[Flashback]

"I’m sorry, Master," Doctor Wesley said quietly, as though he himself could hardly believe the diagnosis he was delivering.

He glanced at Lucian’s face. The stoic expression hadn’t changed. Doctor Wesley exhaled sharply and pressed on.

"There are available treatments, Master," he said. "The fact that we caught it early is in your favor — we can begin treatment to slow the progression."

He kept talking, laying out the options one by one. But the more he spoke, the more distant his own voice seemed to grow, until all Lucian could hear was a flat ringing in his ears.

"Will it cure it?"

The question cut cleanly through Doctor Wesley’s explanation.

Lucian turned his head and looked at him directly. "Will these treatments... cure it?"

Doctor Wesley’s mouth opened. Then it closed.

That alone was answer enough.

"There is currently no cure, Master," he finally said, with careful honesty. "The treatments will slow the progression and buy you more time. If things go well, a lung transplant may also become an option."

Lucian’s expression remained unchanged. "Will the transplant fix it?"

Again, the doctor didn’t answer immediately.

"It isn’t a true cure, and survival after transplant isn’t guaranteed," he said. "But it is an option — an extremely risky one, but an option nonetheless. I would recommend starting with treatment first."

Silence settled over the room. Doctor Wesley gave Lucian a moment.

Whatever else Lucian was, he was still a person. News like this could break anyone. And as far as Doctor Wesley knew, Lucian had never once complained of feeling unwell — had never claimed anything was wrong. The only reason this had been caught at all was the mandatory annual examination required of Dominion’s head.

When Lucian finally spoke, his voice was unhurried.

"How long do I have?"

"Master —"

"How long?"

Doctor Wesley held his gaze. "Five years. With treatment and a change in lifestyle — five years. A successful transplant could buy you more time beyond that."

"If it succeeded," Lucian repeated, with a small, quiet nod.

He pushed himself off the couch and rose to his feet. Doctor Wesley stood as well.

"Master, we could begin treatment right away —"

"Five years is enough," Lucian said, his eyes drifting to the doctor with an almost lazy calm. "For me. More than enough."

Doctor Wesley opened his mouth and closed it again as Lucian turned and walked toward the door. But before he reached it, he stopped.

"Clear the diagnosis from my records," he said, looking back. "You can do that, can’t you?"

"But, Master —"

"You said five years," Lucian said, his tone still even, his eyes steady on the doctor. "If you don’t clear it from my records, I’ll have less than twenty-four hours."

With that, he walked out with no further words and no backward glance.

His footsteps faded, leaving Doctor Wesley alone with the silence and the weight of it.

The doctor sank back onto the couch, releasing a long, heavy breath. He stared at the closed door, jaw tight.

"Master..." he whispered.

In all his years of practice, he had never seen someone face a death sentence with such a complete absence of feeling. It was maddening. And yet what Lucian had said before leaving hit like a slap to the face.

Because it was true.

A diagnosis like this, if it got out, would be enough to undo everything. His enemies would not wait patiently for five years. The moment they learned of it, they would move. And those who stood behind Lucian might quietly begin to distance themselves, leaving him defenseless.

Doctor Wesley sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

It wasn’t his illness. But the weight of it settled in his chest all the same. The conflict was real — clearing the diagnosis from Lucian’s records was something he could manage. What he couldn’t manage was Lucian’s complete acceptance of his own fate.

"Does he truly not care?" he whispered.

*

*

*

[Present Day]

They say that when a person is healthy, they have a thousand problems. The moment they fall ill, they have only one.

Doctor Wesley had assumed it would be the same for Lucian.

But even as the condition worsened — the insomnia taking hold, other complications emerging, and Lucian’s smoking continuing despite already having severely damaged lungs — the man had never truly taken any of it seriously.

It had kept Doctor Wesley up at night, turning it over and over in his mind.

It had taken him time to stop fighting it and simply accept what Lucian’s behavior meant.

Death was not something Lucian feared.

Doctor Wesley had given him five years. But in the world Lucian inhabited, any given day could be his last. Five years was practically an abstraction.

Still...

"Master," Doctor Wesley murmured, leaning back in his chair, eyes moving over the test results and the image of Lucian’s lungs spread before him.

Since Lucian had left the previous day, Doctor Wesley had stayed. He had pulled an all-nighter, combing through research and reaching out to colleagues — looking for another option, or at minimum, a transplant specialist with a stronger track record. He had already contacted one of the best in the field. But he needed someone who could not only perform the surgery but convince Lucian to agree to it.

Lucian didn’t even know Doctor Wesley had already placed him on the waitlist.

He would be furious when he found out. But Doctor Wesley was not prepared to give up on him.

DING.

A soft alert chimed from his computer. He checked the screen — it was a reply from the specialist he had reached out to for a second opinion on Lucian’s case.

[Doctor Wesley, is this your patient? Why are you asking me this? Isn’t he already being scheduled for a transplant? I’ve gone through the results you sent, and his lungs are at the end stage.]

[A transplant is his only remaining option. Without it, he has a month — two at the absolute most — from the date these tests were taken.]

Doctor Wesley stopped breathing.

He read the message again. Then again.

"A... month?" he whispered.

His eyes dropped to the timestamp on the test results.

The moment he registered the date, his heart lurched. Right away, he was on his feet before he had made the conscious decision to move — grabbing his coat, heading for the door.

If what the specialist said was accurate, then... Lucian was out of time.