Marina cleared the dust off the old medical scanner and set it on the corner of her desk. Her second head grinned, teeth sharp and honest. "This place looks like a supply closet had a tantrum," it said. Marina smiled despite herself. She was building a therapy clinic for survivors like her—people whose bodies had changed after the crash. The mutations made everyone different now. Some grew extra limbs. Others changed colors or lost their voices entirely. She understood what it felt like to have your body betray your secrets. Her second head made sure of that. But maybe that was the point. No more hiding behind professional distance. No more careful words that meant nothing. Just truth, even when it hurt. She hung her certification on the wall and stepped back. The clinic wasn't much yet, but it was hers. The building had good bones, even if the walls curved in strange ways she'd never seen before the crash. She'd chosen it because the main room felt open and safe. Two smaller rooms branched off to the sides for private sessions. The furniture didn't match—salvaged chairs, a couch with only three legs propped up on supply crates. Her second head spoke again. "We're going to help people here." Marina nodded. For once, both heads agreed completely. This clinic would be different. Survivors needed someone who understood what the mutations took from them and what they gave back. She needed this too—a purpose that fit her new shape. The door stood open, ready for whoever walked through it first.

Marina opened the clinic's door at dawn. Three people already waited outside. Her second head whispered what she'd been thinking. "We're not ready for this many." She pushed the thought aside and smiled. The first person through the door had scales covering half their face. The second sprouted feathers from their arms. The third wouldn't make eye contact—their eyes had moved to the back of their head after the crash. Marina gestured to the mismatched chairs. "Welcome," she said. Her second head added, "You're all terrifying and wonderful." The scaled woman laughed. It broke the tension in the room. She pulled out her old notebook and a pen. "Tell me what you need," Marina said. One by one, they spoke. They talked about pain and fear and the strangers they'd become. Her second head interrupted sometimes, saying the encouraging thoughts she'd learned to hide as a professional. "You're brave for coming here." "That sounds impossibly hard." The clients relaxed. By noon, all three had booked follow-up sessions. Marina locked the door behind them and sat in the broken couch. Her second head grinned. "We actually did it." She had. The clinic was real now. Not just a room with salvaged furniture, but a place where changed people could feel seen. That afternoon, Marina spread her old medical texts across the desk. The pages showed normal human anatomy—useless now. She needed different knowledge. Her second head frowned. "We don't know enough about what's happening to them." She grabbed a blank journal and started writing notes from each session. The scales felt hot to touch. The feathers grew faster under stress. The relocated eyes caused constant headaches. She'd have to learn as she went, one mutation at a time. The walls curved around her workspace in ways that still felt strange. But the clinic held her purpose now. She had clients who needed her. She had questions that mattered. Her second head smiled. "This is just the beginning." Marina nodded and kept writing. The burnt coffee could wait. She had work to do.