The first time I borrowed someone else's pain, I thought I was having a heart attack. I was working my usual shift at the hospital's ER, checking vitals on a car crash victim, when suddenly I felt my ribs crack and my lung collapse. The patient's injuries became my injuries – for exactly seven minutes and thirteen seconds.

That's how I, Elena Blackwood, discovered I was a Parallaxer. The medical community calls us "physiological empaths." My colleagues call me the miracle worker of Mount Sinai. My patients don't call me anything, because they're usually unconscious when I take their pain.

"Dr. Blackwood, we need you in Trauma 2," the intercom crackles. Another Friday night, another rush of emergencies. I check my watch – still four minutes until I can take on another patient's injuries. My body can only handle one transfer every eleven minutes, and I learned the hard way what happens if I push that limit.

The hard way involved three days in my own ICU bed and a lot of explaining to do.

"Two minutes," I tell the trauma team, pressing my hand against my borrowed broken ribs. The pain is intense but clean – no internal bleeding. The original patient, a construction worker who fell three stories, is stabilized and pain-free. In exchange, I get to feel every break and bruise. Fair trade.

Some Parallaxers can move things with their minds or manipulate reality. Me? I temporarily take on other people's physical trauma. It doesn't heal them – modern medicine still has to do that part – but it gives their bodies a critical window of time to recover without the shock and stress of injury.

The catch? I feel everything. Every broken bone, every burn, every internal injury. For seven minutes and thirteen seconds, their pain becomes my pain. And I stay fully conscious through all of it.

"Dr. Blackwood!" A nurse bursts into the room. "The patient in Trauma 2 – eight-year-old, severe allergic reaction. We can't get an airway."

I check my watch. Thirty seconds left on my current transfer. "Get the crash cart ready. I'm coming."

This is my life now: carefully timed transfers, juggling multiple patients' pain, trying to stay conscious through injuries that would kill most people. The hospital administration knows about my ability – hard to hide it when the security cameras catch you suddenly mimicking patient injuries. They call it an "experimental therapeutic technique" and keep me supplied with enough pain medication to stock a pharmacy.

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I didn't ask for this power. I was just a normal ER doctor, dealing with the usual stress and trauma of emergency medicine. Then the Parallax Event happened, and suddenly I could do more than just treat pain – I could take it away. Literally.

The government's containment teams tried to recruit me, of course. Offered me a "research position" studying pain transfer. I've heard about their facilities from other Parallaxers – the experiments, the endless tests, the weaponization attempts. I chose to stay at Mount Sinai instead. They respect my eleven-minute rule here.

My watch beeps. Transfer complete. My borrowed injuries fade, leaving only phantom pains and memories. Time to save another life.

The girl in Trauma 2 is turning blue, her throat swollen shut from anaphylactic shock. Standard treatments aren't working fast enough. I place my hand on her arm, and—

Fire. My throat closes, my lungs scream for air. The girl's airways clear instantly as mine constrict. The team moves quickly, taking advantage of the window I've given them. Through my own choking, I hear the madre medication orders.

Six minutes left. I can handle six minutes without breathing. I've done worse.

That's when the EMTs burst in with another critical patient. Multiple gunshot wounds, massive internal bleeding. I'm still locked in the girl's anaphylaxis, unable to speak, but I hear the flatline tone of his heart monitor.

Five minutes left on my current transfer. He won't survive that long.

I make a decision that goes against every rule I've made for myself. With my left hand still on the girl, I reach out with my right and grab the gunshot victim's arm.

Double transfer.

The pain is... there aren't words. My body tries to fail in two different ways simultaneously. Throat closed AND bullets in my chest. The girl's breathing stabilizes. The man's heart starts beating again. The trauma team works frantically on both patients.

Four minutes. Three. Two.

My vision goes dark around the edges. You can't die from borrowed injuries – that's the one mercy of my power. But you can wish you were dead.

One minute.

Someone's shouting about blood pressure. Mine or theirs? Everything's getting fuzzy.

The transfer ends. I collapse. Through the fog, I hear both patients' stable vital signs being called out. Worth it.

I wake up in a hospital bed – again – with the chief of medicine glaring at me.

"That was monumentally stupid," she says. "You could have—"

"They both survived," I interrupt. "How long was I out?"

"Three days." She sighs. "Elena, we need to talk about limits."

But we both know we won't. Because next time there's a choice between following safety protocols and saving a life, I'll make the same decision.

That's the real price of my power – not the pain, but the responsibility. When you can take someone's suffering away, how do you choose not to?

I check myself out of the hospital the next day, against medical advice. There's a pile of paperwork on my desk about "ethical guidelines" and "operational parameters" for my ability. I'll read it later.

Right now, my eleven minutes are up, and somewhere in this hospital, someone is in pain.

Time to get back to work.