Wednesday night draped the Xong household in a lazy hush, the kind that begged for pajamas and bad TV.
Vice had stumbled home from the Trauma Centre, legs like jelly, head throbbing like a drum solo, but duty called, Lila needed her check-up.
Downstairs, he'd found her sprawled on the couch like a bored queen, phone glued to her hand, thumb swiping through Insta with a dramatic sigh.
"Vice, I'm losing it," she'd whined, tossing her long black hair, still in that perfect ballerina bun, because of course it was.
"Stuck here alone all day, no one to dazzle, just me and these four walls. I'm basically a hermit now."
He'd reminded her that everyone will be back home by Friday then. She just continued sighing.
He'd smirked, setting out dinner—steamed rice, some sad pork scraps Mom had left in the fridge, and a half-wilted carrot he'd chopped up for "health."
Lila poked at it, grimacing. "This is prison food, you know that, right?"
Vice snorted, "Eat it, princess, or I'll tell Mom you're starving me."
She'd stuck out her tongue, then perked up, eyes gleaming.
"Tomorrow's the big one, though, final practice before the show! Lead role, Vice, lead! If I nail it, I'm in with the Hansang Ballet Orchestra—famous, fancy, the works!" She'd twirled her chopstick like a wand, nearly spearing the carrot, and Vice had ducked, laughing.
"Watch it, you'll poke my eye out before you're famous!"
Post-meal, he'd checked her ankle—twisted last week, still a bit puffy. "Lift it," he'd said, all doctor-y, wrapping it tighter while she yapped.
"I'm so ready, my pirouettes are fire, Vice, fire. You're coming Friday, right? Gotta see me shine!"
He'd nodded, distracted, muttering, "Yeah, yeah, rest it, okay?" She'd huffed, "You're no fun," and flounced off to her room, phone already out, probably posting something like:
"Cousin's a buzzkill, but I'm a star!"
Vice shook his head, her ballet dreams buzzing in his ears like an overexcited bee.
In his room, Vice flopped onto his bed, springs creaking under his weight.
The streetlights glowed through the blinds, painting stripes on his wall, and his neck ached like he'd hauled bricks, not bandages.
Before checking the system like he really wanted to, he pulled out his phone from his PJs pocket and looked through his messages; they were mostly empty.
But a grin crept up as he dropped the phone.
"System, hit me," he said, voice low, rubbing his hands like a kid at a candy store.
The ping came, and messages flooded his brain, a laundry list of patients he'd half-forgotten. "Yeah, yeah." he muttered, waving them off, landing on the good stuff.
Name: Doctor Vice Xong
Titles: N/A
Traits: [Slow to Panic], [NeuroFlux Overdrive]*
Life Points: 615
Skill Shop [Command "View" to open]
Quest Menu: N/A
Then the kicker:
[NeuroFlux Overdrive: Your mind transcends mortal limits—thoughts ignite like supercharged synapses, processing medical knowledge at the speed of intuition. Differential diagnoses unfold in nanoseconds; complex treatment plans crystallize between heartbeats. Your brain doesn't just work faster—it rewires reality's latency, turning deliberation into instinct.]
Vice's jaw hit the floor.
"Holy – what?" he yelped, bolting upright.
"That's superhero stuff!" His heart raced, hyped out of his mind.
"Gotta test this, now!" He clapped, grinning like an idiot.
"Pneumonia symptoms, go!"
Bam, like light shining across a room the answer was already there. Cough, fever, chest pain, shortness of breath.
It slammed into his head like a PowerPoint on steroids.
"Whoa!" he gasped, "Broken femur!"
Immobilize, pain meds, surgery if bad, right there, no delay.
It wasn't just fast; it was sharp, like his brain had chugged an energy drink and hit the gym.
"This is nuts!" he cackled, but then, gaps. Rare side effects? Blank. Old lectures? Fuzzy. "Aw, come on," he groaned, "I still gotta cram?"
He bounced off the bed, pacing like a mad scientist.
"Appendicitis!"
Pain lower right, nausea, fever. snap.
"Dengue!"
Fever, rash, joint pain. Nam's lesson glowing bright.
"It's like my memory's on a spotlight, but the dark spots are still dark," he muttered, scratching his head.
"Processing, what's already there. Got it." He flopped back, staring at the ceiling, then sat up again.
"Wait, what if it's more? Like, slow-motion perception? Like in Lila and Kai's movies!" He'd seen it—heroes dodging punches, time crawling.
"Yes!" he cheered, grabbing a pen. "Let's roll!"
He tossed the pen up, focusing hard. "Go, brain!"
Thoughts raced, the pen spin, arched, dropped, but the pen didn't care about his fast mind, moving like it always would.
It clattered to the floor, mocking him. "Huh?" He snatched a sock, flung it.
"Super speed, now!" It flopped onto his desk, limp as his hopes.
"Come on, [NeuroFlux]!" he barked, yeeting a pillow with gusto.
It sailed, smashed his lamp—crash!—and sent it tumbling, books avalanching, a water bottle rolling off with a sad thud.
Vice shrieked, his patented little-girl scream—flailing as chaos reigned. "No, no, no!" he yelped, diving to catch the lamp, tripping over the sock, and face-planting into the pillow.
He froze, sprawled in the wreckage, panting, then burst out laughing.
"Okay, no slow-mo. Just… fast brain. And a trashed room." He kicked the pillow aside, muttering, "Mom's gonna think I fought a tornado."
He thanked heaven she wasn't home.
Still buzzing, he hauled himself up, brushing off the embarrassment. "Back to business," he said, pacing again.
"Trauma protocol!"—airway, breathing, circulation.
"Drug doses!"—paracetamol 500 mg, ibuprofen 200—bam, clear as day.
He grinned, "It's like my head's a filing cabinet with turbo search!" By midnight, his eyes stung, his throat scratched from muttering, but he'd nailed it: [NeuroFlux Overdrive] juiced what he knew—processing lightning-fast, memories crisp, but it didn't help with absorbing new stuff? That was a slog. And those gaps? Still gaping.
"Surface level," he sighed, flopping onto the bed, sheets cool against his sweaty neck.
"But tomorrow—Thursday's my day. I'm gonna own this grind."
[NeuroFlux] was going to help him out so damned much, he could already see its potential.
He rolled over, hyped, picturing it, Nam's grunt of approval, Lisa's smirk, patients saved left and right. "[NeuroFlux], huh? Let's see you shine," he murmured, grinning into the dark.
Sleep tugged, but his brain hummed, replaying the lamp fiasco with a chuckle.
"No more pillows," he promised himself, drifting off, the system's glow fading as dreams of Thursday's triumph took over.
His fantasies would soon meet an end however.