WORLD OF FICTION (WOF)

Dorian’s arm began disappearing again before the medic touched him.

The grey crossed his elbow in a thin tide. Skin lost its pores. The dark hairs along his forearm flattened into pale marks, then vanished altogether.

"Frame," the medic said.

Two assistants wheeled a metal arch over the treatment cot. Rings descended around Dorian’s shoulder, elbow, wrist, and fingers.

He tried to pull away.

Mira put her good hand against his chest.

"Stay down."

"I am down."

"Stay there better."

The ring around his elbow flashed red.

A line of grey appeared above it.

The lead medic’s face tightened. "It’s using the joint as a continuation point."

"Meaning?" Elias asked.

"Meaning it hasn’t decided the forearm ends at the forearm."

Dorian looked at the medic. "Can you stop it?"

"We can try."

"Then stop narrating."

The emergency ward had been built for injuries that normal rooms could not survive. The floor was divided into removable stone plates. Brass braces ran through the walls. Nothing inside had a sharp corner except the instruments.

One of those instruments faded when the medic brought it near Dorian’s hand.

Its silver tip turned transparent, followed by half the handle.

The medic dropped it into a black disposal tray.

The tray lost one side.

"Keep all active Ink away from the grey tissue," she said. "Physical tools only."

Dorian lifted his damaged hand.

Three fingers curled late. The smallest did not move.

"Light-blade," the medic said.

He stared at her.

"Attempt one."

Dorian’s jaw flexed.

White light gathered above his palm.

It formed half a hilt.

The weapon bent toward his wrist, thinned, and broke into sparks.

The grey advanced another line above the elbow.

"Stop," Mira said.

"I did stop."

"You tried again."

"I was instructed."

The medic removed a leather strap from a cabinet. It carried no script, seal, or metal buckle. She tied Dorian’s damaged wrist to the cot.

His arm jerked against it.

"I didn’t move that."

"We saw."

His fingers closed into a blade grip.

Nothing appeared inside them.

The hand opened.

Closed again.

Dorian watched it with open disgust. "Make that stop."

"We need to know what it is first."

Toby stood near the foot of the cot without his coat. Frost had stiffened one sleeve, so he had abandoned it in the corridor. He had been talking since they arrived. Directions. Bad questions. Complaints about the ward’s lighting.

Now he was silent.

Dorian noticed.

"Say something useless."

Toby rubbed his mouth. "Your hair looks terrible."

"Better."

The lead medic positioned Dorian’s left arm beside the damaged one.

"We’re going to map the intact limb and impose its ending point onto the right."

"You’re copying one arm over the other?"

"Only the boundary."

"I use them differently."

"I know."

"You don’t."

The medic met his stare. "Then tell me before we begin."

Dorian flexed his left hand.

"Sword forms there when I need reach. Right hand is faster close in. I change grip when someone watches my shoulder instead of the blade."

The medic adjusted three physical dials.

"Anything else?"

"He drops his elbow before the reverse cut," Mira said.

Dorian turned his head. "I do not."

"You did it six times in the village."

"I was injured."

"You did it before the injury."

He looked away.

The medic placed a charcoal rod between the fingers of his left hand.

"Hold this loosely. Whatever the left does, the frame will ask the right to mirror."

"What happens if the right can’t?"

"We find out."

"Excellent hospital."

The rings began turning.

No Ink shone through them. Tiny steel pins dragged across paper strips, recording Dorian’s physical outline through pressure and movement.

His left fingers closed around the charcoal.

The grey hand copied them.

A second late.

The little finger remained straight.

"Again," the medic said.

Dorian opened his left hand.

The right followed.

Faster this time.

The grey stopped spreading.

Everyone in the room saw it.

Nobody relaxed.

"Again."

The left hand closed.

The right copied.

The black line at Dorian’s elbow sharpened into a fixed border.

Then his right hand twisted into a sword grip without instruction.

The frame screamed.

One of the wrist pins snapped.

A thin white cut opened across the ceiling.

It had no blade behind it.

The stone above Elias split from wall to wall.

"Down!" Mira shouted.

A ceiling plate dropped.

Elias threw himself aside. It smashed through the place where he had been standing, struck the floor, and broke into three slabs.

Dorian’s hand remained closed.

Another invisible cut opened across the treatment frame.

The wrist ring fell in half.

"It’s remembering the weapon without producing it," the medic said. "Restrain the fingers."

Two assistants rushed forward.

The grey hand slashed again.

No light appeared, but the air separated.

A brass wall brace snapped and spun across the room. Toby caught Dorian’s left wrist before the charcoal could fall.

"Look at me."

Dorian did not.

"Dorian."

"What?"

"Name five things in the room that you hate."

"This treatment."

"One."

"The restraints."

"Two."

"Your face."

"Predictable. Three."

"The writer."

Elias flinched.

Dorian continued.

"The medic’s voice. That ceiling. The fact that this is working."

His left hand remained open as he spoke.

The right hand fought to close.

Toby forced the charcoal across Dorian’s palm.

"Keep talking."

"I’ve reached five."

"Complain with ambition."

The right fingers trembled.

Mira took the broken wrist ring and pressed its plain metal edge across Dorian’s palm. His hand pushed against it.

"Don’t let the grip complete," the medic said. "The movement is producing a residual cut."

Dorian’s face had gone white.

"I’m not doing it."

"Then fight it."

"I am."

The grey little finger bent.

The invisible blade struck downward.

Mira shifted the ring into its path.

The metal split.

The force continued into the cot, cutting through the mattress beneath Dorian’s arm.

Dorian pulled his left hand open so hard the charcoal snapped.

The right hand opened with it.

The room stopped breaking.

The lead medic reached beneath the cot and engaged the elbow ring manually. Four steel teeth drove into the stone on either side of Dorian’s arm.

The frame locked.

The advancing grey struck the boundary at his elbow.

It moved no farther.

Dorian lay rigid, breathing through his nose.

The medic waited thirty seconds.

Then a minute.

The grey held.

"Spread arrested," she said.

"Reversed?" Elias asked.

"No."

Dorian looked at his arm.

The grey remained from fingertips to below the elbow. Its surface had his shape and none of his warmth.

He pressed his damaged thumb against the cot.

"Can you feel that?" Mira asked.

"No."

"Move the thumb."

It moved after a pause.

"Little finger."

Nothing.

Dorian watched it.

"Again," Mira said.

"I heard you."

The finger twitched but did not bend.

The medic removed the shoulder ring. "Gross movement may improve. Sensation is unlikely to return soon. Fine control is uncertain."

"My blade?"

"Do not summon it with that hand."

"That wasn’t the question."

"Then no. Not safely."

His grey fingers closed into the empty grip again.

The medic pushed them open.

"The movement may continue on its own. Especially under stress or during sleep."

"Can the spread restart?"

"We don’t know."

Dorian laughed once.

Nobody joined him.

The ward door opened.

A tall woman in black-and-silver stepped through with two security officers behind her. Her hair was close-cropped, her posture straight, and her expression gave the room nothing.

She looked at the broken ceiling, the split treatment frame, Elias, Priya’s darkened arms, and Dorian’s grey forearm.

"Report," she said.

Priya answered from the doorway.

"After he’s stable."

The woman’s eyes moved to her.

"He is."

Dorian lifted his numb hand.

It closed around a weapon that was not there.

The woman watched the involuntary motion.

"Field status suspended," she said.

Dorian’s hand opened.

His face did not.