Vice sank into the cab's backseat, the door thudding shut as the driver grumbled and pulled into the rainy dawn.
Drizzle streaked the windows, blurring the glow of Feng Mo—one of Hansang's bigger cities, alive with wet shimmer and the hum of early risers. The damp leather creaked under him, his mind still buzzing from the system's blue flash at 2:27 AM.
Slow to Panic, 195 Life Points, the Skill Shop's tantalizing tease. '1,050 points,' he thought, rubbing his eyes with a weary hand. 'I have to work harder if this'll make me better.'
The cab wove through streets pulsing with neon lights, horns blaring faintly through the rain, and the chatter of vendors setting up under awnings.
Hansang unfolded beyond the glass—a small island nation, nestled near Japan and Korea, but smaller, fiercer, a world of its own.
It was a mash of Chinese flair, Korean rhythm, and indigenous soul, thriving in its quirks. In Feng Mo, tiled roofs curved beside glass towers that pierced the low clouds, their reflections dancing on wet pavement.
Red lanterns swayed over noodle stalls—their spice slicing through the damp air, mingling with the scent of rain-soaked earth—while drones hummed overhead, ferrying goods through the mist.
The people matched the blend: tan skins from native roots had mingled with fairer foreign tones over centuries, now a toss-up of fair tan or modestly pale to stark white in any family, a patchwork of heritage in every face.
Vice glimpsed them through the streaked window—tan vendors haggling over steaming pots, pale kids darting between umbrellas with school bags bouncing underneath raincoats—all Hansang's own, their voices lilting in the local tongue, a melody against the drizzle's pattern.
It was 2030, and Hansang was booming.
Tech soared—screens flashed breakthroughs in glowing holo-ads, drones crisscrossed the sky delivering packages—and the entertainment scene ruled, stars blazing on every billboard, their faces larger than life.
Feng Mo wasn't the core city, but it pulsed with the surge, a hub where tradition met relentless progress. Vice's hospital stood as part of that wave, he recalled it's visage, a sleek tower of medicine amid the bustle, its class walls a promise of healing in a city that never slowed.
'Small land, big heart,' he thought, a spark of pride flaring as the cab rolled past a stall steaming with dumplings under a flickering holo-sign, the vendor's tan hands deftly folding dough while a pale customer tapped a payment drone.
The cab sped up, tires hissing on wet pavement, yanking Vice from his drift. Rain tapped the roof in a steady rhythm, a backdrop to the city's hum, until a blur ahead sharpened his gaze—a bus stop, its glass shelter packed with chaos.
Not waiting—panicking. Shouts pierced the drizzle, arms flailing wildly, a crowd circling something low to the ground. Vice's instincts flared, a jolt of adrenaline cutting through his fatigue.
"Stop!" he exclaimed, lurching forward, his voice sharp enough to startle the driver. The man swore under his breath, brakes squealing as the cab skidded to a halt, rocking Vice against the seat.
He burst out, rain stinging his face, and shoved through the crowd, shouting, "I'm a doctor!" His pulse hammered, but his hands stayed steady—[Slow to Panic] weaving calm into his chaos. The crowd parted.
commuters in soaked coats clutching umbrellas, a teen gripping a dripping bag—revealing a girl, maybe ten, sprawled on the concrete.
Her body jerked, limbs thrashing against the wet ground, foam flecking her lips. Seizure. Vice dropped beside her, cold seeping through his knees into his bones.
"Back up!" he snapped, voice clearer than he'd expected, slicing through his rush and worry for the girl before him. The trait was working, steadying him like a lifeline.
A woman—her mother, tan hands trembling—knelt across from him, eyes wild with terror. "Help her!" she cried as Vice fumbled his ID card from his pocket, flashing the damp plastic to prove his words.
He scanned fast: eyes rolled back, breath ragged and shallow, skin pale against her dark braid plastered with rain. 'Epilepsy?' he thought, tilting her head gently to clear her airway, sliding his soaked jacket under her twitching skull to cushion it.
He eased her body sideways, keeping her from choking. "Does she have seizures?" he asked, his voice calm under the pounding pressure, rain dripping from his hair into his eyes.
"No!" the mother sobbed, her voice cracking. "Never—she was fine, then—" She broke off, hands clutching her soaked scarf.
'Not epilepsy,' Vice thought, mind racing through possibilities. Fever? Toxin? Trauma? Too vague, too many gaps. He pressed two fingers to her neck—pulse wild but there, thumping against his steady touch. "Call 322!" he yelled, glancing up at the crowd.
A man fumbled his phone, hands shaking; a woman thrust hers at Vice, urgency in her pale eyes. "You talk—they're coming!"
He grabbed it, rain smearing the screen as he pressed it to his ear. "Emergency—Haejin Road bus stop. Girl, maybe ten, seizing. No history. Foaming, unresponsive. Pulse fast, airway's open. Hurry." His voice held firm, clipped and precise, the operator firing back a clipped confirmation.
He tossed the phone to the woman, focus narrowing—'keep her breathing, keep her alive,' rain pooling around them on the cracked pavement.
Minutes dragged, rain drenching his shirt, plastering it to his skin, her spasms slowing but lingering like a stubborn echo. Vice braced her gently, shielding her head from the concrete with his hands.
'Not enough,' he thought, frustration gnawing at his chest. No kit, no diagnosis—just holding on, a stopgap.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing sharp and urgent, and an ambulance roared up, its lights slicing through the gray dawn. Relief surged as medics—two in crisp Hansang uniforms, one tan, one pale—leaped out with gear, their boots splashing in puddles.
"Seizure, no history," Vice rattled off, stepping back as they swept in with oxygen and a stretcher, their movements swift and practiced.
"Onset six minutes, easing now." They nodded, brisk and efficient, hooking her to monitors and lifting her onto the stretcher.
The mother followed, staggering after them, pausing only to gasp, "Thank you!" through tears before the ambulance doors slammed shut with a wet clang.
The crowd hummed—gratitude rippling through them, awe in their murmurs, a kid whispering, "Is he a doctor?"
Vice stood, lightly soaked, his chest tight with a strange longing. 'She's stable,' he thought, hands flexing, rain dripping from his fingertips.
[Slow to Panic] had kept him solid—no shakes, just focus, a steady thread through the storm. But the itch grew, sharp and insistent. 'I could've done more,' he thought. 'Could've found the cause, stopped it—not just waited.'
The ambulance's wail faded into the rain, and Vice's resolve hardened like steel. 'The system. Those theories.' 1,050 LP—Anatomy, Physiology—could've filled his gaps, shored up his average foundations. He'd be a whole other person, not just a rookie scrambling in the dark.
"Hey, doc!" a voice called—a stocky man, fair-skinned, clapping his back with a meaty hand. "You're a lifesaver." A pale woman nodded, offering a shy smile through the drizzle.
"Ah… Thanks," Vice mumbled, awkward under their gaze, giving them a slow bow, his voice barely audible over the rain. 'Just did what I could,' he thought, swiping wet hair from his face, the strands clinging stubbornly.
He waved them off with a stiff hand and shy smile, turning to the road. Another cab idled nearby, its yellow paint stark against the gloom.
He flagged it, sliding in with a wet thud, the driver raising a brow at his soggy state.
"Bao Hospital," Vice said, his tone firm despite the chill sinking into his bones. The cab pulled off, Feng Mo's towers rising through the misted glass, their lights winking like distant stars. He leaned back, water pooling under his feet, mind churning. '1,050 points.' Lila's show, his family, patients like that girl—he'd grind harder, unlock those skills. No more half-steps. He'd rise above average, make time for his family yet. As the cab sped toward Bao Hospital, Vice didn't know what awaited him—just that he'd face it head-on.
He would never expect it to be a matter of salary.