#Remote Trial Monitoring

[zenovelsworld]

Optimize your clinical research with Zenovel's comprehensive clinical trial monitoring services. We specialize in implementing advanced Risk-based monitoring strategies that not only enhance trial efficiency and ensure impeccable data integrity but also provide robust, proactive oversight, ultimately leading to faster, more compliant, and successful clinical studies from start to finish.

[mysafehaneul]

-Severalty-

Chapter 8 Choi Seungcheol X Reader

MafiaXdoctor AU!

Chapter 1 --- Previously

AN: Sorry for the delay. I went to the beach and almost forgot that I had to upload because I started bingeing The Bear. I am OBSESSED! Thank you so so so much for the responses you all are giving to the story. I read every comment at least thrice a day. Looking forward to more!! ENJOY!!

CHAPTER 8 

This would have been the 6th night in a row where you didn’t go home in the last two weeks, although the world around you remained unchanged. Rocky was going to his daycare, taken care of by his dog walker. Alberta was coming in and going to your apartment every other day, mumbling and grumbling about the contents of the fridge going to waste, the one she puts so much of her hard work and care into, when you barely eat. Promising herself that she won't bother from now on, then showing up with a big bag again on Sunday. 

But here you are burying yourself in work, not allowing a moment to think, although the world is still spinning on its axis, while yours seems to have shifted. Long shifts, early mornings, late nights—you kept moving, kept thinking, kept talking, just to avoid the silence that waited back at home like an uninvited guest. You hardly spoke to anyone outside the hospital, barely acknowledged messages from friends, and actively avoided anything remotely social. The thought of entertaining anyone’s curiosity about your “So what’s new with you, Y/N?" made your skin itch.

Today was no exception. You were on your third round of the morning, clipboard in hand, eyes heavy with sleep you hadn't gotten, and patience worn thin like old thread.

You stepped into Room 302, where Mrs. Carsen, one of your trial patients, sat propped up in bed, her eyes tired but curious. She’d been responding to the new regimen slowly, and every small shift in her bloodwork was being closely monitored. There were four interns trailing behind you, all fresh-faced and eager to impress, but more green than useful.

You softened your tone as you glanced at the patient and gave her a small smile. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Carsen. How are you feeling today?"

“A little better than yesterday; I could barely keep my eyes open. it's been a while since I last slept like that.”

“That's good. Anything else, like are you feeling the same aversion towards food or nausea?”

Before the elderly woman could respond, one of the interns—Erica, if you recalled correctly—spoke over her.

"Trial Case Number 23’s vitals have stabilised overnight. Pulse rate holding, no further febrile spikes."

The words were cold and clinical. Erica didn’t even glance at the patient as she read them out.

Mrs. Carsen frowned. “Case number twenty-three?” she asked gently, her voice frail. "Is that me?"

Erica didn’t look up from her chart. “Yes, ma’am. That’s your ID within the study protocol. You’re being administered the third-tier chemo compound, variant A,” she said in a robotic tone, as if reciting from memory.

You had been flipping through Mrs. Carsen’s file—but that tone made you pause. Your fingers stilled.

You closed the file with a quiet but definitive snap.

Then you turned fully toward the woman in the bed, stepping closer. You crouched slightly to be eye-level with her, your voice warm and deliberate as you explained—clearly, humanly—what her numbers meant, what the next few weeks might look like, and what symptoms she should keep an eye on. You placed your hand gently over hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze, the way you would your own grandmother.

"We’re right here with you, every step of the way," you said quietly, just to her.

Mrs. Carsen’s eyes brimmed slightly with tears, and her lips trembled into a soft smile. 

“Thanks, love. i would just truly appreciate if you’d talk to me not just about me.” You gave her a small nod. “That will be taken care of, Mrs. Carsen; let me know if you have any difficulties.” Standing and walking out, the four interns scramble to keep up behind you.

You stopped in front of the staff elevator, and before pressing the button, turned to face them.

"The person in that room is more than just a case number or a study sample."

Your voice was calm but sharp. Stern, yet level. Although you didn't take names, your eyes were very level at the intern. 

"When interacting with a patient, don't ever talk over them. You’re not doing her a favour by treating her. You’re doing your job. That woman—any patient—entrusts you with their life. Do you understand the weight of that?"

A pause. You looked directly at Erica.

"Your duty is not just to medicate, but to communicate. To help them understand. To be present in a way textbooks never will be. They are not your test subjects; they are your patients. Talk to them, reassure them, and explain things in a way that they understand. They came to us. Learn about your patients beyond their lab results and bed numbers."

They all nodded, slightly stunned.

"Yes, Doctor Y/N," they echoed, almost in unison.

You turned and stepped into the elevator. Just before the doors closed, you added,

"Brian—bring me the full file for Mr. Dominic to my office. Now."

“YES, DOCTOR!” 

The doors slid shut.

Outside, Erica stood frozen for a beat, cheeks pink and jaw tight. She looked ready to cry or snap—maybe both.

Her boyfriend, another intern trailing behind, leaned over and whispered just loud enough:

"She’s been so prickly the last couple of weeks. What’s gotten into her?"

Erica shot him a sideways glance, her voice dry and cool.

"Nothing. Maybe that’s exactly the problem."

On cue, the two shared a low chuckle and walked off, as Erica’s boyfriend tried to lighten the mood. 

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Something was wrong with you; maybe something was bothering you. Therefore, you were in such a sour mood. Jeonghan couldn't exactly diagnose what it was—but one of the signs was visible: you were trying to suppress it, and what's a better way to distract yourself than overworking? But  Jeonghan had been watching you closely for days now—closely enough to know something had shifted. It wasn’t just the way you skipped out on drinks two weeks ago. You’d vanished that night with a mumbled excuse, one even your closest friends hadn’t bought, and since then, you hadn’t quite returned.

There was a tension to you now, not loud but present—like a thread pulled taut beneath your skin. You moved with more purpose, spoke less, and your kindness—once as gentle as gauze—had taken on a clipped edge, especially with the interns. Everyone chalked it up to burnout, maybe too many shifts back-to-back. But Jeonghan knew you. Knew the rhythm of your moods, the silences between your sentences, and the way your smile used to reach your eyes.

And it hadn't, not for a while now.

So today, with something like determination humming under his skin, he found you alone in the break room, poking at your food more than eating it. You looked tired—tired in that deep, unspeakable way that sleep couldn’t fix.

He cleared his throat with a hopeful grin. “Guess what?”

You raised an eyebrow without looking up.

“I got us tickets to the match. You know—the one you’ve been talking about for months?”

A soft, amused scoff escaped you. “You mean the one you were talking about while I pretended to listen?”

“Don’t be like that,” he huffed dramatically. “You love the Eagles.”

“Right. Which ones are they again?” you deadpanned, barely hiding a smirk.

He narrowed his eyes, feigning offence. “Funny. Real funny.”

But something in him lightened at the hint of your old self peeking through.

“On Saturday, Be ready by 3. I’m picking you up.”

“Nooooo,” you whined into your salad. “It’s my first off-day in two weeks!”

“Oh come on… You have Sunday too. Let’s not pretend you were going to rest. You’ll end up answering emails or reorganising the medicine cabinet alphabetically.”

He leaned down a little, voice softening.

“Come on, honey girl. You can give one day to this very patient, very charming best friend of yours.”

You looked up slowly, catching those stupidly hopeful eyes twinkling at you like a guilty golden retriever. You sighed, heavy and dramatic.

“Huuu… fine. But don’t call me that.”

His grin stretched wide. “Perfect. It’s a date then, honey girl.”

And before you could throw a spoon at him, he was gone—slipping out of the room with a bounce in his step, walking so fast he didn’t have to show you how red his ears were or how loud his heart was thudding in his chest.

He was still smiling when the elevator dinged open and he stepped inside, only to jump at the quiet voice behind him.

“You alright there, Dr. Yoon?”

He turned to find Nurse Martha standing beside him, arms folded, brows raised.

“Oh! Nurse Martha. Didn’t see you there.”

She gave him a knowing once-over. “You look a little flushed.”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting. “Ah… just the heat, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The elevator dinged again, and as he stepped out onto his floor, he called back, “See you around, Nurse Martha.”

The doors slid shut behind him.

She chuckled to herself.

“It’s October.”

A sigh escaped you—long, tired, and a little hollow.

The hunger you'd felt just minutes ago had vanished after barely two bites. The food sat heavy in your hands, untouched and somehow offensive in its presence. You stood there for a beat, unsure what to do next, before placing the container back in the staff fridge. You grabbed a pen from the counter and scribbled on a sticky note:

“Eat me.”

You stuck it on the lid with more force than necessary and turned, walking out into the dim hallway.

The hospital's fluorescent lights hummed softly above you, cold and pale like always. But your eyes had already drifted further down the corridor—to the heavy double doors of the mortuary, sitting like a mouth waiting to swallow.

It had been a while since you last saw Isayah. Days? Weeks? Everything felt blurred now, folded in on itself from the moment your life was signed over to a name you didn’t want to say aloud. You tried to remember what he'd been trying to tell you—something about missing bodies. You hadn’t followed up. You hadn’t had the time. Or maybe you just hadn’t had the energy.

Still, your feet had started carrying you toward that door, the quiet dread curling beneath your ribs… when a familiar voice pulled you back.

“Y/N.”

You turned, blinking out of your thoughts.

Dr. Cordon approached with his usual composed gait, his silver hair combed neatly back and his sharp features slightly softened by age. He wore a navy waistcoat beneath his lab coat, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal a Rolex that had probably seen more emergency surgeries than most residents. His accent was clipped, clean. British

“I’m glad I ran into you,” he said, glancing between you and the direction you were headed. “Are you busy?”

You shook your head faintly. “Not really. I was just… Do you know an Isayah Noyago?”

His brows furrowed. “Isayah…?” he repeated, like testing the name on his tongue. “Doesn’t ring a bell…”

“He worked in the morgue,” you added quietly, almost regretting it.

“Oh!” His eyes lit slightly in recognition. “Yes, yes. Noyago. Young fellow. Odd hours. Haven’t seen him in some time, now that you mention it.”

You nodded, eyes flicking back toward the morgue. Something tugged at your gut.

“Well, you can always ask the floor manager. They’ll know better who’s on shift down there,” he suggested.

He paused, studying you. “But why are you looking for him?”

You opened your mouth, then hesitated.

“He told me—” You stopped. The words faltered before they could land. What exactly had he told you? Did it even matter now?

“…You know what, never mind,” you said, brushing it off. “You said you wanted to talk?”

As if suddenly remembering, he snapped his fingers lightly. “Ah yes. Alberta mentioned something to me this morning. Said you haven’t been going home. And, more worryingly, that you’ve barely touched your meals.”

Your mouth opened in instinctive protest, but he raised a gentle hand to quiet it—fatherly, not commanding.

“Y/N, I’ve known you long enough to see when you’re treading water. And right now, you look like you’re about to go under.”

“I was going through the case,” Dr. Cordon continued, adjusting the file under his arm, his tone shifting into something more clinical—comfortably familiar. “It seems like the trial is moving in a rather positive direction.”

That caught your attention, even if only slightly.

“If you have the time,” he offered, “perhaps we could go over the updated charts together. I’d like us to present it at the Stanley Organisation Conference next month.”

Your eyes lifted to his, a faint crease forming on your brow. “You’re going with that?”

He smiled, small but assured. “Of course. It’s your work as much as it is mine, and frankly, you’ve been the heart of it.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t care—but because caring right now felt like dragging a half-broken limb across a finish line.

Still, a quiet part of you appreciated the recognition.

“…Yeah,” you finally murmured. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

“Good,” he said, with a slight nod. “I have a sandwich with your name written on it, your favourite.” 

“Cordon—”

“Ah-ah,” he held his hand up. “Come on, or else I will call Alberta here,” and started pushing you towards the direction of his office. 

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You’d been standing outside your apartment building for five minutes now, arms crossed, leather jacket slung over one hand. The night air was cooler than expected, but not enough to make you reach for it yet. Your black tube top clung neatly to your skin, wide-legged pants swaying every time the breeze shifted, and your hair—slicked back into a tight bun—was already starting to feel a headache coming up. You hated waiting.

Your thumb hovered over Jeonghan’s name on your phone, ready to call and ask if he’d forgotten—

And then you heard it.

The low, unmistakable roar of an engine.

You turned toward the sound, squinting just in time to catch the flash of headlights and a sleek red Porsche rolling up like it belonged in a commercial. The passenger window slid down, revealing that smile the one that always landed somewhere between smug and stupidly charming.

“What took you so long?” You called out as you approached.

Jeonghan leaned an arm casually against the wheel. “It’s been a while since I took my baby out for a spin. We were bonding.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the small twitch of a smile as you slid into the passenger seat. The interior still smelt like polish and some kind of citrus cologne he definitely overused.

“Tell me again,” you said, buckling in. “How the hell can you afford this car?”

He shifted the gear and shrugged, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “My mother had a rich father and a shitty taste in men. When my grandfather died, he left her a little something. That’s all.”

And with that, he pressed the gas, and the engine growled like it had something to prove. The streetlights blurred into lines as the Porsche peeled away from the curb. 

The arena was alive.

Floodlights cast a clinical sheen over the glossy hardwood court, where tension danced with every bounce of the ball. The air crackled with anticipation and the roar of a full house—popcorn salt, stadium grease, and sweat clinging to every breath. This wasn’t just a game. This was ritual. Noise. Escape.

You and Jeonghan were seated just three rows behind courtside, close enough to hear the players’ shouts and the slap of the ball against the hardwood. The chairs were cushioned but firm.  From here, you could feel the tremor in the floor every time a player’s sneakers hit the ground. And Jeonghan? He was buzzing. Practically vibrating in his seat like a kid on sugar.

“Let’s go, Eagles!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.

You smirked, leaning back slightly, letting him have his moment. The Eagles were his team—he’d been talking about this match against the Tigers for weeks now, like it was the event of the year.

On the court, the Tigers’ defence tightened up. Number 14 from the Eagles—a tall, lean forward with arms like steel cables—dodged a block, dribbled once, twice, then launched into the air with startling grace.

Slam. A perfect two-handed dunk.

The crowd exploded, and Jeonghan jumped up like he’d been launched from a cannon, both fists in the air. “Did you see that?! That’s what I’m talking about!”

You glanced at him, laughing under your breath as you stayed seated, sipping from your bottle of water. “You act like you trained him yourself.”

He beamed, flushed with joy, the lights of the arena dancing in his eyes. “I could’ve, in another life.”

You watched the players high-five, the scoreboard flash, and the cameras swing toward the bench. The cheers were loud and overpowering, but your mind had begun to drift—just slightly.

Jeonghan didn’t notice. He was clapping, yelling something about a missed call, completely in his element.

And honestly, you were glad. For a moment, his joy made the world feel normal. Like the last two weeks hadn't happened. Like you weren’t someone’s wife. Like you could just be... here.

And even if your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, it was real enough to hold onto—for now.

By the time halftime rolled around, the roar of the arena had faded into white noise. You sat back in your seat, phone in hand, replying to an email from hospital administration about pending supplies for your department’s research wing. The blue light of the screen cast a faint glow on your face as your fingers danced across the glass.

You barely noticed Jeonghan sipping his soda beside you, his legs bouncing from leftover adrenaline.

What you did notice was the shift in energy.

A ripple through the crowd.

Eyes—not one or two, but many—fixing in your direction.

You frowned slightly, lifting your eyes from the screen… and that’s when you saw it.

The Kiss Cam.

Your face filled the massive stadium screen, outlined with floating cartoon hearts, the bright text underneath flashing:

“Kiss Cam” Row 3 – Seats 12 & 13

Your head snapped toward Jeonghan, who blinked in delayed realisation as the camera panned wide enough to catch him too—mid-sip.

“No,” you mouthed quickly, subtly shaking your head. A small wave of laughter rippled through your section.

Thankfully, the camera seemed to get the hint. It panned away.

You let out a sigh, returning your gaze to your phone, only for Jeonghan to nudge you lightly. “You want something to eat?” he asked, ever casual.

You barely had time to answer when the crowd cheered again.

You looked up.

The Kiss Cam was back.

Zoomed in. Closer. Persistent.

“Are you serious right now?” you muttered under your breath, more to the universe than anyone else.

Jeonghan turned to look at you then, eyebrows raised, lips parted—like he was trying to gauge something in your expression he couldn’t quite name. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Or hesitation.

The crowd started chanting. Lightly at first. Then louder.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

You felt your cheeks burn—not from embarrassment, but from the absurdity of it all. Of being seen. Pinned under the gaze of strangers. Like you were in a spotlight you hadn’t asked for.

Jeonghan leaned slightly closer, his voice low, barely audible beneath the noise

“Let it be,” Jeonghan said softly, barely glancing at the screen. “They’ll just move away on their—”

Before he could finish, you turned to him.

Your hand came up suddenly, cradling his jaw with a quiet urgency that startled him. The heat of the crowd pressed in, a thousand eyes watching, but your movements were precise—controlled. You angled your face just enough to block your profile from the camera, your body shielding the truth from the lens.

The crowd erupted in cheers behind you.

To anyone watching, it looked like a kiss.

But it wasn’t.

Your thumb hovered over his lips. Then, gently—without trembling—you pressed your lips to it. A soft, deliberate touch.

For a moment, Jeonghan didn’t move. His eyes searched yours, and for the briefest flicker of a second, a shadow passed through them—quiet and aching.

Disappointment.

It came uninvited, sharp in his chest, curling under his ribs.

You turned your attention back to the court as the game resumed, face calm, focus sharp. You didn’t see the way Jeonghan kept looking at you. Not with frustration or offence—but with something deeper.

A knowing.

A silent wonder, repressing it to focus on the game. At least he tried to. 

The cool night breeze trailed behind you as you both stepped out of the stadium, the city alive with horns, headlights, and the hum of late-night traffic. Jeonghan walked a step ahead and opened the car door for you, the gesture casual—automatic—but his silence lingered heavier than usual.

You slid in without a word. The ride started the same way.

Quiet.

A little too quiet.

You shifted in your seat, glancing out the window at the blur of taillights and neon signs. “I don’t know why they put people on the spot like that,” you said with a small, awkward chuckle. “The Kiss Cam. It’s... unnecessary.”

“Right,” Jeonghan murmured, his eyes never leaving the road. The tone in his voice didn’t match yours. It sat somewhere between a shrug and something unsaid.

Silence again.

You could feel him trying to push past it when he asked, “What do you want for dinner?”

You didn’t answer.

The city rolled past you in soft streaks of light.

“Y/N,” he said, voice sharper this time.

You blinked out of your thoughts and turned to him. “Sorry. You were saying something?”

“I asked what you’d like for dinner,” he repeated, more carefully this time. “It’s like you’re always… gone. Either buried in work or stuck in your own head. Is something wrong?”

You hesitated, then gave a quick shake of your head. “No. It’s nothing.”

He glanced at you briefly, frowning. “It can’t be nothing if it has you making that face.”

You looked over, eyebrows raised. “What face?”

“The face kids make when they’re about to pass a tight stool,” he said, completely deadpan.

“Jesus Christ—” you smacked his arm, laughing despite yourself.

He grinned, pleased with himself. “No, seriously. Are you constipated? Blink twice if you need laxatives.”

“Jeonghan, I swear,” you said, unable to hide your smile, your voice lighter now.

“Smack me again and I’ll crash into the median.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “Let’s go to Chow’s Palace?”

“Chow’s it is,” he said, his hands smooth on the wheel as he took the left at the roundabout. “Been a while since I had proper Chinese.”

As the street lights flickered over your faces, the tension from earlier melted slightly—slightly. And though neither of you said it, you both felt the shift. That familiar safety. That ache of almost.

But neither of you reached for it.

As the car slipped into a quieter lane, the rush of the night muted behind the closed windows, you leaned your forehead gently against the glass. Outside, life went on—people crossing streets with grocery bags, neon signs flickering over late-night diners, and a couple laughing at a bus stop, their world untouched by yours.

For a moment, you let your eyes fall shut. 

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BANG! BANG! BANG! 

The morning sun filtered weakly through the curtains, casting pale strips of light across the room. A dull, relentless headache throbbed at your temples—probably a souvenir from last night’s beer at Chow’s. You blinked against the sting, willing yourself back into the comfort of sleep.

BANG! BANG! BANG! 

Persistent. Unrelenting.

Groaning, you kicked the quilt aside with more irritation than grace. You really needed to give the milkman a sterner warning.

Rolling out of bed, you shuffled toward the door, extending your hand for the milk carton, expecting the usual morning ritual.

But no carton was pressed into your palm.

Instead, when you opened the door wider, there he was.

The face you wanted to see least of all: your husband.

His dark eyes lifted with a crooked brow, calm and almost amused.

Behind him, two towering figures stood silently—his bodyguards, unwavering shadows.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice sharp, breath uneven.

He smirked, stepping forward. “Aren’t you going to let me in, wife?”

The word hit you like ice.

You shuddered, a cringe crawling along your spine.

“No.” You tried to close the door swiftly—but he was faster.

His foot slid against the wood, halting it mid-swing.

“Why have someone inside?” he muttered, nodding toward the door as he motioned his men to stay outside.

Before you could protest, he pushed past you, stepping into the apartment. His gaze swept the room with cold precision, moving toward the veranda as if expecting someone to leap out at him.

After a moment, he turned, striding to the bathroom, eyes scanning every corner, measuring your space.

You cleared your throat, voice firm despite the knot tightening in your chest. “Please don’t call me that.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Sure.”

Turning back, he folded his arms, studying you. “So, tell me, wife—what have you been up to?”

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, making the loose shirt ride up slightly. You caught the flicker in his eyes as they traced you up and down—the oversized men’s T-shirt, the tired slump in your shoulders.

“The usual,” you said evenly. “Saving lives and studying.”

He nodded slowly, as if weighing your words. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s about it,” you replied coolly. “Why do you ask?”

His lips curled in a ghost of a smile. “I see. The Eagles play well, don’t they? That last touchdown—the Balkan’s throw—I must admit, it was impressive.”

You pursed your lips into a thin line, irritation bubbling beneath your calm exterior.

He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief. “Most interesting of them all—the halftime shows they pull off.”

You met his gaze evenly, feeling the weight of unspoken words swirling between you.

“What are you trying to do?” you asked, voice steady but edged with frustration.

“Nothing,” he said smoothly, eyes narrowing just enough to be dangerous. “Just here to remind you things have changed. It’s time you change your ways. And your clothes. And pack your bags. I gave you a week—two weeks have passed. Father’s asking about you.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Does your father always take this much initiative?”

He shrugged, smirking. “Only when it involves his eldest son’s killer’s daughter.”

Your pulse quickened at the words. “Why do I have to go to your house?”

“Not this dance again,” he groaned, rubbing his temple like it was a bother.

You crossed your arms, stepping closer, voice sharp. “Why don’t you expect me to commute to work every day? It’s like a forty-five-minute drive from your place to Liberty. From here, it’s just two blocks.”

His eyes glinted with a cold amusement. “You sure talk a lot for a collateral.”

“Bastard,” you spat, stomping toward your room, fury blazing. Way to ruin a day off.

Seungcheol’s phone buzzed just as he saw you disappear into the bedroom, the door shutting hard behind you with a sharp slam.

Fifteen minutes slipped by. He ended his call, still hearing no sound from your side of the apartment.

Did she slip in the bathroom or something? He wondered, tension creeping into his chest.

He made his way down the hallway and spotted a door left slightly ajar. Assuming it was your bedroom, he paused—Not going to peek. Maybe she’s just changing.

He knocked softly, voice tight. “Y/N, are you done? We need to leave. I don’t have all day—”

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time.

A sudden, wild thought flared: What if she jumped out the window? Ran off through the fire escape?

Without hesitation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

There you were—laying on your stomach, fast asleep, a soft snore escaping your parted lips, buried beneath the quilt.

His gaze flicked over the room and cringed a little at the mess—dog toys scattered haphazardly, clothes strewn across the floor.

“Hey, get up.” His voice was low at first, but then he shut his eyes and shouted, “Y/N!!”

You jolted awake, heart hammering. Your hand flew to your temple, clutching at the relentless pounding inside your skull.

“What the fuck?” You groaned, disoriented and irritated, the harshness of waking crashing over you like a wave.

“Pack your things,” he said briskly, voice sharp but controlled. “Just the essentials—you can come back for the rest later or whatever. I’m waiting downstairs. So, chop chop.”

He muttered under his breath, “What a fucking mess.”

You flung yourself back onto the pillow, crushing the breath out of your chest, the weight of him, your father, and everything else pressing down on you like a storm.

A long, ragged groan escaped your lips, a mix of  frustration, exhaustion, and the raw ache of being caught in a life you never asked for.

You came down the stairs slowly, dragging a small suitcase behind you—just the essentials, like he said. The building’s quiet was broken only by the scuff of your shoes on the steps and the low hum of the idling car outside.

One of his guards was already waiting at the bottom. At Seungcheol’s simple gesture, the man stepped forward, took your suitcase without a word, and moved to open the car door.

“Get in,” Seungcheol said, his voice as casual as if he were sending off dry cleaning. “They’ll take you to the mansion.”

You paused, hand on the car door, your fingers curling tightly around the handle. Your mouth opened—maybe to ask, to argue, to demand—but nothing came out.

“And what about you?” you finally managed, the words stiff with suspicion.

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Aww… you’re leaning into the title’s responsibilities, wife?”

The word landed like ash on your tongue. Your expression soured immediately.

“I have a meeting,” he continued with a shrug, already glancing at his phone. “Don’t worry. I lead a very busy life. We won’t cross paths much.”

“I hope not,” you muttered, climbing into the car.

And before he could respond, you slammed the door shut behind you. The sound echoed down the street, final and sharp, like a line drawn in sand as the car's engine roared to life and drove off. 

Seungcheol watched silently as the car carrying you turned the corner and disappeared from view. His jaw tightened. He didn’t say a word.

Just then, another car rolled up in front of him—sleek, identical in build to the one you'd just left in. A black Mercedes S-Class. Tinted windows. Armored. Quiet like a predator in a suit.

He slipped into the backseat, nodding once at the driver without bothering to speak. The door shut with a heavy click, sealing him off from everything.

He leaned his head back against the leather headrest, eyes falling shut for a moment.

But peace didn’t come.

Instead, the silence was pierced by a memory—two weeks ago. Blunt. Loud. Unshakeable.

“Who said you’re in a position to negotiate?” he pressed, voice low, sharp enough to cut.

You drew in a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut as you gathered what was left of your composure. “If I’m to accept this barbaric barter,” you said, voice taut, “I have my terms.”

His silence was invitation enough.

“You will not interfere with my work,” you said, opening your eyes to meet his. “And no one—absolutely no one—will know that you are my husband.”

He cocked a brow. “What? Is someone secretly holding out for that title?”

Your jaw clenched, nose flaring. “You will not touch me.”

A crooked smile pulled at his lips. “Well, do you expect me to air-drop my sperm, Doctor?”

You didn’t blink. “Given your limited understanding of medical advancement, I don’t expect much. But I’ll figure that part out. What I need is your cooperation. Even during the pregnancy, you will not control what I do. My work, my decisions—none of it concerns you.”

“No can do,” he replied smoothly. “It’s my heir you’ll be carrying.”

“And it’s my body that will carry it.”

A pause.

“We’ll see about that,” he muttered, noncommittal. “Go on.”

You pushed forward. “When this whole… child thing is fulfilled—”

“A son,” he corrected.

You ignored the interruption. “—you will grant me a divorce.”

“Gladly,” he replied without hesitation.

“One last thing.”

He rolled his eyes. “You sure don’t run out of demands.”

But you pressed on. “You will not touch a single soul at Liberty Hospital. You will leave everyone out of whatever mess you and Han Jaein have dragged each other into.”

A pause. His expression shifted, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

“Min,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“It’s Min Jaein. Your father took your new mother’s surname. Thought you’d know.”

You hesitated, your gaze slipping past him toward the door, somewhere far beyond this room. Why should I mourn someone who didn’t even share a name with me anymore? You had changed your name too—when Dr. Cordon took you in.

“Right. Whatever,” you said quietly, brushing the thought off.

“So,” you met his eyes again, “do you accept?”

He stepped back, letting go of you entirely, his expression unreadable. “I’ll think about it,” he said, mocking you with a smile as sharp as the steel behind his tone.

That was it. The flicker of restraint inside you snapped. You surged forward and grabbed the lapel of his coat, yanking him back before he could walk away.

“Listen here, Daddy’s puppet,” you hissed. “I don’t care what you or your father do to me. But if you don’t accept my terms, I would rather die than follow through with anything that man wants. Do you understand me?”

His grin returned, this time with amusement dancing behind it. “Easy there, tigress,” he said, pulling his coat free from your grip.

“When I said I’d think about it,” he added as he stepped toward the door, “then I’ll think about it.”

And then he was gone. Leaving behind the bitter taste of powerlessness and the weight of your own defiance clinging to the air like smoke.And yet, moments later, with hands that barely stopped trembling, you signed your name beside his—Choi Seungcheol—the man Dr. Cordon once warned you about with a heaviness in his eyes that only hindsight could explain. In that quiet, irreversible gesture, you bound yourself to him, not in love but in necessity. Two names inked together, sealing a future neither of you could truly predict—unfolding not in vows, but in the quiet dread of what comes next. A bond rising on legacy, betrayal, and revenge.

END OF CHAPTER 8

AN: Poor Jeonghan UwU!

TAG LIST: @seonghwaexile, @asyre, @xyzzzs-things, @kohielatte , @scuzmunkie , @blueskyandream-blog, @amazaynaastha , @kpetts, @starstrawb , @Yoongznme, @amazaynaastha, @starstrawb , @ieushl . @codeinebelle

[tsuiioku]

the dreadful need in the devotee — bungo stray dogs oneshot

content. f!reader. poetic prose, discussions of mortality and death, existentialism, suggestive themes, allusions to greek and abrahamic myth, romanticized unhealthy relationship dynamics, possible continuity errors. notes and translations at the end. not proofread. 3.8k+ words. ⟶ features fyodor dostoevsky. this work is a sequel to another oneshot! reading it's not a requirement, but is encouraged. this is also a collaboration with @yonseibananamilk! please check out her half of the collab ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

The fire of Pyramus danced within its hearth, the crackles a plea for freedom. Wooden shelves shimmered in a spectrum of amber hues. The light married abstract shadows with the spines of ancient books, stories lost to civilizations no historian could neither name nor describe. However, the harsh rays softened as they reached the two huddled on a sofa in the corner.

The domestic flame of your shared nocturnal nook chiseled at your features. Meadowed plains melded into the hills of your cheeks before they dipped back into low valleys nestled on the cusp of your nose or at the curvature of your cupid's bow. Fresh streams fringed the waterline of your eyes, fluttering lashes portraying the underbrush that beckoned him, barely obscuring the mystery hidden beneath the murky brook. Such a delicate canvas, framed with messy hair, made his sick heart thump at such vulnerable dishevelment.

You drank every word of your book with reverence while he could hardly focus on the one he held. The careful movement of your fingers as you turned the page tainted his thoughts into fantasies where they instead traced the expanse of his skin—it was repulsive.

But he dreaded an infallible demise the moment you chose to lay against him, not a thought to the difference in your stations. That heated sensation of unfamiliar tenderness, shrouded from the world, only to be acknowledged in an unimportant room in an unimportant place, thumbed him with a sentiment he could not adhere a title to. You were powerless in the scheme of everything that enveloped you, yet held no regard for fear or fate.

Instead, you smiled.

He hid the quiver of his limbs as his finger brushed the underside of your chin. Your face craned upward, and he realized he had been parched for a taste of the features he had so painstakingly mapped to memory. Your eyes closed with leisure as you leaned into his touch and—

He cracked his eyes, unable to open them as they strained to readjust to the merciless glare of his monitors, their caustic luster a stark contrast to the imprisoned fireside of his daydreams. His muscles cried out when he stretched. The quiver in his limbs recurred in spasmodic vibrations, worsening the cramp of his hands as he flexed them. It was a relentless ache that had become all too familiar to him.

You were a distraction. He had lost whole minutes of time to fanciful delusions with you and that damning grin of yours at the center. In his preparations, he toyed with the idea of dispatching you to a remote location outside the ire of societal destruction before ridiculing himself upon further examination. If another one of his subordinates had become such an issue, he wouldn't have hesitated to snuff them out—you had to be the human incarnate of temptation, the ultimate test of his faith.

Men who had traversed the path before him did not do so without trial. He had scrutinized the warnings their stories contained—Adam, Samson, Saul—men who had strayed from their noble path only to lose their kingdom. Fleshly pleasures lured many a good man to condemnation, for how could such sweetness be considered a mortal sin?

The fallen had once been beautiful creatures of virtue, and you were but a testament to the scars left in their descent. It was temporary—you and the fragmented thoughts your presence created would pass in years' time. He only had to be patient.

A knock at the entrance to his workspace interrupted his internal toil.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?"

Patience would be easier said than done.

"Not at all."

Because you dissipated thought and reason from his frenzied mind the moment you blessed him with even a mumble. Your voice was the otherworldly harmony that strained atop his ballad of misery. Not the corrupt inflections he had become accustomed to over centuries of time, but rather a sincere, artless tune that only he was ordained to hear and that he alone could descry. He would only admit one fact—human companionship was a merciless mistress.

For he knew you were your happiest at his side as his right hand, but he could not understand the reason—it brought harm to your so-called "doorstep," and the workload was laborious at best. But even in this isolated instance, when the crooks of your smile didn't entirely brush the banks of your eyelids, a noticeable ease settled in your bones at the sight of him hunched over a desk. An ease he returned, albeit underneath the veil of his carefully crafted mask.

"The preparations for the cannibalism event are almost complete," you continued, maintaining an unusual manner of professionalism as you handed him a set of stapled documents and receipts. "I just need to receive your approval before sending out the orders." His eyes crossed each section without too much consideration for their actual contents, affirmed in his trust of your intellectual capabilities when it came to outlining critical components of his plans with the ire of a scrutinizing eye. 

"Thank you. These will do."

This was usually the time that you would dive head-first into a heated discussion about the latest novel from his collection or scurry off with a courteous farewell to complete the enormous amount of tasks you often procrastinated, but instead, you lingered. Your brows furrowed, locked in contemplation as your eyes stalled on his screens—schematics for his future "trip" to the European detention facility, Meursault. He cleared his throat, which luckily broke you from your daze.

"It'll be weird." You ran your thumbs across your knuckles, teasing at your bottom lip as you shifted from foot to foot. "Moving to a new hideout, I mean." The palms of your hands shifted to skim the dust and grime-coated surface of his barren shelves, toying with the clumps of debris that gathered on your fingers as your mind returned to its baseline. What did your thoughts stray to in times when they left you stranded, out of his reach, as they became more challenging to discern? He could only pray, in some twisted part of his dark mind, that they were a reflection of his own—then maybe those fantasies could be justified.

Outside his internal ramblings, he hummed lowly, acknowledging the truth behind that sentiment. Neither of you shared an attachment to the four walls that surrounded you—it was no home. It held none of the warmth or affection such a term required, though the idea of a home was foreign to you both.

Under those clouded waters, your eyes held a look he both adored and disdained. That muted hesitation had returned, like a criminal stood on trial, unable to utter a word of the truth lest they condemn themself. And you knew too much and said far too little. If you would surrender to your impulses, push him or pull him close so that, in some fashion, his conscience could be alleviated and he could refocus—but it seemed you were stuck within the same cycle of indecision.

You parted your lips, faltered, and closed them again, second-guessing yourself as you fiddled with your fist. But upon further inspection of your nervous disposition, he spotted an object that had been hidden in your back pocket. A book. He raised a brow as you slowly pulled it out.

"You've offered me so much reading material in the past." You handed him the book. Its cover was weathered and cracked; a once vibrant hue faded into a dark, timework brown. The delicate, diaphanous golden letters that spindled across the spin dulled with age but continued to catch onto the fluorescent light. "So I thought I'd return the favor. It's a book I've had for as long as I can remember."

"Poetry?" He couldn't withhold the amusement in his tone. You were such an adorable little woman—his heart squeezed in indescribable fondness at the incredibly fitting genre. The book cradled in his hands was even more charming, if possible. Several translucent tabs and disorder marks stacked the contents of the book, defining a distinct difference from his own analytical annotations. Part of him wanted you to leave sooner so he could delve into the contents away from distraction and be allowed to soak up every delectable notation.

"For wherever you plan to go. I hope you might find some use out of it." Your face softened. "I know it's helped me."

He huffed but knew that he was ultimately endeared. "Thank you, моя дорогая. If you enjoyed it, I'm certain I'll find it an enticing read."

A tremor trickled down your spine at the unexpected sound of his mother tongue. His thick accent sounded like velvet to the ears, but you quickly nodded and sent him the courteous farewell he had initially expected—but he couldn't allow you to leave without answering one more question.

"Which one should I read first?"

You paused, prodding the question around in your mind. The answer you stumbled upon was bold, and you contemplated your choices as your nails methodically drummed across the doorway's threshold. It was a risky choice, but one you had to take.

"Browning's Sonnet 22." Your expression could have locked him there for eternity. "It's my favorite."

And you left. You left, and indecision haunted him once more.

An abhorrent, unsightly torpor flooded within him like the Neva itself, the warmth of the Russian summer smearing any presence of intellect or acumen from his person. His limbs lay heavy from the sweltering heat as the underbrush tickled at his perspiration-laden skin, allowing him a momentary reprieve as he observed the breeze push against the bountiful flora that edged the bank of a creek older than he was in a homeland he had no way to return to.

"Федя."

He roused from the rush that engulfed his body and replaced his idleness, his mind ravenous at the mere whisper of such an intimate, almost forbidden name. Soft hands replaced the roughened roots of creekside plants, trailing his arms until their owner came into full view, beckoning him to lean forward with the purse of your lips.

You were somehow even warmer than the summer sun, and he melted like a tempered candlestick at your sheer touch, lips chasing your own as you drew away with a smirk and a laugh. The collision of your bodies onto the hardened ground drew the breath from his lungs, but he allowed himself to find it once more in your embrace, nose buried in your neck as he resisted the urge to indulge in mortal temptations and simply allowed himself to revel in the innocent embrace.

"Федя," you cooed. Your hands roamed the expanse of his hair, outlining the edges of his nape in a rhythmic motion that started to lure him into a dreamless sleep. 

That was until the sensation started to fade, and he felt the familiar stomach-dropping sensation of falling. His eyes shot open as the idyllic naturistic scene dissipated from view to leave a void. Only you remained, but he paled as even you started to fade, reassuring him with a pitiful smile that he had become far too acquainted with.

"I'm sorry, Федя. You'll have to go one without me this time."

Your presence melded until your touch was like the chill of an algid frost—it was like the expiration of a dying star, crumbling in on itself until it rematerializes once more. From dust, you came, and to dust, you shall return. The contact was the biting notion of where and who he was, with every incapability and flaw that marred his flesh. It whipped at his skin, burned at his eyes.

He shook as you slipped through his fingers, drifting out of his grasp as he looked around for something to hold onto, anything to help either of you escape from—

"That must be a pretty good book you've got there."

The blinding aura of his circular cell was not a sight he wished to become accustomed to, the chamber he had been "forced" to occupy with the French prison. And to his utter dismay, it had been the lousy half of the Port Mafia's former Double Black that had stirred him from his waking nightmare, Osamu Dazai. The bandaged man looked like the cat that had caught the rat; his eyes narrowed as if he had finally pinpointed the Russian's weakness. An unseemly smirk drew across his pale face.

"You've been staring at the same page for the past five minutes, Fyodor," the detective crooned, splayed on on his bed with his head dangling at the side at an uncomfortable angle, almost like he wasn't locked in a high-stakes match of chess. "Your eyes haven't moved an inch. Leaves me to wonder what could possibly be so enticing about that book. You should lend it sometime!"

"I'm simply concerned for the well-being of your fellow agents," Fyodor sneered cooly, allowing his demonic mask to slip back on with his signature smirk. "I just can't help but worry for them. I'll be sure to pray for a swift, painless demise."

"Hmm, I'm sure."

But the suspicion of the detective didn't matter. Fyodor had ensured that you had no connections to one another, and your identity was completely erased once you went underground years prior. So, for the time you remained hidden, you were safe, and that terrible concoction of his mind would not come to fruition. You were in the midst of correcting course on any minor deviations from his plans if the smoothness of his operation was a testament—but in other moments between consciousness and sleep, he wondered if you shared these same thoughts. The split seconds that expanded into hours of dreams he wished never to wake from. 

He couldn't help but linger on the horrific scenario that cast an ever-present shadow over his every thought. It was a possibility, and he shuddered to think of the notion that it would someday become a reality. But this was his one opportunity, and he wouldn't waste it.

He glanced down at his book. In truth, he wasn't much impressed by the pages anymore. This was one of the many books with copies in his personal collection, but it lacked the vitality he had become attuned to. It had been your book of poems that revitalized him, yet he was unable and unwilling to bring such a valuable item into a place such as this. He would not risk the desperation of his opponent at finding his weakness, nor the capabilities of the Special Division for Unusual Powers in finding a connection to the book's owner—so it was contained somewhere safe and sound, where no one else could find it.

That book had opened a separate world that consumed him, body and soul. But that poem that you had recommended—you were quite the romantic, weren't you? His face had flushed during his first reading and the several times after it, though your annotations were even more telling. But it only made the pressure on his heart increase, and he swore it would implode. Perhaps that was an underlying medical condition of his previous host.

And for the first time in centuries, he wasn't quite sure what he would do when he saw you again.

You dislodged yourself from the rubbled remains of the airport, fortunate to have been located further from the destruction Ame-no-Gozen created. The walls around you stood firm, but the roof caved in from pressure above, leaving only a sliver of room to escape to the intact remainder of the roof. Your hands ached and blistered with every inch of your ascent, halted as you took time to cough out the debris that generously clustered at the bottom of your lungs. You looked utterly worse for wear but couldn't find the time to mind given the circumstances.

After what seemed like hours of excruciating climbing, you made it to the top—but, of course, the fabric of your pants decided to snag onto a metal panel that had stubbornly remained intact.

"Oh, come on," you groaned, sitting down to tease and tussle with the ornery piece of cloth. It had been a restless last few weeks, and you simply wanted to sleep. You huffed as the shrapnel decided to release its grasp on your pants, but as you were about to stand back up, you took notice of the shadow before you.

There he was.

You could recognize Fyodor's striking eyes anywhere, even when he was clad in the attire of a fresh body without his signature hat and cloak, but you found that you didn't care much for the finer details when he was finally in front of you. His presence had formed a vacancy in your everyday routine, and for the first time in years, you found yourself completely alone. Even when there was work to be done and plans to create, the majority of his usual subordinates were killed as collateral—not that they had even been much company. But would you be forced to fall into the same line?

The question nauseated you, but you had known the possibilities when you took his hand for the first time. If there was a time for you to part ways, whether at his accord or your own, this would be it. This was your crossroads. But you knew as you slipped your hand into his, outstretched for you to take, that he wouldn't be letting go. The grip he had held you like it was a sin to part. It seemed your fears were unfounded since when you slipped your hand into his own, outstretched for you to take, you knew he wouldn't let you go. The grip he had held you like it was a sin to part.

You stood with his help, a contemplative tilt to your brow—but you couldn't stand the silence that continued to persist. So, in the echoes of his formulaic destruction, you allowed yourself to breathe. A release of that suspension and hesitation, unfurling your burden as you lifted your aching hands to cup his face, delighted in the widening of his eyes at the unbalanced scale between you tilted to the other side.

"Федя," you spoke, the sensation of the word foreign to your lips. A spark returned to his eyes as if you whispered the secret to raise him from the dead. "Are you alright?"

The wind rushed through him, breath tumbling with the breeze as it coasted along the metal platform you stood from. Despite reason pleading with him to run from your proximity, he instead chose to intertwine his fingers with one of your hands. He pressed kisses into the curve of your palm as he lined every scar and bruise with a tenderness that soothed your aches.

"I am."

He didn't need to utter another word—your brief separation had only strengthened your unified understanding of one another, with each crying gesture serving as the final touch. No more trials. No more secrets. The look in his eyes was one of stories. Eyes that had witnessed every dismal aspect of human nature, both in the past you shared, and in the past he traversed alone. But they had become worthless stories to him; the minuscule glimpses of resolution that had served as a sign from God of the promised end turned into the delusions of a desperate man as he found the reflection of the end in front of him—you. In every step he took since your destined encounter, you had been what he was searching for. His hope. His future. His reality. That fraudulent resolution was no longer at the end of a perilous tunnel but right before him.

You understood that the intimacy of your "relationship," with whichever label others tended to tack it with, could never be shared with another soul. Those voiceless, indulgent whispers and subtle, crinkled smiles were mere productions of your shared devotion. But more so, the hummed resonation of your souls spoke the loudest. They had remained empty for such stretches of time, so neither of you knew what to make of it when you somehow poured from your empty cups into the creation of a fulfilling bond. Your only comfort was the notion that this—this was the reason you were created. For each other.

He remembered the moment he laid eyes on you, the sensation that his long-time friend had turned foe, death no longer a temptation out of his grasp but a certainty he could not shake. Your straightforward disposition beckoned him, and he then understood why he had been made with a capacity for love despite acting as the immortal incarnation of its antonym. He had never once felt a need for fruitful devotion, not to some unseen voice from the skies, untouched by the heart and mind of humans, but instead for the one person who would take his heart to the grave with them.

He was immortal, whether by chance or fate, but it was your ability to shake off the temptations of fear that immortalized you in the end. Never once had you allowed your rift in mortality to halt the blossoming kinship between you, prodding at the walls of his solid foundations until they cracked and eroded over time. Fyodor chuckled—he thought he had a capacity for patience, between you were a godsend in comparison. He was the proclaimed "Demon of the North." The man sent to spread the wrathful will of God across the nations. So it was no wonder he had been so tempted when met with a force of benevolence, one which he had rarely witnessed and never known. He could never claim to be worthy of mortal worship when a creature like you stood before him.

You shivered at the sudden touch of his hands as they traveled across the exposed skin of your waist, soft despite his habits. They traced the contours of your figure like a sculptor transfixed on the finest marble. Time had not been merciful in his centuries alone—but it stilled for this moment. For the moment your lips met, and your odyssey was finally over. The spread of his touch was revolutionary, roaming with a cardinal fervor within this wasteland of human misfortune. It sparked a revolt within your mind—your union was taboo, but nothing had ever felt as destined to be.

The muscles of your face tendered as his thumb outlined the brushwood of your lashes. Your eyes drifted shut in a manner that wordlessly pronounced your insomnolence. He kissed a smile against your forehead as you parted, cradling your face as if you were his world. This was an intimacy that could not be replicated, and his mind shattered at the notion of loss.

"Never wander somewhere I can't follow," spoke the desperate man.

You flashed him a cheeky grin. "You won't be able to leave if you want me to stay."

He leaned in, lips close enough to brush. "I won't leave. Not ever again."

And he dipped back in for another taste, addicted to the ambrosial quality of your lips as he buried himself in the shrine of your arms. 

дорогая = dear федя = fedya

TAGLIST: @ruru-kiss @miloofc @osarina @meiluvrr @suru1990 @honeymoon38 @saeandscaralover @dazaisms @v4mpash3 @coffeeofsamu @just-another-crack-artist @snowsilver2000 @chyozai @justcallmesakira @little-miss-chaoss @himikoslove @osameowdazai @deepseafragments @aureatchi @tirasamu @kelperspelt @squigglewigglewoo @lovesick-fairy @zyilas @ishqani

a fyodor fic! very original for me, i know. nana and i planned out this collaboration months ago, and were luckily able to schedule it for the chapter release. again, please go check out her side of the collaboration! speaking of chapters, that update was certainly something. i'm intrigued to see the further development of atsushi and akutagawa through the end of this story arc, since it feels like they've switched roles in regards to the desperation, if that makes sense. and, of course, it was interesting to see fyodor express such strong emotion in reaction to atsushi, and i'm excited to see it unfold in the next installment! feel free to discussion discourse below :D

© MUSAMORA 2024 — do not repost or modify my works for any reason. do not steal graphics w/o explicit permission. reblogs are appreciated.

[grumpyeagleandfriends]

Vigil - Chapter 1

Summary: Using the genetic material extracted from Yusuf al-Kaysani and Nicolò di Genova, Dr. Metak Kozak initiates Project Eos as an attempt to artificially replicate immortality through forced human trials. Nine embryos are created, implanted, and birthed under controlled conditions. The experiments she conducts represent a grotesque evolution of Steven Merrick’s work.

When Copley first uncovers the program, Kozak’s records declare total failure: "Group Gamma yielded no viable candidates. All subjects compromised beyond analytical utility." But six weeks later, an anonymous lab technician leaks damning footage—a single surviving child, a three year-old male designated "IL-9" with confirmed cellular regeneration and disease resistance.

The team must address the danger this discovery represents. Nicky and Joe are confronted with a child created from their stolen blood.

A/N: A post-cannon story imagining the concept of a lab-generated immortal and how it affects the Guard. Could also be seen as an examination of parenthood. Mostly that, actually. Medical torture. Dr. Kozak is her own warning tbh. Child Abuse. Nicky is a doctor. Death. Immortal Parents. Hurt/Comfort. Illness. Blood. Angst.

11:00 AM. 30 Jan. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

Copley’s study smelled of eighteen year Macallan and citrus wood polish. It was a space of crisp angles and warm walnut paneling, where afternoon light slanted through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the English countryside. Every detail was curated, devoid of personal clutter save for a single silver-framed photograph facedown on the desk. The hidden image of Copley’s late wife was the only concession to sentimentality in a room so meticulously tailored it might have been lifted from the lair of a Bond villain.

They sat in mid-century leather armchairs, tension coiled in the air. Gathering them like this was a liability. Intel could be shared remotely; discussions didn’t require proximity. Yet here they were.

Andy knew before Copley even spoke. There was something in the way he surveyed them, like the weight of an inconvenient truth was pressing down. He stood before his Scandinavian desk, crisp in a navy cashmere sweater, fingers resting on a dossier thicker than a Bible. Not with hesitation, but ceremony.

It was clear for everyone that serious news was about to be delivered, but she knew that this went deeper. They had been gathered to sit in a war room.

Booker denied the quiet itch in his hand to reach for his flask. The fact that everyone agreed to show up despite his presence and ties to Copley’s new intel had been nothing short of miraculous. The conditions of his exile had been clear, but the current circumstances demanded an annulment of sorts, a truce. He registered the heel of Nile’s boot thunking against the floor. She was the only one who agreed to sit near him. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t necessary, that the others were right to keep their distance. But the meaning behind the gesture lodged somewhere in his throat, there was a sharp feeling of gratitude.

For now, he alone knew why they’d been summoned. He wondered if she would stay so close once the truth hit.

Across the coffee table, Joe and Nicky occupied a leather loveseat. Joe’s hand masked his mouth, fingers pressed to his jaw as he leaned against the armrest, eyes unreadable. He hadn’t wanted to come. He’d argued with Nicky the entire drive, listing every reason why they owed Booker and Copley nothing of their time.

Nicky had listened then, patient, prepared. He knew Joe only needed to voice his hurt, to let it dissipate before it festered. Andy and Nile’s presence alone had been more than reason enough to go.

Now, Nicky sat perfectly still, his breaths measured, glacial.

"I've been tracking Kozak since Merrick," Copley finally began, thumb clicking the presentation remote.

The monitor sitting behind him on the glass top desk bloomed to life with a classified document header. The title "Project Eos" was written in stark black and white. 

"Over six years now," he continued, "I've followed money trails through seventeen shell corporations across three continents. Dead drops in Geneva. Burner labs in Minsk."

A click. The monitor flickered, they each absorbed the blue-tinted security footage of a woman in a white coat. 

Nicky could only stare. That same face had hovered over him while pieces of his flesh were carved away and dropped into plastic sample containers. 

"This is in Cardiff." Copley narrated. "In a private genetics facility fronting under the guise of pediatric regenerative medicine." 

Andy cut in, voice firm but tired. "Skip the build up, James. Just get to what's she's done." Get to why we're here.

Copley didn’t flinch. But when his gaze landed on Joe and Nicky, the mask slipped—just for a second. A swallow. A flicker of remorse.

“Kozak’s Project Eos attempts to artificially replicate immortality through forced human trials.” He paused. “She’s created, implanted, and birthed nine embryos under controlled conditions.”

His voice was too calm, the way surgeons would begin to present a case to a patient’s family before announcing complications. 

“This was done using genetic material from you both. The nine candidates, labeled “Subject Group Gamma” were all listed as 'non-viable'.”

Genetic material.

Nicky could remember when Kozak extracted samples from a more intimate area of his body, particularly the special technique she used to procure what she wanted. When it was done to him, the act was undoubtedly degrading, but he was able to process the moment as a temporary humiliation. When she turned to do the same to Joe's unconscious form, Nicky's calm abruptly dissolved. He bucked against his restraints, unable to tolerate the sudden onset of searing anger under his own ribs.

Copley continued on, pulling him from his thoughts.

"But a whistleblower has since come forward, a lab technician recently moved from a Merrick facility in Geneva. They revealed that our previous intel was inaccurate. A false flag."

A new slide flicked across the monitor. The first horror. Autopsy reports.

"We gained the autopsy reports of the first eight subjects," Copley said quietly. "All infants. Seven died before reaching one year of age, but then there was a breakthrough. The eighth child lived to 18 months." 

The details of the autopsy reports were clinical, detached. Causes of death: organ failure, hemorrhaging, neural degradation. There were only serial numbers instead of names. Nicky’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the edge of the armrest. His eyes dialed in on the information, scanning the details as quickly as he could.

Joe didn't look. He couldn't look.  

"The ninth child, named Subject IL-9, is still alive." Copley continued. "A three year-old male who demonstrates consistent accelerated healing, though they haven’t yet tested mortality."

A single photograph came next. A boy, small and pale with a shaved head, curled on a metal cot. His face was partially obscured by a black censorship bar, but what little of him was visible was unmistakable. He had Joe's nose and mouth. The child looked sickly, too young to be three. Too thin.  

"What is being done to him?" Nicky demanded, voice impossibly level. He rested a hand briefly on Joe's thigh, to ground himself, to check in, but withdrew the moment he felt the muscle beneath twitch like a live wire. The act had been too soon. Some wounds needed pressure. Others needed air.

Joe bent forward, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands. His fingers dragged through his beard, rough and unsteady. The room tilted. He needed air. Needed to put his fist through something, or maybe feel someone else's fist collide with his cheek. He didn’t look at anyone. He couldn’t. His gaze fixed on the floor, on the wood grain under his sneakers, on the two birds chasing each other just outside the window, on anything but the screen where the deaths of eight children were dissected in unforgivingly clinical language.

He could only force himself to breathe. There was no other way forward, no other way to process what he was feeling from this violation—this mix of revulsion and hurt.

"The testing on the child has been...systematic." Copley's voice was measured, face souring as he carefully chose his words. The white plastic casing of the remote softly cracked under the force of his grip.

"Phase one consisted of pathogen exposure to common strains of measles, influenza, and tuberculosis. Each infection was meticulously timed to measure recovery rates." A click. Graphs of fever spikes, white blood cell counts. "They noted his immune response was 'anomalously efficient', with recovery achieved by day four of each trial."

Nicky’s jaw shifted, but his voice never changed. Always calm, always even. "How much information did you recover on his medical history?"

"It’s incomplete,” Copley began. “But the whistleblower provided us with daily vital logs, trauma and healing reports, neurological assessments, weight charts—"

"Give separate copies to me. Everything you have." Nicky interjected. He squinted as he read the numbers of a growth chart fixed on the screen. The last entry was from nearly two months ago, the child was recorded as 84 centimeters tall and weighing 10 kilograms.

"Phase two tested his resilience to environmental extremes." Copley’s mouth thinned. "Four hours in 2°C water. Five hours in a climatic chamber at 42°C. Timed oxygen deprivation just before the threshold of brain damage. Fourteen days of gradually reduced calorie and fluid intake.”

Joe rose abruptly from the love seat, his knee roughly bumping the coffee table as he stood. He crossed to the window in large strides, his back rigid, one hand braced against the window frame. The tendons in his forearms stood out like cables.

Copley continued, quieter now. "Phase three moved to physical trauma. Compound fractures—" A slide of an X-ray, a tiny femur snapped clean through. "—lacerations, burns. Healing averaged one to two hours for deep tissue, three hours for bone."

The cap of Nile’s pen snapped in her grip, but she continued to listen attentively. Those rates of healing were longer than what it took for them. Her eyes flicked over to the faces of the others, but there was no way to discern if their thoughts were following the same paths. Everyone looked ill.

For a moment, Copley showed signs of fatigue. He let the hand holding the remote fall to his side. He glanced at his desk before finishing.

“Phase four has not yet begun, but the whistleblower warned that this is when they intend to test his mortality.” 

Andy’s voice cut through. "We don’t wait on this one." She stood, approaching the desk to seize the dossier prepared by Copley and Booker. "We go in and extract the boy. Steal every byte of intel, then scrub the place." Her gaze swept the room. "It has to be full sanitization. We leave no witnesses."

Copley nodded, clicking to the blueprints. "All intel indicates that he is held here, in a third floor isolation unit." He pointed the red dot of a laser at the west wing. 

Booker leaned forward, tracing demolition points on the schematic. "C4 in the parking garage and ground floor support columns. Thermite cocktail here—" He tapped the server room. "—enough to melt their research into slag."

He had memorized every inch of the building: entrances, exits, corridors, stairwells, and ventilation shafts. There was no escape route not pre-mapped out in his mind, no corner to hide in that he didn't know. The rotations of security and staff, the layout of the below ground parking garage, the brand of bleach the janitors used—over the last month, Booker had funneled all of his remorse into learning every detail about this facility. 

He cleared his throat before focusing tentatively on Andy, finding her unreadable mask to be steadying in some way. This was only soul he knew to report to, who he knew to follow without question.

"The largest shift change happens just before 0200. That's the time to hit. Two nurses. One resident. Guards cut to skeleton crew."

Nile’s fingers drummed a marching rhythm against the armrest. "Andy and I can breach through security. Disable cameras, clear a path." Her eyes flicked to Joe’s motionless form by the window. "Nicky and Joe take point on extraction."

Nile, who sat stiff-backed, her dark eyes flickering between the screen and her family, so unflinching in the face of a reality that they all viscerally rejected. She never had a choice in the matter. Being an immortal of the modern era, she would never know the luxury the others once did—of lifetimes spent hiding in the shadows, of drifting untraced. Her immortality was always going to be a game of cat and mouse, and now, before she could even adjust, she was being asked to protect another life that would never know peace. 

Silence settled after her proposal, seemingly as acceptance. Then—

"No survivors, then." Joe spoke, still facing the glass. His reflection was blurred, his words like a serrated blade, something not meant to cut clean. "What about Kozak?"

Copley was quick to answer. "Bern. She’s presenting at a private symposium tomorrow."

Andy sat back in her seat, legs outstretched. The lines around her eyes deepened as she stared at something at midline only she could see.

"We hit the lab first. Then we end this." It landed like stones—final, immovable. 

"News from the lab will hit her immediately," Nile countered. "Doesn't that give her time to disappear?"

Andy didn't move, her eyes remained steady. She spoke with the weariness of someone who had seen more bodies buried than the ground could contain. "Let her run," she spoke so quietly that it might have been to herself. Then louder, with the full weight behind it: "I've hunted smarter prey. This stops now."

Copley cleared his throat. "For what it’s worth, we’ve had eyes on her financial trails for over three years. Every alias, every shell account. She hasn’t taken a step without us knowing since 2021." He looked to Nicky, then to Joe's back. "If you go for her first, we risk the boy being moved. The lab’s servers need to be melted before they can scrub the data."

Joe turned from the window, his face eerily blank, the kind of calm that came before a surge. This wasn't the absence of fury, but the absolute clarity that rage could provide when put to good use. Everyone expected him to walk out after Copley’s presentation. He had every right to. Every reason to slam the door, to vanish, to let the complex storm of shock and fear burning under his flesh fuel him through the English countryside until his legs gave out.

But he didn’t.

Surprising everyone but Nicky.

His attention locked onto Booker first.

Not Andy, not Nile, not Copley. Booker.

Because Joe knew Booker was the one who prepared this work. Because despite the betrayal, despite the fractured trust that still ached between them, Booker was the one who had always been best at this: the slow, methodical gathering of intel, the obsessive mapping of every variable. And now, he was here with them, trying to atone in the only way he knew how—by providing a way to fix this.

Joe crossed the room and dropped himself into the armchair Andy had abandoned. 

"Walk me through your plan." He quietly demanded. His voice was hollowed out, the kind of tone that made the air in the room feel thin.

Joe and Booker sat and discussed for hours. Their gear was already sourced—untraceable weapons, ammunition, a van with plates that would burn clean after extraction. It was an hour's drive to Bristol, where a private plane would be waiting to take them quickly back to East London, then a second van to bring them back to Copley's house in Sheldwich. From there, they would work out where everyone would go next. Copley would monitor the situation and work through covering their tracks. 

Nile and Andy joined in. The four of them hashed out the plan all afternoon, then well into the evening. Timing. Division of roles, who would be covering who. Contingency plans in the event the child was too weak at any point to be moved. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

01:17 AM. 31 Jan. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.

The moment the intel presentation ended, Nicky didn’t join where the others were clustered around the coffee table, debating extraction plans and arguing timelines. He cornered Copley near his large desk, demanding the boy’s medical files.

To his credit, Copley didn’t hesitate. A laptop and two USB drives were deposited into Nicky’s hands without question. It was impossible to miss the flicker of guilt in the man’s gaze during the exchange. He understood what horrors he was silently delivering, he knew the pain that awaited.

For the next twelve hours, Nicky locked himself in the guest bedroom, the glow of the laptop screen painting shadows under his eyes. He operated with the urgency of someone who believed he could already be too late, racing against time to undo what might already be irreversible. 

He cross-referenced every procedure, every notation, every spike or drop in vitals. His fingers worked tirelessly over the keyboard, constructing a meticulous chart—weight fluctuations, heart rate anomalies, the jagged decline of a body pushed beyond its limits. The reports were inconsistent. Sometimes his injuries closed unnaturally fast, other times his fever raged for days unchecked. Nicky knew how stress at these levels could inhibit healing. Even if the boy’s body could repair at a similar rate to them, the constant strain he was under would greatly disrupt his abilities. If Kozak’s team was truly nearing phase four, the boy would be in no state to recover quickly. His body would be eating itself alive to keep up with the pace of forced regeneration.

With this information, Nicky knew he had to work under the guiding principle that the boy was mortal. He would plan for the worst, and then hope for the best—against evidence, against the gnawing dread in his chest. 

He made an exhaustive list of the medical supplies they would need, things Copley could source quickly from his connections. Pediatric IV kits, bags of standard saline as well as lactated Ringer’s solution, nasal cannulas, oxygen tanks, a portable blood analyzer, a glucose monitor, pain killers, broad spectrum antibiotics, a child-sized pulse oximeter and blood pressure cuff...

Nicky also made a separate list of practical items and things for comfort: clothing, toiletries, toys, books. The reports had been clinical in their omissions. There was no mention of play time, of going outside, or of any schooling. Nicky had doubts about how much interaction this child received. Did someone come consistently whenever he cried? Did the staff take the time to talk to him, to teach him words? The sparse references to toys were particularly bleak. They were used only as bribes during cognitive and neurological tests, brief rewards taken away the moment the boy’s cooperation was ensured.

The grandfather clock in the hall hummed past midnight when the others finally dispersed. Footsteps retreated in different directions down the corridor, doors softly shut one by one. 

Joe padded quietly into their borrowed bedroom, his face a mask when he found Nicky still sitting on the bed, laptop open on his legs. 

The door slid closed behind him with a click, sealing them away from the outside world.

Neither spoke.

There was a certain weight in the way Joe moved that was all wrong. His limbs operated too cautiously, not with the calm before battle, but with the quiet of someone trying hard to control his breath, as if an undetonated bomb shared this space with them.

The silence stretched in the room, tight as a piano wire. There was only the faint crackle of dying embers in the Malm fireplace, their glow creating warped shadows across the floor. 

"You should sleep." Nicky murmured, voice hardly above a whisper.

Joe let out a rushed exhale, not quite a laugh. "You first."

Nicky’s gaze flickered over him in the dim light, reading the lines of his body like a map. It was as if he could see right through his skin. The hurt was still there, simmering beneath buffering layers of calm. But even deeper under that façade, Nicky knew there was something wounded, something terrified.  

Joe settled down onto one of the winged armchairs next to the vintage fireplace. They were given the largest of the bedrooms. Nicky imagined that it had at one point been used by Copley and his wife, but he would never ask. Joe's elbows rested on his knees while he began rifling through their shared suitcase, searching out his desired clothes for sleepwear. The thermal henley came off in one rough tug, the fabric catching briefly on the curve of his shoulders before he wrenched it free. His jeans followed, discarded in a heap beside the chair. He dressed for bed with the same efficiency he might use to strip a rifle—methodical, detached. He opted to wear one of their stretched out sleep shirts and a pair of joggers, glancing down at his feet and internally debating for a moment before deciding to keep his socks.

Wordlessly, he plucked his toiletry sack from the side compartment and slipped into the ensuite. His face remained distant, checked out.

Nicky waited until he returned from brushing his teeth, watching the way he traipsed over to the bed. Joe sat down on the edge, but didn't turn, didn't move to settle himself back against the headboard. His dark eyes gazed through the floor to ceiling windows that comprised the entirety of one wall in the bedroom, watching the unrelenting rain continue to fall outside. 

"Talk to me." 

Joe’s arms loosely crossed, his fingers gripping his elbows, his jaw taut.

"What is there to say?” He demanded softly. “Tomorrow we go in and we get him out. We burn the rest."  

Nicky’s attention didn’t waver from his husband's back. "And after?"  

The question hung between them, heavy with everything they could not say, sagging under the weight of all that they didn't have time to discuss.

Joe’s fingertips skimmed over the skin of his arms, a motion meant to self-soothe. 

"After, we make sure no one else comes. We rip the weeds out by the roots, then salt the earth."  

"That’s not what I meant—" 

"I know." 

"Do you?" Nicky wondered in what was barely above a whisper. "This isn’t a mission, Joe. This isn’t extraction and extraction alone. If he is—" He stopped, the words stuck in his chest, too difficult to give form.  

Again, Joe had the encroaching feeling that he couldn’t breathe. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, raked his fingers through his beard. 

They submitted once more to the awful quiet. The wind outside caused the windows to rattle. 

Joe's arms uncrossed, hands now resting down at his sides, his fingers unclenched only to curl again into the fabric of his sweat pants. His head bowed forward, the words scraping out like gravel underfoot.

"I can’t stop thinking about how we didn’t know."

The silence that followed was leaden. 

Nicky watched the strain build through Joe's body—the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his breath stuttered before he forced it to steady. In that moment he ached to reach for him, to press his palms against the tension and work it loose with his fingers, his mouth, his whispered reassurances. But Nicky knew that it wasn't the right time, that whatever he would say would only fall flat. 

"We felt Nile. We felt Booker." Joe's voice dropped lower, rougher. "How could we not feel any of this?" 

This.

A child's suffering. The silent agony of the ones before him. The way their own blood had been turned against them, used to create and destroy in equal measure. Centuries of war, of loss, of resurrection. He struggled to think of a prior experience that could have prepared them for this particular feeling of helplessness

"We can't be sure how it works." Nicky said carefully. "Maybe because he wasn’t born. He was made."

Made. The implications of the word curdled between them. 

Joe's lashes fluttered as his eyes slipped shut. His jaw clicked as it shifted minutely to one side. 

"Or maybe because we weren’t paying attention."

Nicky didn’t have a response. The guilt was there, in both of them—a silent, aching feeling that they had fallen short.

He found himself wishing so deeply that they had the time to help each other ease into this. It was a cruel stroke of irony: that immortals who inherently had only an abundance of time, suddenly found themselves with none. There would be no slow unraveling of this pain, no gentle easing into the horror. 

Joe let out a breath, his head turning to glance over his shoulder. "What are we supposed to do after we get out of there tomorrow?" The question was hushed and lost. "Because, Nicky, if he lives, if he’s ours to—" 

He stopped himself, rocking slightly as he failed to continue that line of thought. Because what he was really asking was too callus to be voiced outright. How do they help a child who was never meant to be a child? How do they teach trust to someone who has only known pain? How were they to care for something born from theft and defilement?

Nicky leaned forward, his knuckles skating over the small of Joe's back. "We do what we have always done." he murmured. "We adapt."  

Joe closed his eyes. "And if he dies in that lab before we reach him?"  

"Then we make sure no one else suffers like him again." 

An ember cracked in the fireplace, spitting crimson sparks into the darkness. Nicky blinked against the dry ache in his eyes—he'd been staring at screens and reports for over twelve hours. The medical jargon blurred at the edges, but the numbers were still stark imprints in his mind. 

He closed the laptop, letting it click shut with finality.

"You haven’t read any of it, have you?" 

Joe turned to properly look at him then, his head twisting in gentle disbelief. 

"Why would I need to?" His voice frayed at the edges. "I know what they do in places like that. I remember."  

Nicky's fingers slid down the laptop's edge before he set the device aside. He chose his next words carefully. "They infected him with tuberculosis back in November. He recovered in three days." A deliberate pause. "They broke his femur to test the rate of regeneration. Twice."  

Joe flinched as if struck. "Nicolò—"  

"As far as I know, they never gave him a name." The words were meant to be informative, but his tone was like broken glass, brittle and fragmented. "In the reports, he’s just IL-9."  

The air left Joe's lungs in a wounded rush. He surged to his feet, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if trying to erase the images flooding his mind. "Stop."  

He took three stumbling steps towards the bathroom before he whirled, his composure shattered.

“How can you?" The words tore from him, accusatory, unable to hide his own disgust any longer. "How can you spend hours looking at that? It's torture. Every fucking line.”  

Nicky didn’t flinch at what he was saying, even if a small part of him did feel incredulous towards the man across the room from him. His gaze held Joe's with a terrible sort of patience, aching with something too vast to name. 

What was he to say? That he feared turning away from what was done somehow made him complicit? That bearing witness was the only absolution left to them? Even for someone like him, it was too self-righteous a thing to say out loud. He knew that the reality was much simpler, much uglier. 

Truthfully, Nicky thought that if he focused on the broken bones, the fevers, however much blood was drawn, he wouldn't have to consider the greater violation—that this child only existed because someone had stolen pieces of them both. If he let his mind wander beyond the boy’s physical wounds, he would have to face the enormity of what had been done. Not just to this child’s body, but to himself, to Joe.

Instead of saying any of this, Nicky only blinked. And now, his own throat burned as he struggled to speak normally. 

“Someone must.”  

The truth sat between them like a third presence.

Because it’s a child, a child made from your blood and mine.

One that we may have failed before we even learned of his existence, before he ever received a name.

Nicky rose from the bed, his eyes never straying from Joe. His hands hovered between them as an offering—a rope cast out amongst the waves they treaded. He didn’t come close enough to touch, but enough to feel the heat radiating from his husband’s rigid shoulders. 

"Maybe," he began, voice roughened from spending hours in silence, "if I know what they did, I can learn how to undo it." The words were frail sounding, the intention of hope behind them so unstable. "So when we bring him home, I can meet him where he is."

Joe’s lips compressed together into a tight line, the skin around his eyes folded. The look he leveled at Nicky wasn’t just sadness, it was the quiet devastation of someone watching their beloved grasp at threads.

"There may be no 'after' for him." 

The gentleness in his tone made it worse. This careful doling out of mercy, as if Nicky hadn't already dissected every horrific possibility in the twelve hours he'd spent with those files. As if the image of a small body wrapped in sheets wasn't already seared behind his eyelids.

Nicky didn’t argue. He studied the tremor in Joe’s clenched hands, the way his husband's gaze darted to every exit but never once to the laptop on the nightstand.

"No, perhaps not." he agreed softly while stepping into Joe's space. His palms mapped the familiar terrain of Joe's arms, sliding down to pry open his stiff fingers. "But we still must plan as if there will be."

With an unsteady exhale, Joe surrendered to Nicky’s touch, letting him manipulate his wrists and hands however he wanted. Even in anguish, he was taking the time to consider his love's words, much like he always did. Though his emotions were known to burn bright, he was a man capable of immense reflection, always able to land at the core of things. Here, Nicky could see him trying to measure their needs, much like a merchant pouring over the figures in his books—what surplus still remained, what could they salvage? All of his calculations looked to be coming up short. This pain was too thick to quantify, stuffed away for survival’s sake yet hanging over their heads with mocking laughter.

Nicky guided Joe’s palms to his own ribcage, pressing them flat against the rise and fall of his breath. His large hands settled over them, anchoring them both there.

"We learn what he is—” He murmured, the bass of his voice the only steady thing in the dark.  “—we learn what they made him. Then we try to become what he needs."

Joe swallowed before nodding. His eyes closed tightly for a beat, then a soft curse slipped from his lips.

Their bodies folded together. 

Nicky’s chin tilted in wordless invitation, allowing Joe to press his face into the familiar hollow of his neck. They inhaled each other, finding the very scent of home—a place they had been able to carry with them for centuries because they understood that it could never be tied to a single location or physical dwelling, but rather to this life they carved out together. Nicky hummed as his husband’s hands fanned over his shoulder blades, each of them finding solace in the other's frame. They remained like this for an uncertain amount of time, listening to the sounds of their own breathing, the wet click of their throats swallowing, their syncopated heartbeats. 

The silence between them had always been its own language. It was Joe who eventually chose to break it. 

"It wasn't just him." He said, voice thick and trembling. He tried to steady his hands by finding Nicky's waist. "Eight others. Brought into this world and snuffed out. And we never had the faintest clue." 

Nicky had avoided this, because he could not afford thinking about the others. Perhaps years from now, when enough time and distance sat between them and this revelation, he would step into a quiet church and light eight individual candles. He would recite familiar prayers, not for forgiveness, but for the grief he’d been forced to bury away. But this would be a ritual for far into the future—for a time when he and Joe had steadier ground beneath their feet, for when their family was no longer in such immediate danger. Now, they could only focus on what they still held the power to change.

“Yes.” His agreement was quiet. “But now he is all that matters.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

02:21 AM. 01 Feb. 2025, Cardiff, Wales, United Kingdom.

Joe sat cross legged on the floor of the van, his back pressed against the metal wall. 

The weather report had promised a dry night, but Cardiff exhaled a bitter, icy mist all the same. The fine drizzle floated through the air, the small droplets clinging to hair and clothes alike, needling through layers until it penetrated the bones. 

The operation had been clean, until it wasn’t.

Disabling the cameras took Nile ninety seconds. Andy dispatched the entrance guards and those posted inside with barely a pause—they fell one by one as she and Nile pushed deeper, silenced by blade before their shouts could form. With each fallen guard, Andy and Nile called out their kills through the comms system. Joe and Nicky flowed a few paces behind them in perfect sync, sealing exits and watching angles. Only Booker broke rhythm from the group, vanishing into a side stairwell to descend to the lower levels, his bag filled with enough C4 to demolish a building twice as tall.

Locating the boy on the third floor cost them the most time, a dangerous amount of time. They had to force access code information from the two nurses on duty, the type of work that is never pretty.

Andy bent fingers backward one by one until one of them sobbed out a series of entry numbers.

Three minutes. A result that was nowhere near her personal best.

Nicky and Joe went in alone to collect the boy.

Fifteen minutes total.

That's all it took to breach the facility and extract what should never have been taken.

Now, the mangled security gate screamed under the van’s tires as Andy drove them away. 

Joe hadn’t been able to touch him back in that sterile room. They found the boy lying in an elevated metal crib, it's barred walls looming over him more like a cage than a bed. His small body was tethered by electrodes and wires. Velcro straps pinned his arms outstretched on either side. Even as he slept, they felt the need to keep a sickly three year-old restrained.

In the van’s rattling dark, Nicky cradled the boy against his chest, swaying slightly on his knees. His gaze flickered over their gear, pausing on the thin padded mat they’d brought for the child. It had seemed practical back in planning. Now, with the boy’s shallow breaths warming his collarbone, his body too weak to properly lift his head, it felt unforgivably stark.

Something in Joe awoke. Without hesitation, he wrenched over the nearest duffel, rummaging past weapons and wire until his fingers caught on familiar fabric—a shared sweatshirt that belonged to them, soft and threadbare from years of use, still carrying traces of Aleppo soap and sandalwood. He undid the zipper and spread it across his lap, creating a buffer against the cold damp of his tactical gear. Shifting forward, he quickly lifted his vest up and over his head, tossing it aside. 

"Set him down." Joe swallowed to make his voice cooperate. "It's—it's okay." 

Nicky bent downward, murmuring, “Fai piano, tienigli la testa…” (Easy, support his head...)

Joe’s hands rose on instinct to help settle the boy's delicate weight. His palm pressed to where the back of the child’s neck met the base of his skull, fingers splaying to support his head. The contact was like a hot spark landing in dry tender—real, real, suddenly too real. A child, a living thing made from him, taken from his body without permission, now lay cradled across his lap. Not quite his, but certainly of him.

His mind stuttered when he looked down at the boy’s face, so undeniably close to his own—from the slope of his nose, to the arch of his brows, Joe could see his own features mirrored back at him in miniature. Distinct echoes of Nicky were threaded throughout: in the stubborn set of his chin, the unique shape of his small ears. It made something sick and heavy coil in his gut. This was no miracle. It was violation given form, a life wrenched into existence without thought of mercy or consent. And yet—

The boy stirred weakly, his cracked lips parting around a soundless gasp. His fingers twitched against Joe’s thigh, the movement barely there.

Before he could think, he shushed him, the back of his fingers smoothed over his brow. The motion came without his explicit permission, pulled from some deep, unguarded place. 

His eyes snapped up, meeting Nicky’s over the boy’s trembling body.

“Help me get this off him." He jerked his chin down towards the off-white lab blanket. The stench of bleach and something sour, like sweat gone stale, clung to the rough fabric. He couldn’t stomach the thought of the child being wrapped in anything from that place for a second longer. Not when they were meant to be taking him somewhere far away and safe. 

Nicky didn’t argue, able to plainly hear the plea beneath the words. With careful hands, he helped peel the blanket off and tossed it aside. Together, they worked to swaddle him in the material of the old sweatshirt, the garment dwarfing his emaciated frame. 

Around them, the others kept up their careful pretense of focus—Andy’s hands steady on the wheel, Booker’s tense silence in the passenger's seat. Nile was positioned just behind them, her head stuck between the two while she watched the road. 

“What’s the time on detonation?” She demanded, directions provided by Copley pulled up on her phone. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Booker dismissed her question as Andy turned onto a side street. “I gave us enough of a window.” 

None of them for a single second doubted Booker’s calculations, in the same way they still trusted his ability to forge their identification papers and to iron out the logistics for the next mission. Nile's question was more about filling the silence, about not disturbing the intimacy of the moment Nicky and Joe were sharing behind her. They were giving them this, at least: the illusion of privacy in the cramped, rattling space.

The gentle clunk and swish of the windshield wipers continued against the rain. Still only a few blocks away from the lab, the aftermath of Booker’s work would come soon enough. The Tesco across the street from Kozak's facility would rattle with the force of the explosion, glass windows would shatter out into fragments against the pavement.

The lab would be left as a hollowed shell.

Nicky was already pulling supplies from his med kit, his movements fluid despite the van's jolting rhythm. A stethoscope draped over the back of his neck, he shifted to kneel before them, steady even as the vehicle lurched, his large hands hovered at the sweatshirt's zipper.

"Joe.”

His name sounded different as it left Nicky's mouth, not a summons but a tether, spoken so it wouldn't travel any further than centimeters of space between them.

Joe blinked, like surfacing from deep water, the sounds of the present drawing him back from where his thoughts had spiraled. His dark eyes slowly sharpened, the weight of his gaze shifting from shock to awareness. He didn't realize how tightly he had been clutching the sweatshirt, his fingers felt nearly fused to the cotton fabric. 

"I need to check him." Nicky’s voice was firm but not unkind. "So I can see how to help him."

The words passed easily. Joe managed a stiff nod, his throat dry with a sort of helplessness they had been unable to shake ever since they were gathered in Copley's study. His hands fell away from the small body stretched across his lap.

Slowly, Nicky worked down the zipper of the jacket. He unfastened the shoulder snaps of the boy's grey medical gown, pulling back the thin fabric to reveal his bare torso. The signs of malnourishment jumped out at them, his body was all sharp angles and prominent bones. Each breath he drew pulled the skin taut over his ribs. 

The boy's eyes, a lighter shade of brown than Joe's, watched as Nicky warmed the diaphragm of his stethoscope between his palms. There was no reaction when the metal made contact with his chest, his half-lidded gaze continued to travel warily between the two men hovering over him. 

The child’s breath sounds were guarded and shallow. When Nicky shifted the chest piece lower, he could only frown as he listened to the ragged pull of air through his lungs. He gently felt for the pulse at the boy’s carotid, finding it slightly elevated, the rhythm fluttery against his fingertips. The lymph nodes along the column of his throat were normal, though his skin still held a feverish heat.

Carefully, slowly, Nicky's hands skimmed over his narrow extremities, feeling each bone with light pressure. There were no obvious fractures, no bruises or abrasions, but the joints were too prominent, the wrists too fragile. Despite the gentleness of his touch, Nicky still detected the flash of a grimace across the boy's face. He managed to free one of his small hands from the folds of the jacket. When applying pressure to the nail beds, he noted how the color drained and returned slowly—poor perfusion. 

He reached for the penlight set out amongst his tools, clicking it on with his thumb. 

The moment the beam touched the boy’s pupils, he jerked back with a sharp gasp—the first real reaction he’d shown since they’d taken him. His face screwed up, turning away from the light like it burned.

Joe caught him before he could retreat too far, one broad hand cradling the back of his head, the other bracing his cheek. "Shh, almost done." he murmured, his thumb smoothing a circle across the boy’s temple.

Nicky worked quickly to check his pupillary response. The reaction to light was slow, but equally present. Finally, he brandished a thermometer. There was a quiet beep in the boy's ear before the digital readout confirmed what he already knew.

Low-grade fever. Dehydration. Aches. The beginnings of an infection simmering.

He began to clear away the unnecessary supplies back into his med kit, leaving out only what was needed for an IV. "He needs fluids," he said quietly. "And likely antibiotics."

Joe considered the information, his gaze trained down towards the boy. His palm lightly brushed over the crown of his shaved scalp, noting the angry red patches of irritation—a sort of allergic reaction to the electrodes' adhesive.

"He breathes like he's in pain." 

The child weakly tried to turn his head from Joe's careful touch, his hands flinching at his sides. 

"Tranquillo, piccolo. Fammi vedere questa mano, sì?"  Nicky spoke gently to him as he settled his small arm across his knee. His fingers nimbly fastened an elastic band around his skinny bicep before he turned his palm upward. (Easy, little one. Let me see this hand, yes?)

The Italian was deliberate. Not just for comfort, but as a boundary against past memories. Nicky wanted his voice and words to be nothing like the sterile English used in the lab. He knew that the boy wouldn't fully understand, but he hoped that the tone of what he said would still register. It felt important to create a distinction from the doctors he had known before, so he would eventually learn that his and Joe's hands would never seek to harm him.  Nicky knew that the severe dehydration would make finding a suitable vein more difficult, and the moving conditions of the van were not ideal for steady hands, but there was no choice. He took a moment to center himself, slipping into the focused calm he'd learned to hone over centuries. These were the same measured breaths he took when perched on a rooftop with his rifle, in moments where there was no room for error. He glanced upwards to Joe, silent understanding passed between them.  Joe had the boy's head resting now in the crook of his elbow. Carefully, he turned his face towards him, shielding his view from the needle.  A slight tremor ran through his small body as the needle pierced skin. There was the subtle feeling of resistance when the IV catheter met vein, then a small amount of blood filled the chamber, signalling success. The boy's breathing caught, but he didn't cry out. Nicky suspected that he was too weak to even whimper.  "Tutto fatto." He whispered, as much to himself as to the child. He taped the line in place, his thumb brushing the inside of his elbow in silent apology. (All done.)   Joe began fixing the jacket around the boy's body once more, assuring he was well covered. He sat back and watched as Nicky busied himself with hanging the bag of Ringer's solution on a makeshift hook. His husband made the necessary calculations in his head before drawing a syringe of pain medication, administering the dose directly through the IV bag's port.  Nicky's silence could often be more telling than any outburst. There was something unsettled in the calm way his eyes scanned over the child, a sort of anger kept well guarded under the water's surface. It could never be lost on Joe that the person lying across his lap was just as much of Nicky's flesh as of his own, and so this violation felt all the more heavier. What wounded Nicolò only wounded him doubly.

"He needs a name..." Joe whispered, the words raw. There hadn't been time to comb through all of the records Copley and Booker amassed before the raid, but that crucial piece of information was listed nowhere. The boy had a number, but no other identifier tied to him. 

As the child fought against the pull of sleep, the message of what needed to be done was silently understood. What Joe was proposing was a tentative step towards trying, towards undoing. It was their attempt to stand between this child and a world that sought to exploit him.

It came together organically. A discussion they never once held before, but in that moment they found themselves inexplicably equipped with the answers.

"Ilyas." Nicky breathed, only loud enough to be heard between them.

Joe nodded as he exhaled, his thumb smoothing over the boy's cheekbone. The prophet Ilyas was known to have been ever faithful, resurrected before bringing down fire from the sky. He was someone taken and then returned. Neither he nor Nicky were particularly religious anymore, but symbols were never lost on them. This was a name that fit the person receiving it, and that fact alone brought a small modicum of comfort. What remained of life if our words and names no longer carried meaning? 

"Ilyas Nicolò." Joe finished, his gaze still trained downward. 

Nicky’s head tilted, just slightly, but his fingers curled around Joe’s wrist in agreement. No paperwork, no witnesses, they only had this. It was a tentative claim voiced within the shuddering dark of an unmarked van.

[jennyfromthebes]

hi hello! as a live show taper, do you have an advice for where to start for someone interested in learning to tape? with the new tour announcement it seems like i'll be able to go to a bunch of shows in an area that's kinda light on tapers, so it would be really neat if i can learn enough to get some decent quality tapes from this tour, but as someone with no background in audio stuff it all seems a bit overwhelming from the outside!!

SO YOU WANT TO BE A LIVE SHOW TAPER: an overview by your favorite amateur tMG taper!

Before we start: my top resources here are the Taper's Section forum (yes, a real old-school forum!) and the taping thread in the unofficial tMG community discord server (it's an older thread, will have to scroll down to it in the tmg-forum section). I really hate to be the "join my discord server to get your answers" guy, but it's genuinely a great space to talk to some really knowledgeable regular tMG tapers and get a lot of good specific advice.

You can get really intense about taping really fast. It depends on how much time and money you're able to invest into it, and there are a million factors wrt approach, gear, investment, etc. For this post, I'm just going to do an overview of what I would recommend for a beginner-friendly setup that's not too big of an investment and is a step above a cell phone recording.

Gear: I love my PCM-A10 recorders because I can connect them to my phone and control and monitor them remotely, but the price tag isn't very beginner friendly - you'll likely find A10s going for ~$150 on eBay. Also, the ideal use case for an A10 is with external mics or to pull soundboard, not as an all-in-one to just set and forget. You'll want to look for something like a Zoom H2* or H2n, which are a smallish all-in-one recorder and can go for less than $50 on eBay if you do a little searching. (*Note: the H2 has a known issue where it stops and restarts with a small gap once it hits a limit, but you can patch that out by following this tutorial with this updated firmware link.)

Recording during the show: unless you have permission to tape, which is a whole nother can of worms, you'll have to get your recorder past security. Usually if you hide or disguise it somehow in your bag you can get away just fine. If you're in the front row for the show, you can usually discreetly prop up your recorder on the barrier or just set it somewhere that it won't move. If you can stay relatively still and not sing into it, putting it in a chest pocket on a shirt or jacket is also a good option. I always try to capture everything from the moment the lights dim, so I usually start my recording a little early and just chop off the excess at the beginning, but if you're worried about storage space or anything you can just try to be really aware and hit record as soon as the lights go down.

Processing: At a minimum, you'll need to name the file, chop it into tracks, and populate metadata. I do this in Audacity (free) and it takes less than an hour once you get a workflow down. However, you can also go crazy with processing if you want to - I do EQ and mixing in Reaper (free trial version) and audio repair and de-click in iZotope (paid software). You can do some fairly basic EQ work pretty easily in Reaper and it can make a decent difference with how the audio sounds - I typically do parallel compression and chop the low end in order to bring the vocals up a little bit and balance out any boominess. My order of operations is mixing (if applicable)/EQ > repair > tracking/metadata. I know EQ sounds complicated, but it's really just fiddling with some standard presets until you like how it sounds.

Uploading to the LMA: The Live Music Archive is specifically for decent quality lossless tapes - cell phone tapes are fine to upload to the Internet Archive as "community audio", but the LMA is supposed to be higher quality. WAV or FLAC is your lossless format, I always work with WAV throughout the whole process. There's a fairly standard convention for file naming, page info, etc that I think there's a tutorial on somewhere but I'm also happy to go into that if need be. It'll take a little bit to upload the files, so I usually just leave it running on my computer overnight. After uploading, it automatically derives the upload into different file types before it can be streamed or downloaded.

Congrats, you've done a tape! I'm happy to go into significantly more detail on any part of this, whether here or in the discord server - feel free to send further asks or drop me a DM and I'll do my best to answer, I just wanted to keep this post as a relatively high-level overview. Thanks for asking, I'm always thrilled when people express an interest in taping!

[beemovieerotica]

if you feel comfortable with sharing, can you explain the process for the psilocybin trial? like what you had to do, who was with you in the room, the people involved, ect.

Oh for sure!

The whole process took about 4 months from the initial screening survey to the first actual treatment. (I still have another treatment scheduled for a couple weeks from now, as of writing this).

To get started, I filled out a survey online, sent an e-mail to their point of contact, did a brief phone interview, and then I was enrolled.

I had 2 big in-person pre-treatment events, and the first was a full 8-hour day of psychological and physical screenings (lots and lots of surveys) - including an in-person sit-down with a psychiatrist going through basically everything in my past. Adverse events, my childhood, life stress, relationships, anything that might come up during the psilocybin session and that plays a part in aggravating OCD.

I also talked with an OCD specialist, another remote psychiatrist, and did a full physical with their medical team, got a complete blood panel done, and an EKG since hallucinogens can cause spikes in blood pressure, and I would have been screened out if I had any cardiac conditions.

Once I got the all-clear on my blood panel and EKG reading, I was able to move on to he second in-person visit. It was a full day of EEG testing to get my baseline brain activity down - they hooked me up to a monitor with electrodes on my head, and I played a lot of very boring video games, did memory tests, and they showed me distressing, neutral, and happy images to see what my reaction was - again, for a full 8-ish hour day.

All of these in-person visits required urine drug screenings - I was not allowed to take THC or any other substance for the duration of the study. Specific prescription medications are also not allowed.

We then set the date for my actual dosing sessions and I was assigned two guides. One of them is an MD + psychiatrist, the other is a psychiatrist. I had three prep sessions with them, going in-depth and basically letting them know who I am and why I want to do all this, and they were there to answer any questions I had and help get me mentally prepared. Overall we wanted to establish trust & safety, because they would be the two people watching over me and interacting with me during my session.

I went in-person two days before my session to see the space where I would be tripping and meet my guides face to face. The space is a very soothing psychiatrist's office type place with a sofa, comfy chairs, nice carpeting, and peaceful pictures on the walls. My guides are awesome - they were selected for me by the point of contact who had helped me through most of the screening, who worked to match participants with study staff. There's always an open line of communication - I've been able to text and call them with concerns, and I was also notified that if I want to change guides at any point (or if I want to drop out of the study altogether) I can do so with no repercussions.

The dosing session was a full 9-5 day: I arrived at 8:30 to do a urine drug screening, fill out surveys, and then I took a blue pill and waited for the effects to kick in. The whole session was recorded for my safety and for accountability of the guides.

The sofa had been converted to a bed - I was asked, as much as possible, to just lie down, put on a sleep mask to block out any vision / light, and wear noise-canceling headphones with a pre-selected playlist of instrumental music on it. I really enjoyed the playlist (lol) I felt like it set the tone for a lot of the revelations I had, and they genuinely did a great job choosing tracks.

The whole point was to minimize outside influences and to have the participants look inward and work on themselves. The guides offered two options for physical reassurance: if I wanted, I could put my hand out and one of them would come over and ask, "Do you want your hand held?" and if I replied affirmatively, they would hold my hand firmly until I asked them to stop. They also offered a "shoulder touch" - firm pressure on the shoulder - but I only took the hand hold for about a half hour on the come-up before sailing off on my own.

They also said that I was completely free to remove the headphones and mask and talk to them at any point if it became overwhelming - they would engage with me as much as I needed to, but they would gently encourage participants to re-enter the "default state" (lying down, eyes closed, music on).

I ended up only talking to them when I needed bathroom breaks - they walked me over to the bathroom (no lock), waited outside, and walked me back to make sure I didn't fall.

They had a medical kit in the room, and I was told that if my blood pressure ever reached a concerning point, they had sub-lingual meds that could lower it and put me back in a safe zone. My BP was fine the whole time, and other than my heart rate being a bit high from initial anxiety, it leveled off as soon as the peak hit.

I was in it, processing and crying for the whole 5 hours of the trip and only responding when they needed to take my blood pressure and heart rate (at first every 5 minutes, then 30 minutes, then every hour - this was done with minimal interruption, I barely noticed it happening). After the trip, I came out of it and talked to them and processed a little bit of what had happened still on the video recording - they were really curious about big first impressions and highlights of the trip. I filled out a bunch of surveys. Spouse came and picked me up, and I was asked to do a full write-up at home capturing everything I'd experienced on the trip.

I'm currently in the "in-between" phase and am doing my check-ins and processing of the first trip before I do my second one next-next week. The full study length is six months long - I'm going to keep doing check-ins and surveys into next year to see if the positive effects actually stick around for that long. Six months is kind of the gold standard for a lot of clinical trials, and I think it's also about as long as they can usually retain people and keep them responding to surveys lol. I'm trying to think if I've missed anything, let me know if you have any other questions!

[stormyoceans]

100 JIMMYSEA SERIES

2. single parent x special agent

title: shelter

main cast: jimmy jitaraphol, sea tawinan, chun pachchun, milk pansa

pairings: jimmysea

summary: jimmy, an accountant and a single father, finds himself in danger after unwittingly stumbling upon a high-profile money laundering operation and witnessing a meeting between the CEO of the company he works for and the notorious boss of a ruthless criminal organization. fearing for his life and the safety of his young son, chun, jimmy reluctantly agrees to testify against the criminals, officially entering the witness protection program.

under a new identity, jimmy and chun are relocated to a small, picturesque town nestled in the countryside, where they’re supposed to live in anonymity until the day of the trial. assigned to protect them are special agents sea and milk, who move in the house next door to pose as friendly neighbors while secretly monitoring any potential threats. adjusting to this new life, however, isn’t easy: jimmy is determined to keep providing a semblance of normalcy for his son and this often makes him butt heads with sea, whose priority is only their safety, not the quality of their lives.

as the trial date approaches, tensions rise, and the criminal organization becomes aware of jimmy’s whereabouts. they send people to dispose of him and in the fight that follows, sea is able to bring jimmy and chun to safety, but they get separated from milk, who starts to think there might be a corrupted agent in their department.

while the witness protection office tries to find them before it’s too late, the criminal organization’s relentless pursuit forces jimmy, chun, and sea to go on the run, seeking refuge in remote locations and constantly changing their identities. as they navigate through this perilous journey, the bond between jimmy and sea deepens, and the line between duty and desire becomes increasingly blurred.

[madhavprathim]

Medical Oncologists in Warangal: Leaders in Cancer Therapy

Medical oncologists specialize in non-surgical cancer treatments, and Warangal’s experts are at the forefront of delivering personalized care. Using therapies like chemotherapy, immunotherapy, and targeted treatments, they address cancers like leukemia and breast cancer. This blog explores their role and why Warangal is a hub for oncology care.

Medical oncologists use systemic therapies to target cancer cells throughout the body. Chemotherapy kills rapidly dividing cells, while immunotherapy boosts the immune system. Targeted therapies attack specific mutations, offering precision with fewer side effects. Warangal’s oncologists customize these treatments based on cancer type and patient health.

Warangal’s oncology departments feature infusion centers for administering therapies, with trained staff monitoring side effects. Supportive care, including nutritional counseling and pain management, enhances patient comfort. Hospitals offering psycho-oncology services address emotional challenges, improving quality of life.

Personalized care is a strength. Oncologists use genetic testing and PET-CT scans to tailor therapies. For example, a patient with ovarian cancer may receive a targeted drug based on tumor markers. This approach minimizes unnecessary treatments and improves outcomes.

Collaboration is key. Warangal’s medical oncologists work with surgical and radiation oncologists, ensuring cohesive treatment plans. Tumor boards discuss complex cases, incorporating diverse expertise. For patients needing surgical intervention, medical oncologists coordinate post-surgical therapies.

Affordability makes Warangal attractive for cancer care. Treatment costs are lower than in metro cities, and insurance options enhance accessibility. Teleconsultations allow rural patients to discuss treatment plans remotely, ensuring continuity of care. Community programs promote early detection, improving survival rates for cancers.

Warangal’s oncologists are involved in clinical trials, offering access to novel therapies. Staying updated with global advancements ensures patients receive cutting-edge treatments. For those requiring radiation therapy, oncologists coordinate with radiation specialists.

Patient support includes survivorship programs, helping patients regain strength post-treatment. Warangal’s hospitals offer in-house labs and pharmacies, streamlining care. For patients needing advanced diagnostics, facilities are well-equipped.

When choosing a medical oncologist, consider their expertise and hospital infrastructure. Warangal’s top hospitals provide robust support, ensuring successful outcomes. For cancer treatment, consulting a specialist at a facility offering comprehensive care is recommended.

In conclusion, Warangal’s medical oncologists deliver innovative, compassionate care, leveraging advanced therapies. If you’re seeking cancer treatment, exploring options in Warangal ensures quality care. Schedule a consultation to discuss personalized treatment plans.

[cantsayidont]

February 1961. If Lex Luthor was a teenager in Smallville when Clark Kent was Superboy, what happened to Lex's family? Jerry Siegel answered that question in a curiously roundabout way about a year later, in a story in SUPERMAN'S GIRL FRIEND LOIS LANE #23. Perry White assigns Lois to "write a story on witchcraft," and sends her to the New England town of Cardiff, where there were witch trials centuries earlier. In Cardiff, Lois visits the local library to learn more about the trials and notices that one of the alleged witches burned at the stake, Louella Thompsons, bore a striking resemblance to the town's current librarian, a young woman with the unusual name of Lena Thorul:

Learning that Lena was orphaned as a child, Lois soon works herself into a froth imagining that Lena is the reincarnation of Louella Thompsons, and that the accidents that killed her family might be the result of black magic. Lois then begins to think she's being watched, and experiences several bizarre events, including the mysterious disappearances of her camera and typewriter. She also narrowly avoids a car accident like the one Lena said killed her parents. Superman, as always in these stories skeptical of any kind of "superstitious magic," is convinced that there must be a scientific explanation — and since evil scientist Lex Luthor recently escaped from prison, Superman concludes there must be a connection. Locating Luthor's secret lab with Lois in tow, Superman finds that Luthor has been using remote "vision-screens" to monitor Cardiff and the Daily Planet offices, and used "super-science rays" to cause the mysterious disappearances of Lois's stuff. Superman even guesses the reason:

Superman then gets Luthor to explain the whole story:

In late 1962, Lena popped up again in the Supergirl strip in ACTION COMICS #295, which reveals that she moved to Midvale not long after her previous appearance. Lena befriends Supergirl in her guise as Linda Lee Danvers and applies for a job as an FBI secretary, but is rejected because, as an FBI official explains to Supergirl, "Our security check on Lena drew a complete blank! No one knows where she came from! There's no birth certificate! All we know is that she was found in the wreckage of a car after a serious accident, and once worked as a librarian in a small town! She's a complete mystery! A girl without a past!" Dismayed, Supergirl — who's unaware of Lois's earlier encounter with Lena — travels back in time and learns what Lex had previously revealed to Superman and Lois about his family.

That story reveals that while Lena's resemblance to Louella Thompsons was a coincidence, Lena does possess extrasensory perception. Learning that his sister has fallen in with a gang of thieves who want to use her psychic abilities for robbery, Luthor asks Supergirl for help:

Luckily, Lena actually uses her extrasensory powers to thwart the gang's attempted bank robbery. As she tells Supergirl:

From this point on, Lena became a semi-regular Supergirl supporting character. About two years later, in ACTION COMICS #317, she married FBI agent Jeff Colby and became Lena Thorul Colby. Supergirl kept her promise to Lex and didn't tell Lena about him, but in the Supergirl stories in THE SUPERMAN FAMILY #213–214 in 1981, Lena found out anyway, and was outraged that Supergirl had never told her the truth. Lena reconnected with Lex — whose concern about her wellbeing was completely genuine, if perhaps misplaced — and Supergirl expressed hope that Lena would eventually forgive her. However, THE SUPERMAN FAMILY #214 was Lena's last pre-Crisis appearance, so it seems they didn't reconcile before Kara's death in the Crisis in 1985.

Unlike in many modern stories, the pre-Crisis Luthors didn't appear to be particularly rich. Lex's comment in Lena's first appearance about their parents having "left everything" to her suggests that she might have inherited a little money, but given that she was working as a small town librarian and applying for secretarial jobs, she presumably wasn't independently wealthy.

In post-Crisis continuity, there was initially no indication that Lex Luthor had any siblings, but his parents were still killed in a car accident, which LEX LUTHOR: THE UNAUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY strongly implied that Lex arranged so he could collect on their life insurance policy.

[tech4bizsolutions]

MedAI by Tech4Biz Solutions: Pioneering Next-Gen Medical Technologies

The healthcare industry is undergoing a seismic shift as advanced technologies continue to transform the way care is delivered. MedAI by Tech4Biz Solutions is at the forefront of this revolution, leveraging artificial intelligence and cutting-edge tools to develop next-generation medical solutions. By enhancing diagnostics, personalizing patient care, and streamlining operations, MedAI is empowering healthcare providers to deliver better outcomes.

1. AI-Driven Medical Insights

MedAI harnesses the power of artificial intelligence to analyze complex medical data and generate actionable insights. Its advanced algorithms can detect anomalies, predict disease progression, and recommend treatment pathways with unprecedented accuracy.

Case Study: A large medical center integrated MedAI’s diagnostic platform, leading to:

Faster identification of rare conditions.

A 30% reduction in misdiagnoses.

Enhanced clinician confidence in treatment decisions.

These capabilities underscore MedAI’s role in advancing clinical decision-making.

2. Personalized Patient Care

Personalization is key to modern healthcare, and MedAI’s data-driven approach ensures treatment plans are tailored to individual needs. By analyzing patient histories, lifestyle factors, and genetic data, MedAI offers more targeted and effective interventions.

Example: A chronic disease management clinic used MedAI to create personalized care plans, resulting in:

Improved medication adherence.

Decreased hospital readmission rates.

Greater patient satisfaction and engagement.

MedAI’s solutions allow providers to offer more precise, patient-centered care.

3. Enhanced Operational Efficiency

MedAI goes beyond clinical improvements by optimizing healthcare operations. Its automation tools reduce administrative burdens, freeing healthcare professionals to focus on patient care.

Insight: A regional hospital implemented MedAI’s workflow automation system, achieving:

A 40% reduction in administrative errors.

Faster patient registration and billing processes.

Streamlined appointment scheduling.

These improvements enhance overall operational efficiency and patient experiences.

4. Advanced Predictive Analytics

Predictive analytics play a vital role in preventive care. MedAI’s algorithms identify patients at high risk of developing chronic conditions, enabling early interventions.

Case Study: A primary care network used MedAI’s predictive models to monitor high-risk patients, leading to:

Early lifestyle adjustments and medical interventions.

A 25% drop in emergency room visits.

Higher enrollment in wellness programs.

By shifting to proactive care, MedAI helps reduce healthcare costs and improve long-term outcomes.

5. Revolutionizing Telemedicine

The rise of telemedicine has been accelerated by MedAI’s AI-powered virtual care solutions. These tools enhance remote consultations by providing real-time patient insights and symptom analysis.

Example: A telehealth provider adopted MedAI’s platform and reported:

Improved diagnostic accuracy during virtual visits.

Reduced wait times for consultations.

Increased access to care for rural and underserved populations.

MedAI’s telemedicine tools ensure equitable, high-quality virtual care for all.

6. Streamlining Drug Development

MedAI accelerates the drug discovery process by analyzing clinical trial data and simulating drug interactions. Its AI models help identify promising compounds faster and improve trial success rates.

Case Study: A pharmaceutical company partnered with MedAI to enhance its drug development process, achieving:

Faster identification of viable drug candidates.

Shorter trial durations.

Reduced costs associated with trial phases.

These innovations are driving faster development of life-saving medications.

7. Natural Language Processing for Clinical Data

MedAI’s natural language processing (NLP) capabilities extract insights from unstructured medical data, such as physician notes and discharge summaries. This allows for faster retrieval of vital patient information.

Insight: A healthcare system implemented MedAI’s NLP engine and experienced:

Improved documentation accuracy.

Quicker clinical decision-making.

Enhanced risk assessment for high-priority cases.

By automating data extraction, MedAI reduces clinician workloads and improves care quality.

8. Robust Data Security and Compliance

Data security is paramount in healthcare. MedAI employs advanced encryption, threat monitoring, and regulatory compliance measures to safeguard patient information.

Example: A hospital using MedAI’s security solutions reported:

Early detection of potential data breaches.

Full compliance with healthcare privacy regulations.

Increased patient trust and confidence in data protection.

MedAI ensures that sensitive medical data remains secure in an evolving digital landscape.

Conclusion

MedAI by Tech4Biz Solutions is redefining healthcare through its pioneering medical technologies. By delivering AI-driven insights, personalized care, operational efficiency, and robust security, MedAI empowers healthcare providers to navigate the future of medicine with confidence.

As healthcare continues to evolve, MedAI remains a trailblazer, driving innovation that transforms patient care and outcomes. Explore MedAI’s comprehensive solutions today and discover the next frontier of medical excellence.

For More Reachout :https://medai.tech4bizsolutions.com/

[bbmct]

BBMCT: Initiate New Medical Research at AIIMS Hospital

The world of biomedicine and clinical trials is constantly evolving, and when it comes to groundbreaking research and innovative treatments, **British Biomedicine Clinical Trials (BBMCT)** stands at the forefront. As a trusted partner for advanced clinical research at **AIIMS Hospital**, BBMCT brings cutting-edge technologies, expert management, and access to diverse patient demographics, making it an ideal choice for initiating new medical studies. This partnership focuses on advancing clinical research while maintaining the highest standards of patient care, ethical compliance, and scientific rigor. Below, we explore the core elements that make BBMCT a pivotal force in the medical research landscape.

## Cutting-Edge Research Facilities Offered

BBMCT, in collaboration with **AIIMS Hospital**, offers state-of-the-art research facilities designed to meet the most stringent demands of modern clinical trials. The infrastructure at AIIMS, one of India’s premier medical institutions, is equipped with advanced laboratories, testing equipment, and specialized care units for patient monitoring. This environment ensures that all phases of clinical research, from pre-clinical testing to post-study analysis, are conducted with the highest precision and accuracy. Researchers have access to world-class resources that allow them to execute complex medical studies efficiently and safely, ensuring better outcomes for patients and more reliable data for sponsors.

## Expert Management for Clinical Studies

One of the key strengths of **BBMCT** is its expert management of clinical studies. The experienced team at BBMCT oversees every aspect of a clinical trial, ensuring that each study is conducted according to the highest standards. From trial design and protocol development to patient recruitment and data collection, BBMCT’s team brings years of expertise in clinical research management. This ensures that clinical trials are streamlined, efficient, and compliant with all regulatory requirements. The team’s focus is on optimizing the trial process, minimizing delays, and maximizing the integrity of the results, which ultimately improves the reliability of the research.

## Access a Varied Patient Demographic

One of the significant advantages of conducting clinical research at AIIMS Hospital through BBMCT is access to a **diverse patient population**. AIIMS is a tertiary care hospital with a large and varied patient demographic, including individuals from different regions, socioeconomic backgrounds, and ethnic groups. This diverse pool of patients enhances the generalizability of clinical trial results, ensuring that findings are relevant to a broad population. The ability to recruit patients with various medical conditions and from different age groups allows researchers to explore how treatments perform across different demographics, providing more comprehensive and inclusive data.

## Incorporate Advanced Technologies Seamlessly

In today’s rapidly advancing medical field, **technology integration** is essential for effective clinical trials. BBMCT, in partnership with AIIMS Hospital, ensures the seamless incorporation of cutting-edge technologies to optimize clinical research. From artificial intelligence (AI) and machine learning algorithms to advanced diagnostic tools, these technologies aid in the design, execution, and monitoring of clinical studies. AI-powered analytics can help in patient recruitment, predicting trial outcomes, and improving data analysis efficiency. Wearable health devices and remote monitoring tools also provide real-time data, ensuring patient safety and helping to track progress during clinical trials. By incorporating these technologies, BBMCT ensures that clinical trials are both innovative and efficient.

## Thorough Ethical Oversight Provided

When conducting clinical research, maintaining **ethical standards** is paramount to protecting patient safety and maintaining public trust. BBMCT, in collaboration with AIIMS Hospital, places a strong emphasis on **ethical oversight** at every stage of the clinical trial process. The research team ensures that all trials comply with regulatory guidelines and ethical norms, adhering to the principles of informed consent, patient confidentiality, and data protection. An independent ethics committee continuously reviews study protocols to ensure they meet the highest ethical standards, providing oversight to ensure that patients are treated with the utmost care and respect. This dedication to ethics fosters a culture of responsibility and integrity in clinical research.

## Collaborate with Leading Medical Specialists

BBMCT’s partnership with **AIIMS Hospital** offers access to some of the most renowned **medical specialists** across various fields of medicine. These specialists play a crucial role in designing and executing clinical trials, providing expert insights into the treatment or intervention being studied. Collaboration with experts from diverse medical disciplines ensures that clinical studies are approached from a multidisciplinary perspective, increasing their chances of success. Whether it’s oncology, cardiology, neurology, or infectious diseases, the availability of specialists enables the development of more comprehensive research protocols and enhances the quality of the trials. This collaboration fosters innovation and accelerates the discovery of new treatments.

## Streamlined Processes for Rapid Trials

Speed is often of the essence in clinical research, especially when dealing with **life-threatening diseases** or emerging health crises. BBMCT understands the importance of minimizing delays and has implemented **streamlined processes** to ensure that trials are completed quickly and efficiently. From expedited regulatory approvals to rapid patient recruitment and efficient data management, BBMCT has optimized every stage of the trial process. The close-knit collaboration with AIIMS Hospital also enables faster decision-making and coordination between various departments, reducing time lost in administrative processes. This focus on speed ensures that critical medical interventions reach the market faster, benefiting patients who are waiting for new treatments.

## Boost Your Study’s Success Rate

The success rate of clinical trials is often influenced by a variety of factors, including study design, patient recruitment, and data quality. With BBMCT’s comprehensive approach to clinical research at AIIMS Hospital, studies are designed with a focus on maximizing the **success rate**. BBMCT’s expertise in trial management ensures that trials are well-planned and executed, with careful attention to all details. The recruitment process is tailored to ensure that the right patients are selected for the right trials, and advanced monitoring techniques are employed to track patient progress. Additionally, the integration of technology and expert oversight further boosts the chances of a study’s success, ensuring that data is accurate and meaningful, leading to valid conclusions.

/media/e8892c99bc3ad9cc9d79bde5525d717d

## FAQs about BBMCT at AIIMS Hospital

**1. What makes BBMCT a trusted partner for clinical trials at AIIMS Hospital?**

BBMCT is trusted due to its expert management of clinical studies, advanced research facilities, and access to a diverse patient population at AIIMS Hospital. The partnership ensures high-quality, efficient trials with ethical oversight, collaboration with specialists, and the incorporation of advanced technologies. These factors combine to create a robust platform for medical research that maximizes success rates and accelerates innovation.

**2. How does BBMCT ensure patient safety during clinical trials?**

BBMCT ensures patient safety by following rigorous ethical guidelines and continuously monitoring patients during trials. The institution has a dedicated ethics committee that reviews protocols, and safety measures are built into every stage of the trial. In addition, advanced technologies such as real-time patient monitoring tools and AI-driven analysis ensure quick identification and response to any safety concerns.

**3. Can BBMCT help with recruiting patients for clinical trials?**

Yes, BBMCT has access to a large and diverse patient pool through its collaboration with AIIMS Hospital. This allows for efficient and effective patient recruitment across different medical conditions, age groups, and demographics, ensuring that the trial has the right participants to yield valid results.

**4. How does BBMCT incorporate technology into its clinical research?**

BBMCT integrates cutting-edge technologies such as AI, machine learning, wearable devices, and remote monitoring tools into clinical trials. These technologies optimize trial design, enhance patient recruitment, improve monitoring, and streamline data analysis, making the research process more efficient and insightful.

**5. What role do specialists play in the clinical trials managed by BBMCT?**

Specialists from AIIMS Hospital collaborate closely with BBMCT to design, execute, and oversee clinical trials. Their expertise in various medical fields ensures that trials are comprehensive, well-designed, and scientifically rigorous. Their input helps to optimize research protocols, leading to more accurate results and successful outcomes.

## Conclusion

In conclusion, **BBMCT** represents a forward-thinking and reliable partner for initiating new medical research at **AIIMS Hospital**. With its state-of-the-art facilities, expert trial management, and access to a wide-ranging patient demographic, BBMCT is ideally positioned to help advance medical science. The incorporation of the latest technologies and the commitment to maintaining high ethical standards ensure that each clinical trial conducted is a step toward finding innovative treatments that can improve patient outcomes. By collaborating with leading specialists and employing streamlined processes, BBMCT enhances the chances of success in clinical research, contributing to the ongoing evolution of medical care. Whether you are a researcher or a patient, BBMCT offers a platform for advancing medical knowledge and improving health outcomes on a global scale.

Subscribe to BBMCLINICALTRIALS YouTube channel for Research Insights

Be sure to subscribe to the **BBMCLINICALTRIALS YouTube channel** for exclusive access to the latest updates and in-depth insights into British Biomedicine Clinical Trials (BBMCT). Stay informed on cutting-edge research, clinical trial advancements, patient safety protocols, and breakthrough therapies being tested at AIIMS Hospital. Our channel provides expert discussions, industry trends, and detailed videos on the clinical trial process across various therapeutic areas. Whether you’re a healthcare professional, researcher, or simply interested in biomedical innovation, subscribing will keep you at the forefront of clinical research developments. Don’t miss out — join our community today!

[mastergarryblogs]

Clinical Trials Market Size & Share: Analysis & Key Drivers

Executive Summary

The global clinical trials market is poised for substantial growth, driven by increasing demand for innovative drug development, rising investments in pharmaceutical and biotechnology research, and technological advancements. By 2025, the market is projected to reach USD 79.7 billion, with a compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 5.8%. This growth is attributed to multiple factors, including the rising prevalence of chronic diseases, advancements in precision medicine, and the widespread adoption of decentralized and virtual clinical trials.

As we move towards 2032, the market is expected to surpass USD 94 billion. This article provides a comprehensive analysis of the global clinical trials market, exploring key trends, challenges, and opportunities shaping the industry. It also covers market segmentation, regional dynamics, and an in-depth competitive landscape, offering valuable insights into this dynamic sector.

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Clinical Trials Market Overview

The clinical trials market represents a critical aspect of the pharmaceutical and biotechnology sectors, where new drugs and therapies are rigorously tested for safety and efficacy. The increasing complexity of diseases, particularly chronic conditions such as cancer, diabetes, and neurological disorders, is driving demand for more specialized and targeted clinical trials.

Key Drivers of Growth

Rising Prevalence of Chronic Diseases: The global increase in chronic diseases is placing immense pressure on healthcare systems, necessitating the development of novel therapeutic solutions. This trend is particularly evident in oncology, cardiology, and neurology, where clinical trials are essential for advancing treatment options.

Technological Advancements: Innovations such as artificial intelligence (AI), big data analytics, and digital biomarkers are revolutionizing clinical trial designs. These technologies enhance data collection, patient recruitment, and monitoring, resulting in faster, more efficient trials.

Decentralized Clinical Trials (DCTs): The COVID-19 pandemic accelerated the adoption of decentralized clinical trials, allowing patients to participate remotely, which improves patient recruitment and retention. This model is expected to continue gaining traction due to its patient-centric approach.

Investment in Precision Medicine: The rise of personalized medicine has intensified the need for precision-based clinical trials, focusing on tailored treatments for individuals. This shift is particularly notable in oncology and rare disease studies.

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Clinical Trials Market Segmentation

By Phase

Phase I: Early-stage trials, where the focus is on testing the safety of a drug or treatment. As of 2025, Phase I trials are expected to grow at the highest CAGR of 7.3%, driven by the increasing investments in early-stage drug development.

Phase II: Focuses on evaluating the efficacy and safety of a drug in a larger group of patients. This phase is critical for determining the therapeutic potential of a new drug.

Phase III: This phase accounts for the largest market share, contributing over 45.4% in 2024. It involves large-scale testing and is pivotal in securing regulatory approval.

Phase IV: Post-marketing trials that assess long-term safety and effectiveness. Although this phase holds a smaller market share, its importance in confirming drug safety post-approval is undeniable.

By Service Type

Site Management Services: Dominated the market in 2024, accounting for 38.6%. Efficient site management is crucial for the execution of multi-site trials, which are increasingly complex.

Data Management & Analytics: Expected to grow at the highest CAGR of 8.2% due to the increasing integration of AI and big data in clinical research. This service plays a pivotal role in handling large volumes of data and ensuring accurate results.

Patient Recruitment Services: A critical service for ensuring that clinical trials reach their recruitment targets, overcoming challenges such as geographical barriers and patient awareness.

Regulatory Services: As clinical trials navigate the global regulatory landscape, these services are essential for compliance with ever-evolving guidelines.

By Study Design

Interventional Trials: The largest segment, making up over 72.6% of the market. These trials test the efficacy of new drugs or treatments by intervening in the treatment process.

Observational Studies: These studies monitor patients without intervening in their treatment. They provide valuable insights into real-world evidence (RWE).

Expanded Access Trials: These trials, which provide patients with access to unapproved drugs, are expected to grow at the highest CAGR of 7.8%, driven by increasing demand for experimental therapies.

By Indication

Oncology: The dominant therapeutic area, with oncology trials accounting for 38.3% of the market in 2024. The rise of targeted therapies and immunotherapies continues to fuel this growth.

Neurology: Expected to experience the highest CAGR of 7.6%, driven by the aging population and growing research into neurodegenerative diseases like Alzheimer's and Parkinson’s.

Cardiovascular Diseases: A major segment driven by the global burden of heart diseases and the need for innovative therapies.

Infectious Diseases & Immunology: This category is gaining importance, particularly in the wake of global health crises such as the COVID-19 pandemic.

By Region

North America: Dominates the global market with over 44.8% of the market share in 2024. The United States is a global leader in clinical trials, owing to its advanced healthcare infrastructure, strong regulatory frameworks, and substantial R&D investments.

Asia-Pacific: Expected to witness the highest CAGR of 9.3%, driven by growing clinical research activities in China, India, and Japan. This region benefits from lower trial costs, a diverse patient population, and improved healthcare infrastructure.

Europe: A key market with strong government funding for research and increasing trials focused on rare diseases.

Latin America & Middle East & Africa: These regions are experiencing steady growth, fueled by improved healthcare infrastructure and increased participation in global clinical trials.

Key Trends Shaping the Future of Clinical Trials

1. Rise of Decentralized Clinical Trials (DCTs)

Decentralized trials allow for remote monitoring of patients and digital data collection, which not only reduces the logistical challenges of site-based trials but also enhances patient accessibility. The adoption of telemedicine, wearable devices, and digital platforms is enabling this transformation, particularly for chronic disease management and rare conditions.

2. Integration of AI and Big Data

Artificial intelligence and machine learning are increasingly incorporated into clinical trials to optimize patient recruitment, data analysis, and trial design. The use of AI algorithms accelerates the process by identifying suitable candidates for trials based on real-world data (RWD), thus improving recruitment efficiency and reducing costs.

3. Patient-Centric Approaches

Patient-centric trial designs, which focus on minimizing patient burden, are becoming a core strategy in clinical trials. Virtual visits, home-based care, and real-time data collection are some of the innovations reshaping the patient experience.

4. Global Regulatory Harmonization

With clinical trials expanding across borders, the need for standardized global regulatory frameworks has never been greater. Efforts to harmonize regulatory processes, such as the ICH E6(R2) guidelines, are making it easier for multinational trials to streamline operations and ensure compliance.

5. Advancements in Precision Medicine

As the demand for personalized therapies increases, clinical trials focused on precision medicine are gaining momentum. This trend is particularly significant in oncology and neurology, where tailored treatments are offering hope to patients with complex conditions.

Competitive Landscape

The clinical trials market is highly competitive, with key players employing strategic initiatives to gain market share. Leading players such as LabCorp, IQVIA, PPD, and Parexel are at the forefront of adopting new technologies, forming strategic partnerships, and acquiring smaller players to expand their capabilities.

Recent Developments

IQVIA: In February 2024, IQVIA launched an AI-powered patient recruitment platform, leveraging real-world data to enhance trial efficiency.

LabCorp: In March 2024, LabCorp partnered with a leading digital health company to implement remote monitoring solutions for decentralized clinical trials.

Charles River Laboratories: In May 2024, the company acquired a mid-sized CRO specializing in oncology and rare disease trials, strengthening its portfolio.

Clinical Trials Market Future Outlook

The global clinical trials market is expected to continue evolving, with increasing adoption of decentralized trials, AI-driven analytics, and real-world evidence. The integration of these technologies is poised to reduce trial costs, improve recruitment, and streamline trial execution, which will ultimately accelerate drug development and bring new therapies to market faster.

Conclusion

The global clinical trials market is experiencing a period of significant transformation, driven by technological innovation, the rise of decentralized trials, and a shift towards patient-centric designs. With strong growth projected for the coming years, particularly in the Asia-Pacific region and in precision medicine, the market offers tremendous opportunities for industry players. As the regulatory environment continues to evolve and new challenges arise, the ability to adapt quickly and leverage advanced technologies will be essential for staying ahead in this competitive landscape.

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[buzzdixonwriter]

What Are The Odds?

Let’s squeeze this in before the jury returns, my best guess/es on what’s about to happen in the New York Supreme Court under Judge Juan Marchan.  Following percentages are based on what is publicly known about the case.  There are at-present unknown factors re jury dynamics, etc., we won’t know about until after the trial ends that account for the missing percentages.

. . .

Trump Is Convicted:  65% The prosecution built a solid case, New York law allows contrarian jurors to be removed if it can be shown they’re deliberately trying to cause a mistrial.  Trump will claim he’s bee framed (duh) but takes a major blow among undecided / independent voters and GOP voters already uncomfortable with him but heretofore willing to hold their noses and vote.

Hung Jury (2 jurors):  10% The court can reasonably remove one deliberately contrarian juror but not two without running risk of being overturned.  Trump proclaims two jurors not voting to convict exonerates him (duh X 2) but nor non-MAGAs it’s seen as the prosecution proving their case but not being able to convince two pro-Trumpers to do the right thing.  Not as bad a political outcome for Trump as a conviction but he can’t build off it.  Retrial after the election.

Hung Jury (3 – 4 jurors):  5% Viewed as a prosecution loss.  Clearly most jurors think he’s guilty but the margin of disagreement is enough to cast doubt on the prosecution’s case.  Trump benefits politically by being able to reinforce his witch hunt claims.  Retrial unlikely.

Hung Jury (5+ jurors):  1% Trump victory.  Prosecution failure.  Trump base energized.  No retrial.

Trump Acquitted:  0% Ain’t gonna happen, too much evidence to convince all twelve jurors he’s innocent.

. . .

Sentencing if found guilty: No odds on this, but the following options are on the table…

Fine only -- These are Class E felonies, the lowest felony class in New York.  It’s very common for first time Class E convictions to result in just fines, no prison time.  Assume there will be fines with all the following sentences.

Unmonitored probation -- Symbolic imprisonment.  He’s allowed to roam free but for a set number of years he’s theoretically open to re-arrest and imprisonment if convicted of a new crime committed post-sentencing.

Monitored probation -- Another primarily symbolic imprisonment.  While he’ll need to check in periodically with New York probation authorities, he’ll probably be allowed to do so remotely or through his lawyers.  Does hold the potential of seeing him imprisoned after the election if he blows it off during the campaign.

Imprisonment -- Unlikely to get a multi-year sentence by Judge Marchan may out him behind bars overnight to demonstrate he’s not above the law.  It’s also possible sentencing may be deferred until after the election.  While Judge Marchan is unlikely to cite contempt as a reason to imprison him (Trump could claim double jeopardy since he’s already been fined), Trump’s bad behavior during the trial isn’t going to lessen the chance he’ll go to jail.  Eugene Debs (1920) and Lyndon LaRouche (1992) both ran presidential campaigns from behind bars.

. . .

Political Outcome: Barring exoneration (5+ jurors voting not guilty), Trump gains nothing from this trial.  Exoneration boosts him somewhat but is unlikely to convince any anti-Trumpers to vote for him.  A near-miss hung jury leaves the status quo in place while a conviction damages him among independents, mainstream GOP, and even a few MAGA-types who will see him as a god who failed.

  © Buzz Dixon

[vikenticomeshome]

Cyberchase - Revising Digit's Backstory (part 2)

The Hacker was more organized for the Gollywood bank heist than he was with the armored cars. He was the man in the recharger chair monitoring the situation, as he could not risk being seen. Digit did much of the covert work of quietly unlocking doors and drilling holes in walls, as The Hacker could not risk losing his most valuable henchman. Buzz and Delete were there for the crowd control and heavy lifting, as they were too stupid to be trusted with anything else.

The bank heist went well at first. The Hacker hacked into the security cameras and set them to only show a looping video on the security monitors. Buzz and Delete tore apart the alarm system as instructed. However, in their fumbling, they also tore apart the phone system, which wasn't part of the plan. Digit opened the vault without any difficulty. They vacuumed up Snelfu after Snelfu into a small fleet of remote-controlled Cybercoupes. As each Cybercoupe filled, it was sent back to the Northern Frontier via a different route. If a Cybercoupe was intercepted, it was set to blow-up to hide the navigational data. The Hacker quickly became a multi-millionaire.

However, even The Hacker could not anticipate everything. As the Cyber-sun began to rise, the guard watching the monitors realized that the cameras were still showing nighttime. The guard was not alarmed yet. They thought that maybe the cameras were malfunctioning. The guard attempted to call their supervisor, but the line was dead. Recognizing that they were cut off and fearing for their safety, the guard pressed the button to set off the alarm. Nothing happened. This confirmed the guard's fears that the system had been tempered with.

At this point, another worker was able to alert the Gollywood PD. The Hacker pulled everyone out. Digit was able to escape unseen, but Buzz and Delete were caught. The Hacker knew that he was in trouble, as Buzz and Delete would tell everyone who he was, and where his base of operations was. Without a proper ship like the Grim Wreaker, he became a sitting duck.

Digit was able to disguise himself as a guard, pick the lock to the holding cell, and bring them out. However, there was no time to ruin the security cameras. For the first time, Digit's face, albeit disguised, was associated with the crime. By the time Buzz and Delete were retrieved, they had mentioned the name "The Hacker", with an emphasis on the "The". But that name meant nothing in Gollywood, and the police had no idea where the money had gone.

However, the heist of the Bank of Gollywood was a big deal. Nine million Snelfus were lost. The armored truck heists were allowed to remain local affairs, but something this big went straight to Motherboard. At this point, The Hacker laid low. His money was hidden in Valussa. He sent Buzz and Delete away to a Cyber-Cheese factory, where they could blend in with many more Botopolis kit robots. The remote-controlled Cyber-Coupes were destroyed across Cyberspace. Then, all The Hacker had for transport was the slow pod that he was banished in. And all The Hacker had for an ally and caretaker was Digit.

Motherboard and Dr. Marbles were shown what little evidence remained. The two captured bots had claimed to have been working for someone called "The Hacker", but they had escaped before any further questioning could be done. There was also footage of the last time the bots were seen, where they were being led away from the prison by a guard. Motherboard and Dr. Marbles recognized Digit through the disguise, but they decided to hold that information back, as they were in disbelief over seeing him again.

The Hacker and Digit were put on trial for the crime, in spite of the lack of evidence. The prosecution presented The Hacker as a cunning mastermind causing chaos beyond what Cyberspace had ever seen, with Digit as his purpose-built tool. The Hacker presented himself as a sick Cyborg with a broken power supply living out his exile. He arrived in a recharger chair cobbled together from odds and ends that he (truthfully) needed to survive.

The entire Northern Frontier was searched for the Snelfus or any alternate forms of transport, but nothing was found. Without the two bots, the stolen Snelfus, or any reasonable transport to cross Cyberspace to reach Gollywood, the entire case against The Hacker rested on the idea that Digit worked alongside The Hacker during the heist. However, without the information from Dr. Marbles or Motherboard, they could not prove that he was in the guard uniform. Digit took the stand and denied any involvement for himself or The Hacker with the bank heist or the prison break.

As part of the questioning, Digit was asked about The Hacker's prior crime of stealing the Encryptor Chip, and whether he believed that The Hacker had tried to take over Cyberspace at the time. Digit's reply was "Well of course I do! I retrieved the chip and turned him in to Motherboard for it!". With the reveal that Digit had previously foiled The Hacker's theft of the Encryptor Chip, there was no way to convince anyone that he had helped The Hacker in the Gollywood bank heist. The prosecution's case imploded.

Though Motherboard believed that The Hacker had done it, she was bound by the laws. The Hacker and Digit were acquitted, and the Cyber-Constitution ensured that they could not be tried again for the Gollywood Heist. Shortly after The Hacker left the courtroom, Buzz and Delete quietly returned to him from the Cyber-cheese factory.

The Hacker's wealth was gradually retrieved from Valussa and used to fund the construction of the Grim Wreaker. There were times when Digit yearned for the old days when they both worked at Control Central, but any serious idea of leaving The Hacker had left him. He wasn't even sure when that had happened. Maybe it had been that first ride to Valussa. Hacker had been so quiet, trying to keep himself alive with what little power Motherboard had so cruelly marooned him with.

Meanwhile, Motherboard and Dr. Marbles were distraught. They realized at last that Digit had been instrumental in saving Cyberspace once already. There was no doubt now that he would have never gone willingly with The Hacker. No, their theory was that Digit had been abducted, they had failed to act, and that The Hacker had reprogrammed him to prevent further betrayals. They desperately wanted to save him, but forcibly reprogrammed borgs were an absolute nightmare of red tape to deal with. They needed time to build a case.

With the Grim Wreaker completed, and still millions of Snelfus left-over, The Hacker was ready announce himself to the world. But it wouldn't be another bank heist this time. With his money out of Valussa, and no further use for the site's armored cars, he had no reason to keep their lights on.

And so, The Hacker revealed his power to all of Cyberspace. Buzz and Delete were delighted, for what that was worth. Digit, on the other hand, found himself feeling sick. This wasn't an armored car dumping its money and having it blamed on rust. This wasn't a big bank getting drained. This was an entire Cybersite being conquered and dropping off the map. He thought back to the theft of the Encryptor Chip, the first and last time he had stood against The Hacker. Had Motherboard and Dr. Marbles been right to send The Hacker away after all? He thought back to that first armored car, when it had just been him and The Hacker. He had only wanted to get him the money to keep them both alive. It had seemed like no big deal back then, when The Hacker was so weak and desperate. The Hacker wasn't weak anymore.

But then, what was Digit supposed to do? The Hacker would surely punish him if he tried to defect now. And where would he go? He knew he couldn't go back to Motherboard. From the armored car heists, to the bank robbery, to freeing Buzz and Delete, to ruining the court case against The Hacker, Digit knew he was a bad guy now. Nothing he could do would change that. The Hacker had only had one chance, a chance that he had thrown away by stealing the encryptor chip. Digit knew that he had received many more chances than that, and he had thrown the last one away in that courtroom.

No, he had to do something to stop The Hacker. Even if he couldn't side with Motherboard, he had to side with Valussa. Digit decided to send a coded message down to Valussa. If they could figure it out, they would be saved. Maybe, just maybe, The Hacker wouldn't find out this time. A future of armored trucks and banks would be better than this.

At that point, Dr Marbles had arrived at Valussa to assess the situation. The circuits were scrambled, and it had been done by someone who knew how to make the repairs as difficult as possible. There was no doubt that The Hacker had done it personally. Still, without inside information, this was going to take ages to repair. Motherboard had insisted that she would be fine while he was away, and that his priority was to save Valussa. And so, he started from the site's endpoint, with its known power requirements. He needed to work out the correct position of each node in the giant tangled circuit.

And then the coded message came through. It was Digit's work. His writing style was all over it. But why was he sending it? Was this some sort of taunt? Surely, The Hacker would approve a taunt to be sent without writing it in code.

Still, the code wasn't hard to work out.

"MOVE MOON RAY LEFT TWO FEET"

Dr. Marbles read the message over and over again. Was this some kind of trick? Was it really this simple? Dr. Marbles made some calculations, this time starting from the moon. Yes, even among the mess of circuits, there was an alternate path there. Moving the moon ray left by two feet would re-activate the site. It was almost as if The Hacker had left an alternate path on purpose so that he could make a big show of turning on the lights later. Marbles gave the order, and the site was restored. After everything, Digit had saved Valussa.

Unfortunately, The Hacker was also able to break the code. He was aware of Digit's betrayal. And this time, he had two more henchman, a few million Snelfus, and a large ship. There was no reason to be calm this time. No, this time, The Hacker was enraged. After everything they had been through together, Digit had ruined him again. First, The Hacker had lost the Encryptor Chip, and now he had lost the very first site he tried to take over.

Of course, Digit needed to be caged. If this was some attempt to defect to Motherboard, then The Hacker had to quash that immediately. Digit was still his perfect machine, and he had given him all sorts of useful abilities. if Digit stood in opposition to The Hacker, it would ruin him.

But Digit was not so easily caged. After all, he still had his beak, purpose-built by The Hacker to open such locks. And so, he made his escape.

The Hacker refused to give up, of course. The Grim Wreaker roared past Valussa in pursuit of Digit. The only option available to Digit was Control Central. Sure, between the bank and the armored cars, he was terrified of what Motherboard might do to him. Still, if there was anyone that could cause The Hacker to flee, it would be her.

Buzz and Delete pleaded with The Hacker to turn away from Control Central, as they feared Motherboard's wrath. However, he would not listen. The Hacker was just too damn mad. What had started as a small show of power in an insignificant cybersite...what had started at armored truck robberies...had become a full frontal assault on her. This wasn't part of the plan. The breach wasn't there. The virus wasn't there. Motherboard was still the same bastion of strength as before. But Motherboard would not have his bird, even if Hacker had to crush it against the site's dome.

As both Digit and the Grim Wreaker neared Control Central, Motherboard opened a portal. With The Hacker closing in, Digit reluctantly entered the portal. The Grim Wreaker attempted to follow.

And Motherboard put her foot down.

And so, Digit was face-to-face with Motherboard again after so long. The dome of Control Central's main room reminded him of the bird cage he had just left. And he wasn't stupid enough to try drilling his way out of this one. Not when she had eyes all of the room. Her first question was "Are you hurt?". He knew his wing was broken. "I'm fine. Thank you," he replied. He felt her running medical scans almost immediately. "Your wing is broken," she said. He wondered when she had bought a medical scanner calibrated for Cy-boids.

Motherboard continued. "I can help fix it, but I need your permission to power you down first." Powering down seemed like a good idea right about now. Digit nodded, and Motherboard powered him down. When Digit awoke later, he was in his old bed. For a moment, he had some hope that everything had just been a bad dream. Maybe he would get up, join The Hacker in the Legacy Communications Array (LCA) for its near-constant maintenance needs, and everything would be like how it had been before.

But, of course, The Hacker was nowhere to be found. Everything Digit had done was real. And now, he was in Control Central. He wasn't really in the same room as Motherboard. No, Motherboard was the room, more or less. Her eyes were everywhere. Her sensors were everywhere. Every wall in the place had at least one layer of circuit boards behind it, hence the removable decorative panels.

With no other option, Digit arrived in the main control room. Dr. Marbles was at the keyboard, and Motherboard was on-screen.

To be continued

[drprashantdwivedi]

Healing Hearts, Saving Lives: Cardiological Innovations

The human heart, a complex organ that beats about 100,000 times a day, represents an example of biotechnological and medical challenges. In the dynamic realm of heart disease, medical science continues to push the boundaries, transforming how we understand, diagnose and treat heart disease.

Advances in cardiac care

Modern cardiology: technological change

The best cardiologist in jaipur and medical experts are witnessing groundbreaking technological advances in cardiology. From minimally invasive treatments to cutting-edge diagnostic technologies, there have been remarkable changes in heart disease, providing patients with more precise and effective personalized treatments.

Key Technological Innovations

Accuracy of research

Advanced imaging technologies such as cardiac MRI, CT angiography and 3D echocardiography have revolutionized cardiac diagnosis. These amazing healing techniques:

Get very nice heart drawings

Identify microstructural abnormalities

Measure heart function with unprecedented accuracy.

Very simple interventions

Modern cardiovascular treatments prioritize patient comfort and rapid recovery:

Robot-assisted cardiac surgery

catheter-based therapy

Transcatheter valve replacement

Keyhole surgical technique

Artificial intelligence in cardiac care

AI algorithms are changing cardiac research:

Prediction of cardiovascular risk

Analysis of the complex medical picture

Development of personalized treatment protocols

increasing early diagnosis

Chemical regeneration

          Here are ways to win a heart transplant:

Stem cell therapies

Tissue Engineering

Cell repair system

Bioengineered heart valves

Cardiovascular disease prevention: a holistic approach

Understanding risk factors

Comprehensive cardiac care extends beyond treatment, with an emphasis on disease prevention through:

Genetic research

Lifestyle change program

Individual nutritional counseling

Strategies for managing stress

Technical assessment solutions

Wearable technology and smart health devices make this possible:

Continuous heart rate monitoring

Early detection of arrhythmia

Real-time health information monitoring

Remote Patient Monitoring

The model of patient-centered care

Individual treatment strategies

Modern cardiology focuses on individualized approaches:

Genetic risk assessment

Planned participation

Comprehensive patient education

Holistic wellness approaches

Psychological support

Recognizing the emotional components of heart failure, comprehensive care now includes:

Mental health counseling

Support group interactions

Stress reduction programs

Advanced grooming services

Global perspectives and future directions

Emerging research frontiers

Ongoing research requires:

Nanotechnology in cardiovascular medicine

Gene editing strategies

Comprehensive pharmaceutical interventions

Individual therapy treatment

Collaborative medical biology

International medical cooperation is accelerating:

Knowledge sharing

Research Discussion

Transfer of technology

Global clinical trials

Conclusion

The best cardiologist in Jaipur and around the world continues to push the boundaries of medicine, transforming heart disease with innovative technologies, personalized approaches and a comprehensive understanding of heart health.