In the dusky, wood-paneled lab tucked beneath the aging stone buildings of Munich University, the air buzzed with the scent of old paper, sterilizing alcohol, and the faint metallic tinge of scientific ambition. The laboratory was a kingdom of ideas—a place where minds battled not with swords, but with data and principle.
"Abraham Erskine, I suggest we begin live trials immediately. No model is ever perfect without application."
The voice came sharp and taut with frustration. The speaker was a young man in his twenties, sharp-featured, angular, with a prematurely receding hairline that did nothing to soften the intensity of his gaze. His name was Johann Schmidt, a name that would one day evoke fear and reverence in equal measure—but for now, he was merely a student. A restless, gifted one.
Across from him, seated calmly at a heavy oak desk scattered with notes and scribbled diagrams, was Abraham Erskine, the most promising mind in the field of genetic biology the university had seen in decades. His demeanor was gentle, his manner precise, and his dark eyes held the patience of a man who believed that wisdom was worth the wait.
"Johann," Erskine replied with careful restraint, "the model's foundations are still forming. To test on live animals now, before we're sure, is premature. We risk producing false data... or worse."
"But failure is part of progress!" Johann snapped, gesturing wildly toward the half-built apparatus in the center of the lab. "Mice, rabbits—they are not in short supply. The insights we gain from even flawed trials would move us forward faster than all the formulas in the world."
Erskine did not look up from his work. "And yet, our formulas define the road ahead. If we rush into practice without understanding, what are we but blind men fumbling in the dark?"
For a moment, the only sound was the rustling of parchment. Johann's jaw clenched. He had chosen Erskine as a partner because the man was brilliant. But brilliance, it seemed, came with a stubborn insistence on ethics, theory, and patience.
Johann wanted results. He needed them. With high honors from Munich, his path to the German National Research Institute would be assured—an opportunity to further his private ambitions, ones he spoke of to no one. And yet here he was, trapped in a cycle of deduction and mathematical rigor that made him feel more mathematician than scientist.
He slumped back in his chair, brushing a hand roughly through his thinning hair. This wasn't impatience, he told himself. This was vision. Why couldn't Erskine see it?
---
Thousands of miles away, across the Channel and over cobbled London streets cloaked in mist, Bethlem Royal Hospital—known to the public as Bedlam—stood like a medieval relic amid the march of modern medicine. Its walls whispered secrets, and its history clung to every brick. Founded in the 13th century, the institution had seen countless faces pass through its iron gates—patients, doctors, saints, and monsters alike.
Dr. Sebastian strolled its halls with the gait of a man utterly at ease. He was unlike the other psychiatrists: younger, more elegant, and far more dangerous in his quiet intensity. A foreigner by accent, but not by knowledge, sabastian was a rising star in psychological circles, known for his sharp intellect and stranger ideas.
Today, he was not here to observe. He was here to perform.
The experimental treatment he planned had been inspired by an American paper he'd discovered in a dusty medical journal. A controversial figure, Dr. Henry Cotton, had theorized that mental illness stemmed from hidden infections within the body—malignant organs, decaying teeth. His proposed cure was simple: remove the infection, and the mind will heal.
Sabastian found the idea... intriguing.
Inside the tiled treatment room, a man lay restrained on the table, thick leather straps binding him at five points. His name was Derek Birmingham, a former soldier, now a patient diagnosed with violent bipolar disorder. His mouth was gagged with a rubber shutter to prevent biting, and his eyes rolled wildly in fear as sabastian read his chart aloud.
"You served in the Sixth Regiment, did you not, Mr. Birmingham? A fellow soldier. You deserve clarity, not chaos."
Sabastian's voice was calm, but his eyes gleamed with a fervent light. He set down the chart and picked up a pair of sterilized pliers from a tray.
"Dr. Cotton suggested dental extraction. It sounds absurd, yes? But we cannot ignore results simply because they defy reason."
He approached Birmingham, speaking with the soothing tone of a confidant rather than a surgeon. When he pulled the first molar, Birmingham's body arched against the table, a guttural cry escaping despite the gag.sabastian stepped back, analyzing the bloodied tooth with fascination, noting the tissue clinging to its root.
Still, no change.
He continued.
Thirty minutes passed. The treatment room was a mess of blood, torn gauze, and ragged breath. Sabastian stepped out, removing his gloves with a rare slump in his posture. His hair, usually parted with surgical precision, had fallen out of place.
Birmingham no longer cried out. Only the rise and fall of his chest indicated life remained.
---
Alone again, sabastian walked slowly to the sink in the staff washroom, his reflection staring back at him with hollow eyes. He wiped his face with cold water, remembering a different pain.
The woods behind Cambridge. A teenage sabastian, freshly admitted to the university, eccentric and unafraid to show it. His dress was peculiar—his coat always tucked into his trousers, his hair slicked in a sharp middle part. He had mocked the fashion sense of his classmates, unaware—or perhaps indifferent—to the simmering resentment it brewed.
They invited him into the woods under the pretense of friendship. Fraternity, they said. Belonging.
Instead, they beat him.
They stomped him into the dirt with fists and boots. His ribs cracked, his stomach heaved with nausea and blood. He thought he might die. And in that near-death moment, something inside him broke—or perhaps awakened.
He remembered the clarity. The cocoon unraveling. The pain becoming power. He hadn't screamed then. He had smiled.
What was missing now?
Not pain. Not fear.
He stared into the mirror again. "Adolescence," he whispered. "Near-death. Identity collapse. The crucible."
The answer was in the young. Their minds more fluid, their selves more malleable. Adults resisted transformation. But teenagers—teetering between identities—could still be reshaped.
Sabastian's confidence returned like a rising tide. The experiment needed refinement, not rejection. And with Ms. Farmer's influence behind him, a transfer to the Juvenile Psychiatric Unit was entirely possible.
He patted his hair back into place, the crooked smile blooming once more.
There were more trials to conduct. More minds to mend. More cocoons to crack open.
And he—Sebastian would be the scalpel.