William Dearborn woke to the insistent wail of his alarm clock, a thrift-store relic that sounded like a goat gargling gravel through a busted speaker. He groaned, slapping it silent with a heavy hand, the noise still echoing in his skull as he rolled out of bed. His bare feet hit the chipped linoleum of his dingy LA apartment, cold seeping into his toes, a rude jolt to start another gray day. Dawn crept through the blinds, casting a dull, sickly glow over the wreckage of his life: a battered guitar propped against the wall, its strings dull with neglect; stacks of unread medical journals teetering on a milk crate, yellowing at the edges; a half-empty bottle of cheap bourbon on the nightstand, its label peeling, a promise he kept meaning to keep or ditch. At twenty-nine, he’d figured he’d have more than this—a cramped studio in a city that chewed up dreamers and spat out cynics—but hope was a luxury he’d traded for bitter reality years ago.

  He shuffled to the bathroom, the floor creaking under his weight, and splashed lukewarm water on his face from a sink that rattled with every turn of the faucet. The mirror threw back a tired reflection—sharp blue eyes shadowed by dark circles, a scruffy jaw he hadn’t shaved in days, dark hair a mess of tangles. He muttered, leaning close, breath fogging the glass, “Another day in paradise, huh? Bet you’re thrilled, champ.”

  His voice dripped sarcasm, thick enough to choke on, a habit honed by too many nights stitching up junkies and dodging landlords. His hippie parents—God rest their tie-dyed souls—would’ve urged him to find the beauty in it, to breathe in peace and love. They’d been good people, all flowers and folk songs, preaching kindness from a VW van ’til cancer took ’em both before he hit med school. But William had seen too much—overdoses clogging the ER, kids bleeding out from gang wars, rich pricks whining about migraines while the world burned. He was sick of it, sick of the liars, the cheats, the endless grind of a city that didn’t give a damn.

  He dressed in a hurry—faded jeans that hung loose, a wrinkled button-up he didn’t bother ironing, and a leather jacket older than his residency, its seams fraying but stubborn. He grabbed his guitar case and briefcase, the former a lifeline to sanity, the latter a chain to duty. Humming a riff from some half-forgotten punk song—Dead Kennedys, “Holiday in Cambodia,” jagged and raw—he locked the door, the bolt scraping like a tired sigh, and trudged downtown, the LA air heavy with exhaust, salt, and the faint rot of the Pacific.

  The city sprawled around him like a drunk passed out in an alley, all concrete and chaos. Horns blared from gridlocked traffic—some asshole in a BMW leaning on his klaxon like it’d teleport him through the snarl—while sirens wailed a constant dirge, dopplering past as cop cars chased shadows. The sidewalks heaved with the usual crowd—suits rushing to nowhere, street vendors hawking greasy tacos from carts that stank of old oil and desperation, their yells cutting through the din: “Tacos, dos por cinco! Fresh, hot, c’mon!” Homeless guys muttered at ghosts only they could see, one rattling a cup of coins like a broken maraca, his voice a rasp, “Spare change, man, c’mon, just a dime.” William kept his head down, weaving through with the ease of a man who’d stopped caring who he bumped into, his boots scuffing the cracked pavement littered with cigarette butts and gum wads older than he was. He’d been a doctor long enough to know LA didn’t save anyone—it ground you down until you broke or went numb. He’d picked numb years ago, a shield against the shitshow.

  The hospital squatted on a skid-row corner, a brick hulk patched with desperation and budget cuts, its windows grimy with years of smog. He shoved through the double doors, the stench of bleach and despair hitting him like a fist, a familiar punch he barely flinched at anymore. Nurse Lila, a short brunette with a tired smile and a clipboard, looked up from the intake desk, “Morning, Doc! You’re almost early—new record?”

  He flashed a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes, leaning on the counter. “Hey, Lila. Anyone croak yet, or are we still playin’ pretend this place works?”

  She laughed, a sound too bright for the fluorescent gloom, her pen tapping the clipboard. “Give it an hour, Will. Chaos’ll find you—always does.”

  He nodded to Dr. Voss, a grizzled old bastard who grunted back from behind a chart, his white coat stained with coffee or worse, and waved at Eddie, the janitor, a quiet guy who seemed to mop the same damn spot eternally, his mop slapping the tiles with a rhythmic thud. The staff was a revolving door of burnouts and optimists—William didn’t bother learning names anymore. He’d stopped believing in heroes—medical or otherwise—when his first patient flatlined under his hands, a junkie kid who’d begged for one more chance he never got.

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  At the hall’s end, his secretary, Ms. Bloom, perched behind her desk, blonde hair pinned up in a messy bun that somehow looked deliberate, eyes too sharp for this dump. She was young—twenty-four, maybe—pretty in a way that didn’t fit a place smelling of death and Lysol, her blouse crisp despite the heat, a puzzle he hadn’t cracked. She smirked as he approached, tapping a pen against her lips, red lipstick smudged just enough to notice, “Well, look at you, Dr. Dearborn—almost on time. Hell freeze over, or did you just miss me?”

  He leaned on the desk, grinning despite himself, a rare crack in his cynicism. “Miracles happen, Bloom. Had a dream you were dancin’ outta here on a rainbow—woke up disappointed you’re still slummin’ it with us.”

  She tilted her head, playful, her voice a teasing lilt, “Oh, I’d need a bigger rainbow than you’ve got, Doc. What’s your excuse—guitar gig fall through, or just couldn’t resist my coffee?”

  “Coffee’s the only honest thing in this joint,” he shot back, nodding at the mug on his desk. “You gonna keep dazzlin’ this shithole, or finally bail for somethin’ that doesn’t suck the soul outta ya?”

  She leaned forward, elbows on the desk, smirking wider, “Only if you’re my ticket out, Will—think you can handle me? Coffee’s black, like your heart. Made it fresh, so don’t waste it—wouldn’t want to break my streak.”

  “Flirt,” he said, a real chuckle slipping out, warm for a moment as he straightened. “Keep that up, and I might start believin’ in miracles again.”

  She laughed, tossing her pen at him—he caught it midair, twirling it like a guitarist’s pick—and for a fleeting second, the hospital’s hum faded, the grind lifting. “You’re hopeless,” she called as he tipped an imaginary hat and slipped into his office, the door clicking shut behind him, muffling the chaos outside.

  His office was a coffin with delusions—a scarred desk piled with patient files, a creaky chair squealing like a dying rat, a filing cabinet that hadn’t closed since the ’90s, its drawers jammed with ghosts of cases past. He dropped his briefcase, propped the guitar case against the wall, and sank into the seat with a sigh that carried years of exhaustion, the springs groaning under him. The coffee steamed in a chipped mug—Bloom’s doing, as always—and he took a sip, savoring the bitterness, the one honest thing in this world, “Least you don’t lie to me,” he muttered to the mug, a faint smirk tugging his lip.

  He flipped open his laptop, the screen flickering to life with a groan like it resented waking up too. Patient files blinked up—a gangbanger with a stab wound, oozing and surly; a junkie with track marks and a death wish, begging for pills; some yuppie whining about “stress” like it was terminal, probably just late on his yacht payment. Same crap, different day. He started typing, fingers clacking, when a faint tremor buzzed through the room—subtle, like a truck rumbling past, but it didn’t fade. The mug jittered, sloshing coffee onto a stack of charts, brown stains spreading like blood.

  William frowned, glancing around, hands pausing mid-keystroke, “What the hell? Building settlin’ or somethin’?”

  The vibration deepened, a low hum rattling his teeth, setting his nerves on edge. Pens rolled off the desk, pinging on the floor, papers rustling like startled birds. He stood, bracing himself as the shaking worsened, the chair skittering behind him, the filing cabinet rattling like it might burst.

  “Earthquake? Now? You gotta be kiddin’ me—”

  His words cut off as the impossible hit—the mug floated up, hovering like a cheap magic trick, wobbling an inch above the desk. Papers lifted, fluttering like pigeons taking flight, his briefcase bobbed, spinning lazily in midair. William’s jaw dropped, a curse dying on his lips as he staggered back, boots slipping on the shifting floor.

  His feet left the floor—he yelped, arms windmilling as he rose, weightless and flailing, his stomach lurching like a bad drop on a rollercoaster, “What the fuck?! Somebody get me down—this ain’t funny!”

  The room turned carnival-ride nightmare—chair, guitar case, laptop, all drifting upward in a slow, impossible dance. Light pulsed from nowhere, faint at first, then blinding, blooming in the center of the office—a searing orb crackling like static, alive, making his skin prickle, his hair stand on end. He clawed at the air, heart slamming against his ribs, voice hoarse, “Bloom! Voss! Anybody! Help me, damn it!”

  The walls swallowed his shouts, trapping them in this madness. Objects spun faster—a pen zipped past his ear, the guitar case thumped the ceiling with a hollow crack, the laptop screen flickered wildly. The light swelled, throbbing like a heartbeat, tugging at him—not just his body, but something deeper, a pull he couldn’t name, raw and primal.

  A sound like a gunshot ripped through—a bubble of shimmering energy exploded outward, swallowing everything—desk, walls, him—in a flickering, iridescent dome. For a heartbeat, he saw the hallway beyond: Bloom turning, startled, her coffee mug slipping from her hand, shattering on the tiles; Voss peering over his chart, scowling; Eddie’s mop clattering as he ducked. Then nothing—the bubble snapped inward, crushing the air from his lungs, the light devouring it all—office, hospital, him.

  And then it was gone.