The fluorescent hum of the operating room still clung to Dr. Alab like a second skin, even as he stepped out into the pre-dawn quiet of the hospital corridor. His green scrubs, usually crisp and professional, were now rumpled and damp with the ghost of a long night's labor. It wasn't just the physical fatigue that weighed him down; it was a bone-deep, existential weariness etched into the hollows beneath his eyes—a testament to eighty-four hours spent tethered to the relentless, erratic pulse of the emergency room.
The corridor was a tunnel of sterile white light and linoleum, smelling of industrial-grade lavender and the faint, metallic tang of blood that no amount of scrubbing could truly erase from a doctor's senses. A passing nurse, her own scrubs a mirror of his exhaustion, offered a tired but genuine nod. "Good job on that one, Dr. Alab. Fast work. We almost lost him in the bay."
He managed a ghost of a smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upward for a fleeting moment before returning to their default downward curve. He knew she meant well, but the praise felt hollow, a polite echo in the vast, silent chamber of his own burnout. He had saved a life—again. He had successfully navigated the labyrinth of human anatomy—again. And yet, as he walked, the victory felt less like a triumph and more like another brick in a wall he was building around himself.
His quarters were a sanctuary of sorts, though they were barely lived in, feeling more like a transit lounge than a home. The air inside hung heavy with the stale scent of cold coffee and the lingering bite of antiseptic. Three mugs, each containing a dark ring of forgotten brew, sat like sentinels on the small side table. They were flanked by a collection of plates bearing the remnants of hurried, microwave-heated meals consumed in the grey hours of the morning.
The larger table in the center of the room was a chaotic repository for his dual life. Medical texts on advanced trauma surgery lay partially buried under legal briefs and case files—Alab was both a physician and a lawyer, a peculiar duality that left him with twice the responsibility and half the peace.
As he reached for his stethoscope to set it aside, a sharp, familiar stab of pain pierced his chest. It was a cold, rhythmic throb that radiated toward his jaw. He didn't flinch. Instead, he reached into his pocket with practiced, clinical ease and slipped a nitroglycerin pill under his tongue. He stood perfectly still, waiting for the chemical bloom of the medicine to widen his vessels and ease the pressure. Just another reminder, he thought, that the machine is breaking.
His gaze drifted to the table, where a half-finished jigsaw puzzle sat obscured by a stack of malpractice law volumes. The puzzle was a pastoral scene titled "Beautiful Life." He picked up a tiny sliver of blue sky, feeling the cardboard edges between his calloused fingertips. With a precision honed by years of suturing, he fit it into its place. It was a small act of defiance against the chaos that swirled around him—a brief, desperate assertion of control in a life that often felt overwhelmingly out of his hands.
A notification chimed on his phone, the sound piercing the quiet room like a siren. He squinted at the screen.
"Alab! You did it! Congratulations on the case! The board dismissed everything." The message was from a colleague in the legal field. He'd successfully defended a fellow doctor against a career-ending malpractice suit, a victory that should have felt like a crowning achievement. Instead, it left him feeling strangely empty, as if he had just moved a pile of dirt from one side of a hole to the other.
He looked back at the puzzle. The image, when complete, would depict him and his colleagues, their faces bright and full of purpose, standing in front of a sprawling medical center. Beautiful Life, the title proclaimed in gold leaf on the box. But as he scanned the almost-finished picture, a nagging sense of incompleteness prickled at him. There, in the bottom left corner, was a dark void—a single missing piece that rendered the entire idyllic scene flawed.
He sighed, the sound a weary rustle in the quiet room. He lay back on the bed without removing his shoes, his gaze fixed on the ceiling tiles. Thirty-five years old. Doctor. Lawyer. High-performance athlete. Racer. Carpenter. He had collected titles like a philatelist collects stamps, yet he couldn't name the person holding the album. Happy? The question hung in the air, unanswered and heavy.
He thought of the years of grueling study, the missed funerals and forgotten birthdays, the relentless pressure to be "extraordinary." He'd chased two demanding professions, driven by a vague sense of duty, a desire to be the ultimate safety net for others. But somewhere along the way, the path had diverged, leaving him feeling adrift in the middle of a vast ocean of competence. I envy those who found their true north, he mused. Those who knew their purpose was to bake bread or paint walls, and never looked back.
A sudden, crystalline decision formed in his mind, cutting through the fog of his exhaustion.
"I need a change," he whispered to the empty room. "A real change."
He would resign. He would sell the practice. He would walk out of the hospital and finally explore the world that lay beyond the walls of his self-imposed prison. He closed his eyes, and sleep claimed him—a deep, dreamless sleep that offered a brief respite from the relentless churn of his thoughts.
But even in sleep, the unease lingered, a subtle tremor in the quiet landscape of his subconscious.
He awoke not to the beep of a pager, but to a light so bright it felt physical, stinging his eyes and warming his skin. He wasn't in his quarters. He was lying on a plush, velvet sofa in a room that seemed to float, suspended in a vast, cerulean void. Above him, the ceiling was open to a sky of impossible blue, clear and infinite. Strangely, above that opening, several ornate wooden doors floated in the air, unconnected to any walls, drifting like slow-moving clouds.
Am I dreaming? Or is this the nitroglycerin? he wondered.
He turned his head and saw two figures seated in high-backed armchairs nearby. One was a bald man in his thirties wearing a simple, modern t-shirt; the other was an older man with a weathered, handsome face and a leather patch over one eye. Behind them, a painting on the wall mirrored the scene before him with uncanny accuracy—a tableau of the room, the sofa, and the two men watching him.
The bald man spoke first, his voice calm and resonant. "Welcome, Alab. We know you're probably a little disoriented. How are you feeling?"
Alab blinked, his mind racing. How am I feeling? The question echoed in his thoughts, a familiar refrain from his own medical practice, now turned back upon him. Before he could formulate a response, the man continued. "You're not in your world anymore, Alab. This is Mozzafiato—the space between the records."
The older man with the eye patch nodded. "Welcome, young man. I am Polo. As Merlin said, this is Mozzafiato. You are here because you are to be my successor."
"Successor?" The word hung in the air, heavy with implications Alab wasn't ready to accept. He sat up, his heart pounding against his ribs. He looked at Polo, searching the man's face. "I know you," he said, his voice hoarse. "You were my patient. The aortic dissection... two years ago."
Polo smiled, a gentle, knowing expression. "Indeed, I was. You healed my body, Doctor, with a skill that few in your world possess. Now, allow me the honor of healing your soul."
"My soul?" Alab felt a wave of irritation wash over him. This felt like a near-death hallucination. "What are you talking about? Successor to what? I'm a surgeon, not a mystic."
"You, Alab Juno," Polo said, his eyes meeting Alab's with an intensity that felt like a physical weight, "are destined to be the next Librarian of Mozzafiato."
"Librarian?" Alab echoed.
"Yes," Polo confirmed. "You will enter a new world named Gaia—a world far grander and more terrifying than the one you left. You will have a role more significant than you can expect. You can be free as a bird, or you can bear the heaviest responsibilities—or you can choose to be indifferent. The choice, for once, will be yours."
Alab felt a surge of frustration. "And these 'criteria' you keep alluding to? This isn't a medical board exam. Why me?"
As if in response, the painting behind Polo shimmered and dissolved. The pigments ran like water, replaced by a swirling vortex of colors. From this chaos, playing cards materialized, spinning and dancing in the air, orbiting Polo like a miniature galaxy. The man reached out and plucked a card from the swirling mass with the grace of a magician. It was the Jack of Diamonds.
"Criteria number one," Polo announced, "The Jack of All Trades. A person who can perform acceptably in various tasks, but specializes in none." He held up the card, displaying the grinning Jack. "The world of Gaia is a place of infinite variables. It is a world in constant flux, Alab, a world that demands adaptability and resourcefulness. You are a doctor, a lawyer, a carpenter, a racer. You have spent your life refusing to be just one thing."
He paused, his gaze piercing. "You have the 'breadth' required to record a world. Most people are specialists—they see the world through a straw. You, Alab, see the whole horizon. That is why you are here."
A flicker of understanding, mixed with a healthy dose of skepticism, sparked in Alab's eyes. He was being offered an escape—the "real change" he had whispered for in the dark. But the cost was a mystery. He looked at the swirling cards, at the serene face of Polo, and a single question echoed in his mind: What is the catch?