The clinic felt like a tomb, its sterile silence a stark contrast to the storm raging in my mind. Dr. Rousseau worked with a quiet, detached efficiency that was both comforting and unnerving. Leo, to his credit, barely flinched as the needle pierced his skin, his curiosity overriding his fear. He was more interested in the colorful bandage the doctor offered him afterward. Maya, on the other hand, was a wreck. She watched the entire procedure with the wide-eyed terror of a witnessing a sacrifice, her body taut, her breath held captive in her lungs.
When it was over, Dr. Rousseau placed the vial of Leo's blood in a small, refrigerated container, his movements precise and deliberate. "The results will be ready in twenty-four hours," he said, his voice a calm, professional murmur. "They will be sent directly to Mr. Damien. As per his instructions."
