As he watched the TV to absorb the features of this world, something he hadn't expected was boiling over in the hallways.

  Nurses in a state hospital, especially one in New York, desperately needed some soap-opera drama. Fifty percent of the patients were boring, thirty percent were morbid cases since the world had become a permanent war zone, and the remaining twenty percent were creeps who spent their energy trying to grab a nurse's backside.

  The staff just wanted one or two cases of a TV-trope handsome guy wandering into their care so they could swim in gossip and vent all the frustration they had stacked up through weeks of grueling shifts.

  And then, there he was: a man named Verso Dessendre. He had a well-groomed goatee, fluffy unruly hair, and a lean, toned body hiding under that flimsy gown.

  The nurses were going absolutely nuts. They were exhausted by the political and social dramas of the world and were starving for a 90's television romance to come to life. Verso was that guy—the one who called every nurse "Mademoiselle" or "Madame" and offered a sincere thank-you between every single treatment he received.

  A mix of amnesia and trauma was the perfect combination for a sexy, delusional setup. It was exactly the kind of thing that allowed the women to float in their own daydreams while they worked.

  Verso was well aware that he was handsome. His mother never stopped talking about it, his sisters admitted it while stealing his oil colors, and most women who encountered him throughout his life showed some interest. He had eyes of his own; he knew exactly what he looked like.

  Still, the nurses' affection was a bit overwhelming, especially since the entire system in this world seemed to have given up on him in less than twenty-four hours.

  The nurses were gossiping in the hallway, completely unaware that Verso’s keen, immortal senses could pick up every word.

  "Did you see that new guy? The one who lost it and thinks he’s some hero from a video game?"

  "Yeah, name was Verso or something. Quite French, right?"

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "I didn't know any French online games were even famous right now, I heard he was doing some costume play with a real sword."

  "Anyway, it’s so sad. A guy that good-looking losing his mind like that is a tragedy."

  The doctors just sighed as they overheard the chatter. Those nurses were working double and triple shifts in this grim city, so if they wanted to flutter around a good-looking, mentally unstable guy to stay sane, nobody was going to stop them.

  The next day, Verso couldn't understand why there were so many female nurses revolving around his room like clockwork. He was occupying a small private room for himself, which was odd even by his standards.

  He figured it was either his peculiar situation or the fact that the police and the hospital thought he might be a secret danger.

  Whatever was the reason, he had hoped for some peace to be properly depressed by himself, but instead, he was being mobbed.

  "Time to change the bag, mister," one said, adjusting equipment that had been perfectly fine two minutes ago.

  "Are you French? Maybe an illegal immigrant? Was there a civil war over there involving wineries and baguettes?"

  "Let me check your pulse, Mr. Dessendre," a fourth one chimed in, reaching for his arm.

  Verso managed to keep his voice steady. "Um... three other nurses have already checked my pulse. I am perfectly fine, thank you."

  But the nurse just giggled. "It’s a routine check. Please, give me your wrist, Monsieur."

  Verso had survived a century of slaughter and a dimensional collapse, but this? He had no idea what was going on here.

  By the third day, Verso decided it was time to weigh his options. The staff kept mentioning "shelters," a word that sounded suspiciously like a polite term for a cage. Verso had a deep-seated hatred for confined spaces, and he had no intention of waiting around for them to drag him to some government-mandated dormitory.

  He also needed to make a move before the nurses decided to initiate him into whatever secret rituals they were plotting—love potions and "sexy bindings" were off the menu as far as he was concerned. He wanted to keep what little dignity he had left.

  God, he missed Monoco. His old friend would have told him to just shut up and enjoy the wild ride. Or even Esquie, that cosmic ball of fluff who would have materialized just to offer a hug. Verso nursed a fragile hope that they might be alive in this world somewhere, having survived the end of their own world just as he had.

  He rummaged through the room but found exactly zero useful items. The police had confiscated his blood-soaked clothes, leaving him with nothing but this flimsy gown. What was a legendary warrior supposed to do?

  Well, his moral compass had become a bit blurry around the time he slaughtered the 78th Nevron and watched the 128th member of expedition die in front of him. Stealing a few garments wouldn't exactly be his greatest sin.

  He was just reaching for a stray set of scrubs when a cold, sharp voice stopped him from behind.

  "Mister, what exactly do you think you’re doing?"