Chapter 106 — A World That's Hard to Love Today
A day without Max's cupcakes was, frankly, a little hard to endure.
But thankfully—TGIF. Thank God it's Friday.
Just the fact that it was Friday already did half the work.
If someone were to track Ethan's use of his "priest abilities" from Monday to Friday during treatments, they'd notice something interesting—
He used them the least on Mondays…
and the most on Fridays.
The reason wasn't complicated.
After a full week of grinding, people's focus and self-control dropped. Fatigue set in. Attention wandered.
There was even a widely accepted sentiment:
"It's Friday."
"So… let's just not do anything."
Many complicated treatment plans weren't worth the effort anymore—
a simple recovery spell did the job just fine.
If you could save time and energy, why make things harder?
If the patients at Rayne Clinic were smart, they'd come on Fridays.
Because on that day, the doctor might just throw a full suite of healing at them—
Everything that needed fixing, and even things they hadn't planned to fix—done in one go.
Definitely worth the consultation fee.
---
That afternoon, it rained in New York.
Not heavy—but persistent.
The glass storefronts outside were washed clean and gleaming. Darkness fell early, and the streetlights reflected off the wet pavement like a layer of light that could never quite be wiped away.
In weather like this, people didn't like seeing doctors.
They'd rather tough it out for the night, thinking—
Maybe tomorrow it'll clear up.
Ethan had already finished tidying up, ready to call it a day.
As he passed the front desk, Helen immediately started teasing him about his history with Max.
The two of them were relaxed, killing time as they waited for six o'clock.
Then—the doorbell rang.
Fifteen minutes before closing.
A girl stood outside.
She wore a black sleeveless uniform, neatly tailored—but clearly worn all day.
Her name tag had been removed, clenched tightly in her hand, her knuckles slightly pale.
She didn't look like an emergency patient.
More like someone used to standing all day, then waking up the next morning fully reset—
Just like Max.
Helen glanced at her—and paused at her left wrist.
The bruise there had already begun to yellow.
A few days old.
Not a fall.
Not an accident.
More like… someone had grabbed her. Hard.
"I'd like to see a doctor."
Her voice was soft—but steady.
Helen didn't ask questions. Just nodded and handed her a form.
But as she turned to grab the blood pressure monitor, her eyes lingered on that wrist for one extra second.
---
When Ethan met her in the consultation room, she was already seated.
Back straight. Hands resting on her knees.
A posture that looked… trained. Habitual.
"What seems to be the problem?" Ethan asked.
She hesitated—like she was sorting through worse things, trying to pick one she could actually say out loud.
"I've been really thirsty lately."
"No matter how much I drink, it doesn't help."
"My stomach feels off. A bit nauseous."
"Sometimes my heart races… and I get short of breath."
Highly suspicious for diabetes.
Before Ethan could ask more, she added—
"I have diabetes."
Of course.
Ethan gave a small shrug, typed a few notes, then looked up.
"Let's check your blood sugar."
He took out a glucometer. The sound of tearing open an alcohol swab felt unusually loud in the quiet room.
"Quick finger prick," he said. "Won't hurt."
She nodded and held out her hand.
The alcohol felt cold.
"Relax."
A tiny prick—barely noticeable.
A drop of blood surfaced, absorbed by the test strip.
The result came quickly.
Way too high.
Not just "poorly controlled"—this was edging into dangerous territory.
"A bit high," Ethan said calmly. "But still manageable."
She nodded, like she'd expected it.
Her gaze never left her own hands, fingers clasped tightly.
Ethan stood, picking up his stethoscope.
"Let me listen to your heart. Take a deep breath."
She obeyed.
The moment the stethoscope touched her chest—
her body tensed.
Not anxiety.
Instinct.
Defense.
Ethan didn't move. He waited until her breathing settled.
First position—clear heart sounds. Slightly fast, but okay.
Second position—he moved lower along the ribs.
She inhaled sharply.
A reflex she couldn't hide.
Ethan paused.
Didn't ask. Didn't look up.
Just adjusted his angle, gentler this time.
The feedback was clear—tight muscles, guarded response.
Not just tenderness.
When he finished, he removed the stethoscope.
"Your right ribs," he said. "Any recent injury?"
She froze.
Opened her mouth—then just shook her head.
"Bumped into something."
Ethan nodded.
Didn't press.
"When was your last insulin dose?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"…A few days ago."
"Why?"
A faint, bitter smile.
"I used it too fast."
Too fast?
She continued, as if finally deciding to say it all.
"I've been to hospitals."
"Many times."
"Every time they see my blood sugar, they tell me to use insulin immediately."
"High doses. No delay."
She looked down at her hands—clean nails, the kind that needed to look presentable every day.
"I know they're right."
"But I did the math."
"If I follow their plan… I won't be able to pay rent next month."
She looked up.
Her eyes were dangerously calm.
"I heard about this clinic."
"They said you don't lie to patients just to make money."
She inhaled.
"So I came to ask for the truth."
A long pause.
Her voice was almost a whisper—
"If I use insulin… sparingly—"
She looked at him.
"How long can I last?"
She already knew the answer.
She just wanted to hear it from someone who wouldn't lie.
Ethan didn't answer directly.
"With your current condition, you need insulin immediately."
"And not just one dose."
She bit her lip.
"Can it be… less?"
Ethan frowned.
"If it's less—you'll die."
"And if it's more," she said calmly, "I'll go bankrupt… and then die."
Ethan fell silent.
For the first time, it hit him—
For some people, losing any one of these—
Health. Money. The ability to keep working—
Was enough to kill them.
"Do you have insurance?" he asked.
"No."
"Family?"
She shook her head.
Not absent—
just nonexistent.
"A boyfriend?"
"Yes. But… I have to rely on myself."
Ethan pulled his chair closer and sat down.
No longer standing over her.
Not a doctor delivering judgment—
but two people discussing reality.
"What's your insulin regimen?" he asked.
"Basal and mealtime."
"Recently… only basal."
Ethan nodded.
"If you reduce or skip insulin," he said, "it's not about 'how long you last.'"
"It's about when things start going wrong."
"What if… minimum?" she pressed. "Just enough to survive."
Ethan paused.
"Minimum means you're constantly draining your body."
"Chronic high blood sugar. Fatigue. Thirst. Nausea. Higher infection risk."
"And—"
He looked at her.
"One bad day, and it won't be something outpatient care can fix."
She didn't argue.
Just smiled faintly.
"I know."
"But I really can't afford it."
Not temporary.
Not this month.
Just… now.
"What about your boyfriend?"
Her nails pressed into her palm.
"I moved in to split rent. He helped with medication before."
"Now…"
She stopped.
"…he doesn't want me spending money on it."
Silence.
"So he hits you?" Ethan asked.
She didn't confirm.
Didn't deny.
Just… stayed quiet.
"I can't give you a 'safe minimum timeline,'" Ethan finally said.
"Because it doesn't exist."
She nodded.
Stood up.
"Thank you, doctor."
And turned to leave.
"Wait."
She turned back.
Ethan walked to the clinic fridge.
When he came back, he placed a cold storage box on the table.
"This is emergency insulin," he said. "Not for regular patients."
She froze.
"Emergency…?"
"Ketoacidosis. Hyperosmolar states. Things like that."
He opened the box.
"Clinics don't stock much insulin."
"Low usage. Expiry issues. Regulatory burden."
He took one out, checked the label, confirmed the dose.
"This is basal insulin."
"Not something to 'stretch out.'"
Her hands trembled.
"I… I can't afford it."
Ethan had already put on gloves.
"This is emergency care."
"With your condition—you qualify."
"We'll talk about payment after you're stable."
She opened her mouth—
But no words came.
He gently rolled up her sleeve.
The injection was steady.
Almost painless.
And for the first time in a while—
Her body felt… supported.
"This won't solve your problem," Ethan said quietly as he disposed of the needle.
"But tonight—you won't have to worry about collapsing."
He closed the box.
"Now," he said, looking at her,
"we talk about your real problem."
"How much do you actually understand about diabetes?"
She hesitated.
"…It's incurable."
"Lifelong injections."
"Diet control."
"No eating freely."
She paused.
"…It's forever."
Ethan nodded.
"That's how most people see it."
"Not wrong."
She looked up.
"But incomplete."
"Diabetes isn't a single disease—it's a group of metabolic disorders."
"Some are insulin deficiency. Some are resistance. Some are both."
"Insulin replaces. It doesn't cure."
"Poor control leads to complications—ketoacidosis, coma, infections."
He paused.
"When you came in… did you see the sign outside?"
She thought for a moment.
"…Yes."
"'Healing beyond medicine.'"
"That's not an advertisement," Ethan said.
"I can't promise results."
"I can't promise a cure."
He met her eyes.
"But I do have something that might help you."
"Not medication."
"Not insulin replacement."
She frowned.
"What is it?"
Ethan spoke carefully—
"Energy intervention."
"You can think of it as… recalibrating your body's state."
Ethan paused, then addressed the concern he knew she'd have before she could even voice it:
"I've never used this to treat diabetes before," he said. "So I don't know exactly how effective it'll be."
It was only half a lie.
"If you're willing," he continued, "we can try it—together."
The girl didn't answer right away.
She lowered her head, thinking for a moment, then asked quietly:
"Will it make things worse?"
"From a medical standpoint—no," Ethan replied without hesitation. "Your current risk is already there."
She nodded.
"…Then I guess I don't really have anything left to lose."
She looked up at him.
"What do you need me to do?"
---
The treatment itself was simple.
Ethan had her sit properly in the chair and rechecked a few of her vital signs.
There were no machines. No monitoring equipment.
Just… a sequence of healing spells.
The moment his hand came down, the girl instinctively tensed.
A few seconds later, that tension began to melt.
It wasn't pain. Not heat either.
It was something harder to describe—
A slow, inward settling.
Like her body no longer had to hold itself together by force.
Her breathing gradually slowed. A gentle warmth spread through her. The fatigue in her legs—built up from standing all day—faded away.
It felt like… a reset.
Ethan said nothing throughout.
When he finished, he withdrew his hand and glanced at her.
"Don't judge it yet."
"For the next week, monitor your blood sugar daily."
He opened the cold storage box again, took out several insulin pens, and handed them to her.
"Basal insulin."
"Use slightly less than before—but don't stop."
"Same time next week, come back," Ethan said. "We'll evaluate then."
She took them and nodded.
After a moment of hesitation, she asked:
"…How much will this cost?"
Ethan shook his head.
"No charge."
She froze.
"You're currently classified," he added, "as a participant in a treatment trial."
"And participants don't pay—since they're taking on risk."
She looked at him.
Her eyes grew slightly moist—but she didn't cry.
She simply nodded, seriously.
"Thank you, doctor."
---
After she left the clinic, Ethan stepped out of the consultation room.
The rain had stopped.
The lights at the front desk were still on.
Helen leaned back in her chair, holding a cup of now-cold coffee, watching him.
"So, doctor," she drawled lazily, "saved the world again today?"
Ethan changed his coat as he replied:
"Nothing that dramatic."
"Just conducted an uncontrolled experiment… or recruited a free test subject."
Helen raised an eyebrow.
"That sounds pretty disrespectful," she said, "but I think if people knew, they'd be lining up to be your 'test subjects.'"
Ethan glanced at her.
"Maybe."
He didn't say anything more.
He just walked out of the clinic.
Sometimes… this world really made no sense.
Some people lived on, even with cancer or AIDS.
Others—
Risked dying simply because they couldn't afford insulin.
At least for today…
It was a world that was very hard to love.