"Mr. Jackson began showing symptoms last night," explained a middle-aged doctor in a white coat as he stepped forward. "At first, it looked like nothing more than fatigue and a mild fever. We assumed it was the flu. But by this morning his temperature had spiked to forty degrees, and these purple blotches started spreading all over his body." Sloane moved closer to the bed, studying the unconscious man carefully. She lifted the sheet and examined his arms and torso. Purple patches, irregular in shape and size, mottled his skin—some had already fused into dark clusters. "What tests have you run?" she asked while taking his pulse. "Everything we could," the doctor replied, handing her a thick stack of reports. "Complete blood panel, biochemistry, CT, MRI—everything came back normal except for a slightly elevated white blood cell count. Nothing explains symptoms this severe." Sloane focused on the faint rhythm under her fingertips—thin, rapid, and uneven, with an occasional skip. It was the unmistakable pulse of poisoning. She lifted Mr. Jackson’s eyelid and noted the sluggish reaction of his pupils. Without another word, she set a row of silver needles neatly across the table, then uncorked a small blue porcelain vial. A few clear drops fell into a shallow dish. Everyone in the room watched in silence, curiosity and unease flickering in their eyes. "Could someone draw a small blood sample?" she asked. The attending doctor hesitated, glancing toward the deputy ambassador. The man gave a brief nod. Moments later, a vial of fresh blood was handed to her. All eyes followed as Sloane let a single drop of blood fall into the liquid. For a few seconds, nothing happened—then the crimson hue deepened to purple and, slowly, shifted to a sickly green. "It’s poison," Sloane said calmly, her voice steady. Kaizen’s face drained of color. "Can you tell what kind?" "Not yet," she replied. "The reaction suggests a rare compound—possibly custom-made." Turning to Lucas, she added, "I need time to analyze it before I can make the antidote."Before Lucas could answer, the heart monitor shrieked. Mr. Jackson’s blood pressure plunged, his pulse fluttering erratically. "He’s crashing!" one of the doctors shouted, lunging for the defibrillator. Sloane was already moving. In one swift motion, she drew three needles and inserted them precisely into the points at Renzhong, Neiguan, and Zusanli. "Push 0.5 milligrams of epinephrine, now!" The room erupted into organized chaos. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but her hands remained rock-steady. She pricked the ten Xuan points on his fingers, drawing small beads of dark blood. "Blood pressure forty over twenty and still falling!" a nurse cried. Sloane bit her lip, then reached for a red porcelain vial from her sandalwood case. She poured a single black pill into her palm, pried open Mr. Jackson’s jaw, and slipped it beneath his tongue. "What’s that?" the deputy ambassador demanded anxiously. "Soul Pill," Sloane answered tersely. "It can protect the heart for a short time—long enough for me to find a cure." The deputy looked to Kaizen, uncertain. Kaizen met his gaze and nodded firmly. "Dr. Rivers’s skill is extraordinary. She’s treated countless critical cases back home. You can trust her."