no longer wants to live, treating them aggressively would be medically pointless."
"I understand." John seemed to process this. "You replaced 'moral value' with 'statistical probability,' 'ethical judgment' with 'clinical assessment,' but the fundamental essence remains unchanged."
He paused, emotionless, merely stating observable fact:
"You and I... we're both systematically selecting—selecting specifically those individuals who still want to live."
Ethan didn't know how to respond and maintained silence.
"If my game participants possess sufficient will to survive, they'll successfully complete the test and continue living."
Ethan said quietly, "Strictly speaking, you haven't directly killed anyone. You only engineered situations allowing those victims... to kill themselves."
"Every decision was entirely theirs, Dr. Rayne. What I do isn't destroying human beings—it's—"
He tapped his chest deliberately. "Rebirth. Forcing someone to rediscover life's intrinsic value."
Ethan countered calmly, "But your methodology constitutes torture—psychological execution, essentially."
"No." John said firmly, "It's a process of experiential learning. It forces the recognition of life's value directly back into their hands."
Ethan frowned. "Forces?"
"Yes. Why is it only when life hangs in immediate balance that we suddenly realize what genuinely matters?"
John didn't hesitate. "Informing someone they have only months remaining to live fundamentally changes everything.
If I provided you with the precise date of your death, it would completely shatter your worldview.
In that single instant your entire reality would fracture; the way you perceive problems, the way you experience emotions—everything transforms radically."
"Do you know what becomes of those individuals who successfully survive my games?"
"They begin cherishing life intensely.
Cherishing every sunrise;
Cherishing every meal;
Cherishing every beautiful dream.
Their lives are fundamentally relit—not because their physical bodies are healed, but because their souls were forcibly confronted with their own existential worth."
"And numerous sick people aren't merely ill physically—there's something profoundly wrong with their souls—"
"The morbidly obese continue compulsive binge-eating."
"Cirrhosis patients still secretly consume alcohol."
"Lung cancer patients refuse to quit smoking."
"Promiscuous sexual behavior, unprotected intercourse—cure their gonorrhea or syphilis and they're reinfected next month."
He looked directly at Ethan. "Darwinian evolution, survival of the fittest, no longer applies to this planet. Humanity has systematically lost both the will and evolutionary advantage to survive.
Physicians treat bodies; I treat—souls."
Ethan frowned deeply. "You characterize physically crushing someone as 'treating the soul'?"
John spoke slowly and deliberately. "Physical pain represents the 'awakening process'—the path to transcendent enlightenment."
He leaned back in his chair. "You cured my brain tumor: you can resurrect a dying man to full health. That's the genuine miracle of modern medicine.
But you cannot change a person's fundamental attitude toward existence."
John's eyes glinted with conviction. "Sometimes people require forcible confrontation with truth. When life is placed literally on the scales, only then do they understand how they genuinely want to live."
He rose slowly to his feet. "I once believed I wouldn't survive long enough to identify a suitable successor... When I first met you, I thought I had found one.
But you cured me completely. Now I have considerably more time."
"I'd like to invite you to witness—what it looks like when a human life is 'relit.'
You can refuse participation in any aspect, but don't refuse to acknowledge the truth."
Ethan answered with absolute firmness, "I'm sorry, but I categorically refuse."
They maintained intense eye contact for a prolonged moment.
Finally John retrieved his coat methodically and walked toward the exit.
He paused deliberately at the threshold and looked back. "You healed my body, Doctor."
"But I want you to understand—some people's souls you cannot heal through conventional medicine."
He added quietly, "And I will continue my philosophical work."
The door chime rang, as if signaling a final farewell.
Ethan watched John's silhouette disappear from the clinic, turning his disturbing words over repeatedly in his mind.
"Absolute madman."