The Supreme Monarch of Continuum

A low groan escaped the boy's lips, soft and disoriented. His eyes fluttered, adjusting to the dull ambient light filtering through the alley's open mouth. His face was bruised, skin purpling near the cheekbone, lips swollen, and dried blood crusted beneath his nose. But, at the end of the day, he was alive.

Klaus lowered himself into a crouch, keeping his expression neutral: calm, no-threatening. The boy blinked again and locked eyes with him. 

"W-where am I...?" he asked, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"You're safe," Klaus answered flatly. "For now."

The boy's breathing grew shallow as the memories began to catch up, eyes widening, pulse racing. He jerked slightly but laced the strength to stand.

"Those guys—"

"They're done," Klaus said. "They won't hurt anyone again."

The boy's body relaxed, partially in relief, partially from exhaustion. Tears welled in his eyes but didn't fall. He just nodded, still dazed, still unsure if he was dreaming. 

Klaus leaned back slightly and glanced toward the alley's entrance. The sound of sirens still echoed distantly, but no one had ventured this deep yet. They had time, for now. 

He looked down at the boy again, asking him: "What's your name?"

"Emmett..." the boy mumbled. "Emmett Green."

"Well, Emmett Green," Klaus began, rising to his full height. "It's nice to make your acquaintance. My name is Klaus."

The sound of sirens grew louder, closing in fast, each wail growing sharper, more insistent. The city, restless and indifferent, stirred in brief alarm. Somewhere behind them, flashing lights painted the alley walls in strokes of red and blue, searching for the killer of three once-promising young men.

Klaus didn't flinch. He felt no remorse. Death, to him, was just another function of the cosmos, an infinitesimal exchange in the grand equation. Those boys weren't innocents. They were predators, indulging in cruelty unchecked. Their removal meant balance, not tragedy.

Without a word, Klaus bent down and helped Emmett to his feet, slinging the unconscious boy's arm around his shoulders. His movements were gentle but efficient. Emmett groaned faintly, but he didn't stir much, faint breaths escaping him in shallow rhythm.

As Klaus stepped out of the alley and into the street, passersby turned to look, some with mild interest, others with concern, and a few with expressionless detachment. Their eyes flicked over the injured boy, the blood, the limp body. But no one approached. No one offered to help.

It was as if this scene wasn't uncommon, just another thread in the city's fraying social fabric.

Klaus attempted to engage a few pedestrians. "Excuse me, where's the nearest hospital?" he asked a middle-aged man in a suit.

The man didn't even break stride.

He turned to a woman carrying groceries. "Can you point me toward a clinic?"

She shifted away quickly, eyes avoiding his entirely.

Klaus tilted his head, more curious than offended. "Fascinating," he muttered under his breath.

With no help forthcoming, he followed the street signs, trusting in the remnants of his mortal memory and whatever residual divine intuition still lingered beneath his disguise. Emmett, unconscious, offered no guidance.

Klaus asked himself: Why am I even helping this boy? He wasn't sure. There was no logical gain. No strategic edge. But something about the scene had compelled him, like gravity, pulling him into orbit.

Thirty long minutes passed before a modest red-brick hospital emerged in view. He entered through the automatic doors, immediately greeted by the sterile scent of disinfectant and the soft hum of overworked machinery.

A nurse hurried toward him. She was young, early twenties, perhaps. Auburn hair tied into a loose bun. Her ID badge read "S. Monroe – Intern." She wore her uniform slightly loose, but with just enough charm to know she chose it that way.

"Oh my God," she gasped, taking Emmett's weight from Klaus. "What happened to him?"

"He was attacked," Klaus replied plainly. "Three assailants. He lost consciousness about forty minutes ago."

Her eyes widened, both from the seriousness of the situation and from something else: subtle, but present. She looked up at him again, taking in his sharp features, the calm steadiness in his tone, the way he stood like he was always in control.

"Well, thank you for bringing him in," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear a little too slowly. "Most people wouldn't bother, especially around here. You're, uh… not from Boston, are you?"

"No," Klaus replied, noncommittal.

"I didn't think so," she said, laughing softly. "You've got that quiet confidence thing going. Mysterious. Noble. Very... superhero-y."

Klaus said nothing, only offered a slight tilt of the head, his expression unreadable.

She bit her lip, then continued: "We'll get him checked in and looked at right away. You... um... can stay nearby if you want. Might be some paperwork."

Another nurse, a much older woman with a clipboard in hand, called out from the reception area: "Sylvia! We need you to assist with intake and billing for Room 214!"

Sylvia turned toward the voice, then looked back at Klaus with a small smile: "Duty calls," she said playfully. "But I'll be around."

As she jogged off, Klaus watched her go without comment. Emotions like flirtation, attraction, even admiration, were foreign to him now. Concepts he understood intellectually, but didn't engage in.

With Emmett now in safe hands and the momentary interaction over, Klaus turned to face the hallway, already thinking of what to do next. This world was broken. Rotten in places. But not irredeemable.

He stepped out into the hospital corridor, lit with that sterile, flickering overhead light that made everything feel more haunted than healed. The scent of antiseptic lingered too long in the air, masking something deeper, rot, maybe. Despair. Or maybe Klaus was just projecting.

He was about to make his way to the exit when the floor beneath him trembled. Subtly. Barely enough to catch attention, but Klaus noticed. It was the kind of tremor that preceded something wrong, something unnatural. Not an earthquake. Not structural damage. Something else.

Then, from behind a nearby storage room door, a muffled voice screamed: "No, no, don't feed it that! It's allergic to lactose!"

Klaus paused, his brow twitching. He turned slowly toward the door, which thudded once, twice, and then burst open with a force that sent a supply cart flying. A nurse stumbled out, disheveled and red-faced, her shoes soaked in what looked suspiciously like melted cheese.

Behind her, chaos.

An eight-foot-tall, semi-transparent gelatinous creature barreled out, oozing down the hall with the manic energy of a freight train made of jelly and spite. It screeched, a wet, sloppy noise that sounded like a blender choking on gravel and syrup. The nurses behind the desk screamed. One fainted. Another threw a clipboard at it and bolted into an elevator that jammed halfway closed.

Klaus stood still.

The blob monster was pink. No, peach-colored. Vaguely flesh-toned, with embedded medical gloves, cotton balls, and an entire defibrillator unit floating inside it. Some idiot had clearly left this thing in a biohazard container for too long. Some other idiot had probably fed it pudding.

The creature spun like a top, slapped the wall, and knocked an entire water dispenser across the hall. It screamed again, this time at Klaus.

Klaus, still stone-faced, tilted his head. "Really?" he muttered. "This is what passes for chaos now?"

The creature lunged. A tidal wave of goo slammed toward him like sentient soup. Klaus sidestepped. It hit the wall behind him and sucked an entire poster of CPR instructions clean off the surface with a wet slurp.

From down the hall, the same nurse, Sylvia, shouted: "Don't hurt it! It's… part of a clinical trial!"

Klaus narrowed his eyes. "Of what? Weaponized Jell-O?"

"It's a regenerative bio-slime!" she cried. "Supposed to replace skin grafts and internal organ scaffolding! But they gave it caffeine and dairy by accident!"

Klaus blinked slowly. "You're telling me that's what happens when you mix medical-grade slime with a macchiato?"

"It had two!" she yelled, ducking behind a vending machine.

The blob screeched again, flinging what could only be described as a half-digested stethoscope at a ceiling vent. Klaus caught it midair, flipped it once in his palm, and threw it back, embedding it into the blob's gooey surface with a splurch.

The creature howled. Then, to Klaus's mild surprise, it began to split.

Right down the center.

A second blob, identical but slightly smaller, peeled away from the first and immediately began vomiting half-chewed latex gloves onto the floor.

"Oh, fantastic," Klaus muttered. "It has mitosis."

The receptionist, who had been cowering behind the desk, suddenly screamed, "It's going toward the maternity ward!"

Everyone panicked.

Doctors fled. Parents grabbed their babies. A guy in a neck brace rolled himself out of his wheelchair and crawled behind a bench.

Klaus stepped forward.

"Dominion Protocol: Absorb," he said, extending a hand toward the dividing blob.

Nothing happened.

The system dinged in his head: [Target does not possess a viable skill. Absorption denied.]

Klaus scowled. "Figures."

The blob screeched again and lunged at a vending machine, shaking it violently until two candy bars fell out. It devoured both in seconds, then turned on Klaus, now energized with chocolate-fueled rage.

He dodged again, barely, slipping behind a wheelchair and grabbing a stray mop handle. Not a weapon he was proud of, but it would have to do.

With precise timing, he jammed the mop into the creature's side, swirling it like a toilet brush from hell. The blob screeched and convulsed, half-melting, half-shuddering. He grabbed a canister of floor disinfectant from the janitor's cart and lobbed it at the open core of the beast. The can exploded on impact, foam and chemical fumes burst through the air.

The blob froze.

It began twitching violently.

Then, in a burst of sickening wetness, it imploded, collapsing into a puddle of sterile goo, fizzing softly on the hospital tiles.

Silence returned. Kind of.

A nurse gagged in the corner. A defibrillator sparked uselessly on the floor. Somewhere, a baby cried.

Sylvia emerged from behind the vending machine, wide-eyed and covered in pudding. "That was... uh... wow. You're… effective."

Klaus looked down at his mop, then at the goo, then at her.

"I neutralized a science project gone feral," he said. "Hardly impressive."

She blinked. "Do you… want a job here?"

"No."

"Dinner?"

"No."

"Coffee?"

Klaus gave her a look that said Really? After all that?

She smiled anyway.

Then a tiny blue notification screen flickered in front of his eyes.

---

[System Notification]

Emergency Event Completed:

"Contain the Hospital Slime."

+2 Stat Points

+1 Skill: Sticky Constitution (Passive, F-Rank)Your internal organs are now 5% more resistant to blunt force trauma. Also, you're slightly immune to melted gelatin.

---

Klaus stared at it.

Sticky Constitution.

He sighed audibly. "You've got to be kidding me."

He walked away, the squelch of every step in the hospital's goo-coated floor echoing like some cruel joke from the cosmos.

Outside, the night air hit him like a slap. Cold. Dry. Real.

He looked up at the stars, eyes narrowing.

If Earth was going to test him, it better do better than sentient pudding. Otherwise, this planet might just falter like the rest.