Tasia’s frantic whisper pierced Corvin’s composure, a rare fissure in the grandmaster’s centuries-honed resolve. Shadows calling his name meant the Hollow Rot had breached the marrow, its ethereal hooks sinking into sensory tissue. An icy bite settled beneath his ribs, bitter as crushed nightshade. Now his sister was marked, while he stood trapped in a linoleum pen, armed with disposable cutlery and hemmed in by clinical condescension. Yvaine shoved the pager into her pocket, the color draining from her cheeks. Before she could speak, rubber soles squeaked against the floor behind them. “Ah, Corvin! Dr. Helstrom! Just the two I was looking for!” Dr. Penhaligon strode into the cafeteria, oblivious as always, a tablet clutched in one hand. “Wonderful work earlier, Corvin, simply transformative. Your spontaneous foray into primal scream therapy, coupled with that fascinating spork-fu, has done wonders for Mr. Abernathy’s… 'existential angst.' He’s currently napping, dreaming of green pastures, I imagine. But now, it’s time for our weekly group session. Circle up, everyone! We have feelings to share!” Corvin curled his lip. He needed a mortar, unboiled well water, and three ounces of distilled bile, none of which lived in this ward. Penhaligon, interpreting the sneer as ‘pre-verbal processing,’ beamed. Twenty minutes later, Corvin found himself seated on a suspiciously stain-resistant beanbag chair, surrounded by a dozen other patients, all varying stages of sedated or agitated. Ms. Gable was recounting a vivid dream about a sentient garden gnome, while Mr. Henderson hummed show tunes off-key. Dr. Penhaligon sat across from Corvin, radiating an aura of boundless, unearned optimism. “Corvin,” Penhaligon chirped, gesturing with an open palm. “Care to share what’s on your mind? Some reflections, say, on your… unique approach to conflict resolution in the cafeteria?” Corvin said nothing. His eyes, however, were not idle. They drifted, tracing the faint, almost imperceptible currents of miasma that permeated the very air of the room. This Bleakmoor Institute, erected over primordial vents of spiritual decay, leaked raw, putrid energy through every floor tile. It was crude, chaotic, but manageable, if one possessed the Grandmaster’s touch. He began to refine it, silently. A barely noticeable shimmer, a phantom chill, started to coalesce around him. His mortal shell, soft and underfed as it was, still answered the rhythm of absorption and purification. He focused, sifting the noxious impurities, concentrating the vital essence, weaving it into a nascent spiritual flame within his dantian, a core of power that slowly began to thrum. This wasn't merely a stress-reducing exercise; it was survival. He needed every last shred of qi for the antidote, for Tasia, for Yvaine, though she didn’t know it yet. Yvaine sat upright on a yellow beanbag across the circle, staring at him with thin, pressed lips. Her hands, however, were busy. Under the cover of a lengthy monologue from Ms. Gable about the gnome’s philosophical leanings, Yvaine deftly unzipped her oversized medical bag. Three small, dark bundles, wrapped in heavy biohazard sheeting, slid onto her lap. They were cold, surprisingly heavy. The smell, even through the polymer wrap, drifted up: the metallic musk of dead sewer rats. She risked her career, her very sanity, on this impossible patient, on his impossible demands. Penhaligon, oblivious to the ambient qi manipulation and the surreptitious biohazard smuggling, clapped his hands. “Wonderful sharing, everyone! Corvin, your quiet contemplation speaks volumes. You may be processing the incident on a deeper, non-verbal level. That’s perfectly valid. Now, I believe Dr. Helstrom had a… an urgent administrative matter to discuss with Corvin.” He winked. “Don’t let me keep you.” Yvaine shot Penhaligon a look of pure exasperation, but seized the opportunity. “Yes, Dr. Penhaligon. An urgent matter regarding… Mr. Morstan’s file.” She stood, the hidden bundles creating a subtle bulge under her lab coat, and gestured sharply to Corvin. “In the utility room, Mr. Morstan. Now.” Corvin rose, a flicker of something akin to approval in his eyes. She was finally taking him seriously. Or perhaps she was simply terrified. Either way, it worked. He followed her out, leaving behind Ms. Gable’s gnome-induced existential crisis. The storage nook was narrow, smelling faintly of bleach and stale paper. Yvaine pushed the door shut, plunging them into a claustrophobic gloom illuminated only by a sliver of light under the door. She whirled on him, her voice a tense whisper. “What in the blazes was that in the cafeteria? And what is going on with Tasia? And why on earth did you demand *dead rats*? I could lose my license for this, Corvin! You need to explain, now!” Corvin merely raised a brow. “Such a flood of questions, doctor. And so little time. Fortunately, the answers are all intertwined, like the meridians of a poisoned body. Which, speaking of…” He reached into her coat, his fingers brushing against the cold plastic bundles. He extracted one, unwrapped it with practiced ease. The small, grey corpse of a rat lay limp in his palm. “Hardly pristine specimens,” he muttered, examining the stiff fur. “Yet sufficient.” From his sleeve he produced a steel stylus swiped from the nurses' desk, its ground edge catching the dim light. With a neat flick, he nicked the carotid, letting thick maroon droplets pool into a stolen porcelain ramekin. He drained the other two in brisk succession, laying the drained carcasses in a row. Using the stylus, Corvin began to trace runes across the dusty concrete. Intricate, spiraling glyphs, pulsing lines, and geometric patterns bloomed into existence, etched in dark, glistening rat’s blood. The air in the small space grew heavy, the faint smell of ozone mixing with the copper tang of blood. Yvaine backed into a metal rack of gauze, her collar catching on a wire bracket. He finished the array, a complex starburst of arcane symbols. Then, without warning, he reached out, his fingers closing around her wrist. His fingers locked around her pulse point, cold and rigid as iron forceps. He didn’t release her. Instead, his thumb brushed over the prominent vein pulsing in her wrist, his gaze locking with hers, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “A grandmaster requires direct access, doctor. Your ‘blood samples’ are too diluted. I need your living qi for a proper diagnosis.” His smile vanished. The array on the floor, etched in rat’s blood, flared. Not with a clean, clear light, but with a sudden, sickening hiss. The blood turned black, bubbling, then smoking, leaving behind a charred, smoking outline on the concrete. Corvin’s grip on her wrist tightened, his eyes now devoid of amusement, filled with a chilling, ancient fury. His voice dropped to a low, guttural rasp. “Two weeks, Dr. Helstrom. Fewer, if you exert yourself. The Hollow Rot is already nesting in your meridians. Follow my orders, or rot from the ribs outward.” The closet door banged against the interior wall, framing Dr. Penhaligon under the hall lights. “Corvin! Dr. Helstrom! What in the…?” He took in Corvin’s hand still clasped around Yvaine’s wrist, the charred, smoking outline on the floor, the lingering scent of blood and something else, something acrid. His smile, for once, was entirely absent. “Morstan, this is highly inappropriate conduct! I’m transferring you to maximum security. Effective by midnight.”

Meridians and Misconduct