Eventually, my consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by a persistent throbbing in my temples that felt like someone had been using my skull as a percussion instrument. My eyes opened to the familiar ceiling of Alexis's medical office, though even that simple observation triggered an automatic analysis of the lighting conditions, air circulation patterns, and probable time of day based on the ambient sound levels from outside.

The involuntary processing was still happening, but it felt... muted. Like someone had installed a volume control on my detective abilities and turned it down from maximum to merely overwhelming. I could still feel my mind cataloging details about my surroundings, but the information wasn't crashing over me in the same tsunami-like waves as before.

"You're awake," Alexis said from her position at a nearby monitoring station, and I caught the brief flash of surprise that crossed her features before she composed herself. "Though I have to admit, you woke up about six hours earlier than my calculations suggested you would."

I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the persistent headache. "Poison Resistance?"

"Most likely," she confirmed, making notes on a tablet. "Your body processed the anesthetic faster than normal human physiology would allow. I should have accounted for that, but your existence is practically uncharted territory."

Even through the pharmaceutical fog still clouding my thoughts, I found myself automatically analyzing her tone and body language. She was fascinated by the medical implications of my condition, though genuinely concerned about my wellbeing. The specific way she was documenting our conversation suggested she was building a comprehensive case study.

"Why is this happening to me?" I asked, sitting up slowly as the room spun slightly. "Why am I processing everything like this?"

Alexis set down her tablet and moved to a chair across from me, her expression shifting into the focused intensity she displayed when explaining complex medical concepts. "It has to do with how the System interacts with human physiology, particularly the difference between natural skill development and job title acquisition."

I must have looked confused, because she continued without prompting.

"Think about it this way," she said, gesturing toward the monitoring equipment around us. "When people develop skills or a job rank up naturally – through training, experience, and gradual improvement – they never have to actively think about using those capabilities. The System simply recognizes and quantifies abilities they've already developed. A natural lawyer doesn't consciously activate 'lawyer skills' during a trial. They just talk. The System documentation is descriptive, not prescriptive."

That made sense. Though I would've never known due to me never getting a skill until after I got Jobmaster (SSS-Rank).

"But job titles work differently," Alexis continued. "When you receive a job title through experimentation or special circumstances, you're granted skills and capabilities that you haven't naturally developed. Since these abilities aren't organically integrated into your existing skill set, you have to actively think about using them. It's the difference between knowing how to ride a bike and suddenly being told you can fly – one feels natural, the other requires conscious effort to activate."

I thought about my experiences with the various skills I had acquired. She was right – there had always been a sense of deliberately engaging those capabilities, of switching into different modes of operation depending on what the situation required.

"The girls and I all noticed this change when we received our job titles," Alexis said. "Well, except for Camille, since her job title doesn't actually grant new skills. But Sienna, Evelyn, and I all had to learn how to consciously activate abilities that the System had given us rather than recognized in us."

A revelation struck me. "I never experienced that transition because I got my first skill after receiving the Jobmaster title."

"Exactly," Alexis nodded. "You've never known what it feels like to have naturally developed System capabilities. Everything you've experienced has required conscious activation."

That explained something that had been puzzling me. "Is that why Full Profession Sync makes me feel so strong? Because it lets me use all my skills naturally, like I'd always had them?"

"That's my theory," she said. "Full Profession Sync essentially tricks your body into treating job title skills as if they were naturally developed capabilities. You stop having to consciously engage them and start just... being them…Though there's likely more to it…"

The implications were staggering. "So what's happening to me now?"

Alexis leaned forward, her medical training evident in how she structured her explanation. "The body and the System are interconnected in ways we're still trying to understand. Usually, the body controls what appears in your System interface – your natural capabilities determine what skills and jobs the System recognizes. But with job titles, most of the time, the relationship reverses. The System starts telling the body what it should be capable of."

I was beginning to understand, though the concept was deeply unsettling.

"Your System interface now identifies you as an SS-Rank Detective," she continued. "Your body, recognizing this designation, is automatically attempting to fulfill that role at all times. It's similar to how telling someone they're sick can actually trigger physical symptoms – the mind-body connection responds to the System's assessment of your capabilities."

"So my body thinks it needs to constantly analyze everything because that's what an SS-Rank Detective should do?"

"Precisely. The System has essentially reprogrammed your baseline neurological function to match what it believes an SS-Rank Detective should be capable of. Your brain isn't choosing to analyze everything – it's responding to System conditioning that says constant analysis is your new normal state."

The headache intensified as I processed this information. "Is there a cure?"

"Time is the most realistic solution," Alexis said, though I could detect the uncertainty in her voice. "Eventually, your body should adapt to the new baseline and develop regulatory mechanisms. Like how a fever eventually breaks when the body realizes it's no longer fighting an infection. Your neurological systems will hopefully learn to modulate the constant analytical processing."

"Hopefully?"

"You're the first human to achieve SS-Rank in any job," she reminded me. "We're working without precedent here. But the human body is remarkably adaptable, and the System generally doesn't grant capabilities that would permanently damage the user."

I stood slowly, testing my balance as the room stabilized around me. The analytical processing was still happening – I was automatically cataloging Alexis's equipment, predicting her probable research directions based on our conversation, and analyzing the structural integrity of the building – but it felt manageable rather than overwhelming.

"Get some rest," Alexis said, making more notes on her tablet. "Let your body work on adapting to the new normal. And if the symptoms worsen, wake me immediately."

I nodded and headed for the door, though I couldn't help but analyze the specific way she had phrased that instruction. She expected the adaptation process to be challenging and potentially dangerous, though she was optimistic about long-term outcomes.

The penthouse living room was dimly lit, with late afternoon sunlight filtering through the massive windows that offered a panoramic view of the city. I had been unconscious for some time, though my detective abilities were automatically calculating the exact time based on light angles and shadow patterns.

I moved toward my bedroom, intending to follow Alexis's advice about rest, but found myself stopping near the large sectional sofa. Though after some time, I felt something soft and warm being here. Looking in front of me was Sienna, curled up with a book in her lap, apparently waiting for me to emerge from the medical office.

"You don't need to—" I started, but she looked up with an expression that immediately became the subject of unwanted analysis. She was genuinely concerned about my condition, though trying to maintain a casual demeanor. Her positioning on the sofa suggested she had been prepared to wait indefinitely for me to wake up.

"Rest," she said simply, patting her lap with a smile that my detective capabilities automatically classified as both affectionate and determined. "I want to be the one helping you this time."

"Sienna, I'm fine. I just need to sleep in my own bed."

"You're not fine," she said matter-of-factly. "And besides, I have to wait for the roast to finish cooking anyway. Might as well make myself useful."

There was something in her tone that made me pause – not just the concern I had been expecting, but a subtle insistence that suggested this was important to her for reasons beyond simple caretaking. My detective abilities were telling me that she felt like she hadn't been able to help during the assassination crisis and wanted to contribute to my recovery in whatever way she could.

I found myself sitting down and then, almost before I realized what was happening, lying back with my head resting on her lap. Her fingers immediately began moving through my hair in a gentle, rhythmic pattern that somehow helped quiet the constant analytical chatter in my mind.

"Better?" she asked softly, and I could hear the satisfaction in her voice as my body began to relax for the first time since the SS-Rank transformation.

"Better," I admitted, closing my eyes and trying to focus on the simple physical comfort rather than the flood of deductive insights about her emotional state, the fabric of her clothes, the temperature of the room, and the acoustic properties of the living space.

For several minutes, I actually felt like I might be able to drift off to sleep. The combination of the remaining anesthetic in my system, the physical exhaustion from the day's events, and Sienna's calming presence was creating a buffer against the involuntary analytical processing.

Then the sound of a door slamming open cut through the peaceful atmosphere like a gunshot.

"REYNARD, YOU ALMOST DIED?"

Camille's voice carried across the penthouse with the kind of outraged concern that immediately triggered every defensive skills in my System. She was standing in the doorway of her office, still wearing the sleeping attire she favored when she was being lazy in bed, with an expression that combined fury, worry, and disbelief in equal measures.

"Camille—" I started, but she was already moving toward the sofa with the determined stride of someone who intended to get answers.