The Healer Guild's registration window had twelve people in line.
I was seventh.
Application form in my left hand, the "Reason for Transfer" field already filled in: Personal development considerations. Clean. Safe. Nothing worth pressing further. Healers switching guilds was common. Used-up consumables get swapped for fresh stock — nobody cares what a Battery thinks.
The brace on my left arm looked like an ordinary fracture stabilizer from the outside. The bone inside had been reknit under Imprint-forced maintenance. Full recovery would take another three weeks or so.
Three weeks. Enough.
"Skill Rank: E-Rank Healing Arts, Touch of Vitality, Proficiency 91%." I finished the last field and paused.
There was a second line in my system panel. The voice in my mind — calm, neutral, like someone reading off a bill: Decay Touch, D-Rank potential, Proficiency 6%. Healing Pool remaining: 94.3%.
I didn't write the second line on the form.
"E-Rank?"
The voice came from behind me. That bored, dissecting kind of tone.
I didn't look up. "You talking to me?"
"You're the only E here."
I turned around.
Male, mid-to-late twenties, old Dark Flame jacket — guild insignia still on, rank badge gone. He leaned against the wall, holding a hot drink, watching me the way someone watches an exhibit.
Sol Song.
Dark Flame's C-Rank caster. Attack Class, offensive-forward. After every dungeon run, he'd leave me standing there waiting while he recovered, never said thanks. Once we ran three high-difficulty Rifts back to back. My Healing Energy Pool was drained to nothing — I nearly blacked out in front of the teleport gate. What he said was: "Your Battery capacity's too low. Time to swap for a new one."
Battery. Sometimes he just said it straight.
"You here applying for Silver Wing?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"E-Rank won't get in. Silver Wing jumped to A-Rank last month, entry minimum went straight to C. You're making a wasted trip."
"Thanks for the heads-up." I turned back and kept waiting.
He was quiet for a moment. "That arm — is that from the Dark Flame A-Rank incident?"
My pen stopped for a second. "You heard?"
"Not just heard. I was in the batch that left that day, half an hour before you came out of the Rift. Caught Han Roar closing the teleport gate." He took a sip. "Heard afterward that a Healer got left inside. I figured it was you."
"Didn't manage to die."
"…That's actually kind of surprising. You used to always—" He paused. "Never mind."
"Always what?"
"Be pretty compliant."
The window called a number. The D-Rank Healer ahead of me stood up to hand in their documents. I moved up a step.
A little while later, Sol Song walked to the vending machine, grabbed two cups, and set one down beside me. "It's free. Go ahead."
"Not thirsty. Thanks."
He snorted and drank that one too. "Did Han Roar compensate you? For the arm."
"Injury sustained during a mission. Risk assumed by the individual."
He was quiet for a few seconds.
"Damn," he said.
"Kind of late for that reaction."
"I didn't think there was anything wrong with it before," he said. Something indeterminate in his voice. "Just thought…"
I didn't ask.
* * *
When my number came up, I handed over the materials, waited three minutes. The staff member said: "Current Silver Wing recruitment requires C-Rank minimum. Materials returned. Please watch for the next announcement."
Sol Song was watching from the side, expression reading told you so.
I shoved the materials back into my bag and found a corner to sit down in, pulled out a Rift strategy brief and pretended to read it.
His application went through about ten minutes later. A recruiter came out to discuss terms. Sol Song's face had that particular looseness that comes from negotiations went well enough.
He came back and sat down next to me. "You have other options? It's not just Silver Wing — Dawn Glow and Iron Shield are both hiring. Don't get stuck on the E-Rank label. Your Imprint foundation is actually solid, you've just been held down by Dark Flame all this time—"
"Sol Song," I said. "Lately, does your Imprint output ever feel like it's not quite responding right?"
He blinked. "…Sometimes. Mildly."
"Early sign of long-term high-intensity strain. Once you're inside an A-Rank guild the pace only gets faster. If you don't adjust now, you'll have problems after." I set the brief aside. "Let me take a look? Just a routine circulation check."
He considered for maybe three seconds, then tilted his neck.
A C-Rank Imprint's focus point sits at the side of the neck, three inches above the collarbone. I pressed my right index and middle fingers against it, closed my eyes, and made a show of sensing energy flow.
Decay energy seeped in through my fingertips. Light. Steady. Even. Like water soaking into soil.
The voice in my mind came — no inflection, no pause: Decay injection complete. Target Rank: C. Injection volume: low dose. Activation mode: Delayed Activation, fourteen days. Projected symptoms: accelerated Imprint degradation, reduced output efficiency, no significant initial awareness. Healing Pool consumed: -0.8%.
-0.8%.
I noted the number.
I opened my eyes and withdrew my hand. "Circulation's normal. Slight minor irregularity. Recommend avoiding high-difficulty dungeons for the two weeks before you join — let the Imprint self-calibrate."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
* * *
After he left, I sat in the chair for another ten minutes, letting the residual Decay sensation bleed out from my fingertips.
The Healer Guild lobby was loud. A new batch of announcements had just gone up. People scrambling for spots, people tapping crystals, someone laughing out loud for no apparent reason.
A perfectly ordinary afternoon.
He'd spent three years making it seem normal to treat Healers like Batteries. Making it so I couldn't even find a reason to be angry. That was its own kind of complicity.
I stood up and walked toward the notice board.
There was a temp recruitment posting. D-Rank Guild "Iron Blade." Hiring E-Rank Healers for mid-level Rift runs. Daily pay. No long-term contract. Perfect.
I noted down the contact crystal number and headed for the door.
Today was day nine since Awakening.
Fourteen days from now, Sol Song's Imprint degradation would start showing. Silver Wing's medical staff would say: high-pressure environment accelerating wear, Imprint overuse. Perfectly normal. Completely reasonable.
No trace of any external interference.
Five left.
My communication crystal buzzed. A message from an unknown number — no nickname, no guild marker.
Three words:
"Where are you."