Chapter 2: Illi Riserunt Oculis Apertis

11th September 2023

Freiburg Medical Institute

Room 207

The pale morning light filtered through half-drawn hospital curtains, casting soft, hazy beams across the sterile interior of Room 207. A low hum resonated from the overhead fluorescent lights, mingling with the rhythmic beeping of monitoring equipment. The scent of antiseptic lingered heavily in the air, blending with the sterile chill of air conditioning that carried a faint metallic tang.

The room was modest but clean, outfitted with state-of-the-art equipment. A vital signs monitor blinked quietly in rhythm with the slow, steady pulse of the patient on the bed. Tubes trailed down from a ceiling-mounted IV stand, connected delicately to the forearm of the unconscious figure lying beneath snow-white sheets.

Shawn lay still, his complexion pale and sunken with exhaustion. Electrodes peeked out from under the hospital gown, wired to monitors tracking his heart rate, oxygen levels, and brain activity. His lips were slightly chapped, his hair unkempt, still matted from the chaos he had escaped just hours before.

The door to the room opened with a soft click.

In walked Nurse Shayla Mendes, her name tag gleaming under the fluorescent lighting. She was in her mid-twenties, her dark brown hair pulled back into a practical bun. Her youthful features were lined with a mixture of concern and duty. She glanced at her clipboard, then moved over to the IV drip to replace the saline bag with deft, practiced hands.

She'd done this a hundred times before, but there was something about this patient that made her movements slower, more attentive. This was the Shawn—the man at the center of the media storm currently shaking half of Europe.

As she was about to adjust the valve, her eyes caught something.

A twitch.

She froze.

Her gaze snapped to his hand. A single finger—the index on his right hand—had moved. Not a spasm. A deliberate, minute motion.

"Mein Gott…" she whispered, barely audible, as the clipboard slid from her hand and clattered softly against the floor.

Without hesitation, she turned on her heel and rushed out the door.

"Dr. Gustavo! Dr. Gustavo, bitte! Er bewegt sich—er wacht auf!"

Moments later, the door swung open again.

Dr. Benjamin Gustavo, a seasoned man in his late fifties with graying temples and sharp eyes behind frameless spectacles, entered the room. His white coat fluttered with his stride, stethoscope looped around his neck. Shayla trailed behind him, clearly shaken but trying to remain composed.

Dr. Gustavo approached the bed, his experienced eyes immediately scanning the monitors. He leaned in, placed a firm but careful hand on Shawn's wrist to check his pulse manually, then shone a penlight into his patient's eyes.

The pupils reacted—slowly, but they did.

"Well," he muttered to himself, lips pursed in quiet surprise. "He's stabilizing quicker than anticipated."

He looked over at Shayla. "Note it in his file. Conscious response beginning. But he's not out of danger yet. He needs at least a few more hours—if his vitals remain steady, we can expect seventy percent physical recovery within the day. Full cognitive function will take longer."

"Yes, Doctor," Shayla replied, scribbling the notes hurriedly.

Meanwhile, across town...

BNN News Headquarters – Control Room

The atmosphere inside the control room was electric, chaotic. The buzz of phones, the clatter of keyboards, the murmured arguments between producers and tech staff created a low roar of tension.

Dozens of screens displayed breaking news banners, stock footage of the Black Forest, satellite imagery, and looping clips from the viral livestream—the very last moments before the feed had gone dark. Every outlet wanted a piece of the mystery. Every agency demanded answers.

"What is the response from the officials?"

"Any confirmation on what actually happened?"

"Where is he now? Has he made a statement?"

The room swirled with overlapping voices, like a hive of frenzied bees.

Then a sharp voice rang out above the noise.

"Sir! We have confirmation on Shawn's location!"

The room froze for a heartbeat.

Hugh Fredricks, assistant producer and long-time veteran of BNN's field reporting team, looked up from his desk with bloodshot eyes. He was gaunt from sleepless nights, stress etched into every crease on his face.

"Where is he?" he demanded, rising from his chair so fast it nearly toppled over.

The young intern holding a printed report gulped, then replied with urgency.

"Freiburg Medical Institute. Room 207. The source is reliable—multiple witnesses saw the ambulance arrive early this morning."

A beat of silence passed.

Then Hugh grabbed his headset. "Get the van ready. We're going now. Freiburg's only an hour away."

[Approximately 5 hours later]

By early afternoon, the grey clouds over Freiburg had begun to break, letting streaks of watery sunlight cast golden reflections across the glass façade of the Freiburg Medical Institute. Inside, however, the atmosphere remained clinical, controlled—until the doors at the entrance slid open once more, and the chaos began to trickle in.

The BNN team, dressed in plainclothes to avoid immediate recognition, arrived on the premises. They had made the journey in record time, speeding past traffic with the weight of exclusive news pressing on their backs. At their head was Hugh Fredricks, silent and watchful, with the cold intensity of a man who smelled something bigger than a headline.

Room 207, Second Floor

Inside, Shawn Jilfer sat propped up on the hospital bed. The IV needle still rested lightly in the crook of his arm, but the saline bag was nearly empty now. His hospital gown hung loose over his frame. He looked exhausted—eyes sunken and bloodshot—but he was awake, upright, and aware. His fingers fidgeted absentmindedly with the edge of his blanket, his mind clearly running miles ahead of his physical recovery.

Across from him stood Dr. Benjamin Gustavo, clipboard in hand, checking the recent vitals once more. Nurse Shayla Mendes adjusted one of the side monitors and gave Shawn a soft smile, one of silent encouragement.

"Still dizzy?" Dr. Gustavo asked, his voice measured.

Shawn nodded faintly. "Like my head's not sure it's attached to my body."

"That's to be expected. You're recovering well, but don't push yourself. The disorientation will pass. You've been through... a lot."

Shawn gave a dry, humorless smile. "That's one way to put it."

Meanwhile — Ground Floor Reception

Word had gotten out.

It started as a whisper online—coordinates, sightings, a vague tip posted to a fringe forum. Within an hour, the reception hall of the Freiburg Medical Institute had become a slow-moving tide of journalists, influencers, paranormal podcasters, fringe content creators, and local wannabe internet sleuths. Some carried cameras. Some held phones aloft on gimbals. Others came with nothing but notebooks and hungry eyes.

Most didn't even know what they wanted.

Fame. Influence. Money. The truth. Any of those would do.

Security tightened immediately. Extra guards were called in. Reception staff spoke in hushed, frustrated tones. One elderly patient being wheeled past the lobby covered her ears as a loud argument erupted between a freelance blogger and a BNN field assistant.

"This is a hospital," the chief of security barked over the growing noise. "You're not entitled to walk in and treat it like a damn studio set. If anyone disrupts care again, they're out."

Despite the crowd's buzzing chaos, Hugh Fredricks had already slipped past unnoticed.

Second Floor Corridor – Outside Room 207

Hugh moved with precision, like a ghost navigating familiar terrain. His blazer was buttoned, and he walked with the air of a visiting official, ignoring the nurse who paused mid-step to eye him suspiciously.

He reached Room 207 and paused at the door.

His knuckles tapped the wood gently—but firmly enough.

A moment later, it opened. Nurse Shayla peeked out, her brows furrowed in concern. Before she could question him, Hugh offered a swift, polite nod and said in a low voice, "Media. BNN. Just five minutes."

Shayla hesitated.

Behind her, Shawn looked up.

"Let him in," came the hoarse voice from the bed.

Inside Room 207

The door closed quietly behind Hugh. He stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room quickly—the equipment, the exhausted patient, the guarded medical personnel. Then his focus narrowed.

Shawn.

"Mr. Jilfer," Hugh began, extending a hand in greeting but not expecting a handshake. "Hugh Fredricks. Assistant producer, BNN."

Shawn gave a slight nod in response. His voice came out low, but steady. "You're fast."

Hugh's gaze sharpened. "I have to be."

Then, without any preamble, Hugh dropped into the chair beside the bed and opened his notepad.

"We have confirmation that you and your cameraman, Max Presco, entered the Schwarzwald early morning, September 9th. The livestream went viral. Then it cut. Silence for almost ten hours. You emerged alone. Mr. Presco is still unaccounted for."

A brief pause. His tone stayed even, but his pace quickened.

"What happened in there, Mr. Jilfer?"

"Was it a hoax?"

"Where's Max?"

"What did you see that made you run?"

Shawn blinked slowly. His eyes shifted to Dr. Gustavo, who stood stiffly at the foot of the bed, jaw clenched, visibly uneasy.

Hugh pressed on.

"Did you encounter anything unnatural?"

"Why did your GPS show you at two places at once?"

"Why did your voice change frequency on the final audio log?"

"And why didn't you call for help the second you got out?"

Silence settled—tense, heavy, like a coiled wire ready to snap.

The pen in Hugh's hand hovered over the page.

"Mr. Jilfer, what happened in the Black Forest?"