The female doctor, Dr. Melissa Grant, took a slow step forward, her hand trembling slightly as she adjusted her glasses.
“That’s… that’s not possible,” she whispered.
The boy—thin, quiet, dressed in clothes too worn for a place this expensive—didn’t even look at her.
His eyes stayed locked on Arthur.
“Move them,” he said again.
It wasn’t a request.
It was a command.
Arthur hesitated.
For a split second, his entire identity—his power, his pride, his control—balanced on the edge of that simple action.
Then—
One toe twitched.
Just slightly.
But enough.
A collective gasp rippled through the room like a shockwave.
Arthur closed his eyes.
Not in relief.
In defeat.
The boy took another step closer.
“So,” he said quietly, “why were you pretending?”
No one spoke.
The silence grew heavier.
Dr. Jonathan Hale, the senior physician overseeing the case, crouched down beside the broken cast. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were afraid of what he might find.
He reached inside the remaining lining.
Paused.
Then pulled something out.
A small plastic packet.
Sealed.
Folded carefully.
His expression shifted the moment he felt its weight.
“…what is this?” he murmured.
Arthur’s face drained of color.
Because he knew.