Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

That photograph you held in your hand was more valuable than many from your album, even though it was taken just recently. Everything in it was beautiful - the colors, the people, and most importantly, their smiles. You were in it too - holding a diploma, standing with your friend Sellen, with an indescribable joy shining in your eyes. D and Rogier were also in this photo - your friends from the same year, but from different courses, with whom you spent days and nights, cramming paragraphs from textbooks, hanging out and partying.

"I wonder where you will end up practicing,”Sellen said thoughtfully. She had been on top for the last two years, outpacing most of the students at your university with her academic results. "You should get to Leyndell. They have the best clinics."

Leyndell. The capital. A huge metropolis where everything was available - people from all over the world flocked there to work, study, and simply to live in comfortable conditions. In childhood, you were here only once, when your parents decided to take you with them during the summer holidays. The city impressed you, even though its pace was unfamiliar. Everyone was in a hurry, and it felt like you couldn't keep up with them, not even to enjoy the beautiful sights, of which there were indeed many. Besides the endless business centers and skyscrapers, there were many old historical buildings, beautiful parks, and structures - it seemed impossible to know everything in this city, which made it all the more interesting. Development, opportunities, fun. It was during that summer that the thought arose in your mind, one you were a hundred percent sure of - this was the city where you would live, no matter the cost. Not only out of a desire to escape your boring little town in pursuit of becoming a doctor, but also so that your parents could be proud of you. 

"I don't know if I can make it that high. They would take you; don't you want to quickly retrain?" You joked. 

"No thanks, I think I'll stick to astrophysics. Lucaria research center dies to intern me,” Ah, as always, the determined Sellen. You always liked her; her character, her incredible mind, friendly manner of communication, and the ease of talking to her.

"I hope fate will be merciful to us and send us decent mentors..." You mumbled. 

"Well, you never know, they might assign you to some weirdos for practice. So you just have to endure them while they teach you. And they are your mentors, you can't really say anything to them," Sellen said. You turned to her. She was sitting on the bed opposite your desk, engrossed in reading another article.

"Let's hope it won't be like that. It would be a lame type of practice.” 

You tried to continue writing your paper on your laptop, but your thoughts were no longer on the right topic.

“I heard our university collaborates with many private clinics. It would be great to practice somewhere there. Who knows, you might end up working there afterward."

"It would be a good arrangement," Sellen replied to you, "By the way. Have you seen the number of people that clinics are ready to accept this year? Mohgwyns has only one spot available."

"Really?"

Sellen was silent for a few moments, then turned her phone towards you, signaling you to look at the screen. As usual, when the conversation turned to your residency and the name of that clinic slipped out, a sly smile appeared on her face. She opened up for you the list of all the places your university collaborated with. It created the impression that it was endless, so many organizations were listed there. Surprisingly, besides the standard city clinics and hospitals, a good half of the list consisted of private clinics. The Mohgwyn Clinic proudly stood out in the list, occupying a separate place with a detailed description. Next to each clinic, the number of spots for residents was additionally specified. Indeed, Mohgwyn had only one.

In Leyndell, the largest and most technologically advanced clinic had long been considered the Mohgwyn Medical Center. Despite its secretive owner, it thrived and attracted a huge number of patients impressed by the quality of its services. Moreover, the clinic was a leader in health research, constantly improving techniques and treatment methods. It seemed that one could go there with any ailment, and they would definitely cure it, regardless of the severity. However, the bill for services was often quite steep. Many students drooled at the opportunity to do their practice there, not to mention employment prospects.

"Wow, i have no chance," was the only thing you could say.

Sellen giggled, putting her phone away.

"Don’t stress. Did you apply for surgery?" she asked, resting her chin on her hand.

"Yeah, I hope they take me."

"Don't worry. You'll do great. You've worked hard these past few years."

"Well, of course! A genius like me will naturally be taken to the Mohgwyns," you joked sarcastically and went to get ready.

"In every joke, there's a grain of truth, you know," Sellen said as you disappeared into your shared bathroom.

Today, you wanted to go to Leyndell and have a good time. Meet up with friends and crash at some bar. From your university to the city, there was a train - the journey took about an hour. Sometimes, when the walls of Lucaria became completely tiresome, you would go there to change the scenery. And now, when the last exams were already approaching and cramming already felt like a chokehold, no one wanted to sit with textbooks today. Sellen was soaking up all the knowledge like a sponge anyway, Rogier seemed to have known everything since birth, and D had probably just pushed everything to the back burner. You, on your part, were simply tired. A day or two of rest wouldn't hurt anyone, right?

"By the way, they have high salaries there!" Sellen shouted from the room, "And there are a lot of men!"

"Sellen, leave me alone!" you shouted back and turned on the water in the shower to drown her out. If you were still in the room, you would have heard that there was nothing shameful about your poorly concealed desire to practice there.

Of course, you were no exception. You also wanted to go there for an internship, to feel what it's like to be an excellent specialist in medicine. To work with good equipment… and most importantly, to help people. That was the main reason you enrolled in medical school. Not only was the field of interest to you, but also the opportunity to improve someone's life through your efforts. You never admitted it to anyone, but you had read every scientific article published by the Mohgwyn Center staff in the last couple of years. God forbid someone saw your browsing history...

Studying at the university was not easy for you. In fact, it wasn’t easy for anyone—the workload at the Lucaria University was, as usual, overwhelming, but despite that, you tried to keep up with everything on time. Professors were almost always satisfied with you. Almost all, because there was Professor Offnir, who liked no one. In general, no one liked him either. You did well on exams and successfully managed practical classes. But you stood out the most in surgical disease classes. Deep knowledge, a steady yet gentle hand. What more was needed? Let's not mention that Rogier always did math for two (if not three). Also skip the amount of money spent on thank-yous to Sellen for the consistently ready homework in physics.

Overall, you didn't complain. Everything was going relatively smoothly, graduation from university was approaching, there were no academic debts, but not far on the horizon loomed the scary question of residency. You applied to several surgery programs. Would you be accepted? In the evenings, you often noticed that while contemplating your studies and future, your heartbeat would start to rise anxiously, as if your brain was ignoring the convincing reasons why you couldn’t fail. But sometimes it seemed that…

“Hey, how long are you going to take, princess? We’re going to miss the train!”

You jolted and came back to your thoughts. It seems you've been here longer than you thought. You turned off the water. In the silence of the bathroom, there was an almost continuous buzzing - someone was bombarding your phone with messages. Wiping your hair, you leaned over your phone to see what was going on.

Rogier, 15:32 

Hi. Are you guys getting ready?

Rogier, 15:33 

Hello?????

Rogier, 15:37 

Darling?

Rogier, 15:37 

Are you playing with a scalpel all night and now sleeping? Where have you disappeared to?

D, 15:40 

I'm ready. You all get ready too. I am not waiting for any of you incase ur late.

The last message even made you a bit tense. Darian, as serious as always. You left the bathroom. Sellen had already changed and was waiting for you, once again engrossed in some scientific reading. You tried to finish your preparations quickly, and as soon as you gave the green light, you both rushed out of your room.

You hurried to the station and you were only spurred on by the anticipation of a good, relaxed evening. The path led across the entire campus, and you had time to enjoy the view of the academy yet again. The architecture was incredible, as if not from this world - the arches of the buildings and towers looked like they were from the most beautiful painting. To admire the towering facades, one had to tilt their head back significantly - the towers rose high above the ground, stretching far into the sky. Gothic ideas predominated in the design, yet they intertwined with a unique feature exclusively for the Academy of Lucaria, the incorporation of bright crystals. If you found yourself in the campus courtyard at night, you would be amazed at how brightly these crystals emitted light - you never quite understood why they glowed at all. During the day, sunlight reflected off them, creating incredible multicolored patterns with their glimmers. It seemed you could never tire of looking at it. From the square at the main entrance, the landscape was no less stunning, if not better - lakes stretched far away, reflecting the sun's rays in the water. The first time you found yourself here before starting your first year, you stood for a long time and just looked around at the surroundings, breathtaken. Sometimes you still caught yourself thinking that it resembled a colorful dream more and more. Where you came from to study, it was hard to find something like this.

There were unexpectedly many people at the square. It was rare to see so many students before exams - usually, everyone left after them. Your gaze swept over the crowd, trying to see any familiar faces. 

"You are late," Your heart nearly dropped to your heels. D was standing almost right behind you, and you didn't even notice it - his voice sounded loudly in your ear, causing you to almost jump in fright.

"Perfectly on time," Sellen said calmly, not at all frightened.

You turned around. Rogier was standing behind Darian, his face wearing the usual calm and friendly smile. He nodded at you in greeting and came closer.

"We just arrived ourselves. Someone halfway through doubted whether they turned off the iron," Rogier looked at Darian, who grimaced in annoyance. 

“At least I had enough responsibility to come back and check. You would have just left it like that.”

"Do you have your own iron?" you asked, raising your eyebrows in surprise. You only had a shared one that you used with several neighboring rooms.

"We have an ironing board too."

You quickly bought tickets. When you stepped onto the platform, the train was already arriving.

The journey went smoothly, filled with conversations about unimportant things.

"Oh, I’ve missed this place," you said as you stepped out of the train car. The atmosphere had changed drastically - the noise, the crowd, and the coolness of the evening welcomed you with open arms. It was starting to get dark, and the first evening lights of Leyndell began to flicker on.

You headed to the center - where all the popular spots were gathered. Inside the central "ring," formed by the main business centers owned either by the children of Marika - probably the richest woman in the country - or by independent entrepreneurs, there were a huge number of bars you could visit. Sometimes you would write their names on a piece of paper and roll a die to see which one it would land on, so you wouldn't have to choose yourself. Today, the die landed on "Lost Grace". What a name, you thought. The place was quite popular, even though it was considered to be on the edge of the central circle.

The streets signs around shone in different colors, periodically shimmering with neon, like a defocusing camera and you wondered if your eyes were playing tricks. Near the entrance of the bar you were heading to was a noisy crowd of smokers - today the place was particularly lively, and you hoped that there would be a table for you at all. No matter how much Rogier convinced you that you would definitely get in, it was not worth having high hopes for the evening before the weekend.

A large sign reading "Lost Grace" glowed with a golden light, standing out for its size against the others. The bar was located in a small alley across from a huge medical complex, the largest in the city - it was not hard to guess what kind of place this was. Quite an ironic place for a bar - to gulp down bitter shots in front of the palace of life. When you stepped inside, it turned out that the bar was larger than it seemed from the outside. It was quite dark, the dim light likely hiding half the patrons. In the main area you entered, tables were arranged around the perimeter of the room, separated by partitions. Despite the semi-darkness, it was very noisy. A hostess immediately approached you and, to your quiet relief, guided you to a table and left the menu.

"I told you we would fit in," said Rogier.

You quickly glanced over the menu. All the cocktails had rather… unique names.

"Seriously, 'Destined Death'? Am I even going to leave this place alive?" Darian asked under his breath, fiddling with the menu.

"Sounds good, I’ll take it," Rogier said decisively.

After a while, a girl approached you with a phone in hand to take your order. You looked at her; she was beautiful, despite having issues with her left eye - it was not entirely clear what was wrong with it, as visually it appeared healthy, yet she did not open it. The darkness harmoniously accentuated her soft features. You looked at the badge pinned to her shirt, which displayed her name. 

«Good evening. What can i get for you?”

Your friends ordered food and drinks for themselves - two "Destined Death" cocktails, one "Dark Moon," and "Grace" for you.

Rogier tried to steal another potato from D's plate when he got smacked on the fingers.

"I'll sue you," Darian said, pushing the plate away from Rogier.

"That's the only reason you went into law - to legally argue with people," Rogier smirked, dramatically rolling his eyes.

"Who are you to talk," D replied, "Went into psychiatry to dig into people's minds. What are you going to do, blow me up with hidden revelations of my traumatic childhood?"

"Please, he doesn't always unearth his own revelations. Psychiatry is just a cover for him to make his podcast analyzing maniacs," Sellen said, twirling a cocktail glass in her hands.

"More interesting than listening to a mad scientist trying to prove his own scientific article," Rogier stole another fry.

"The professor was so impressed that she gave me an excellent grade on the exam faster than the others," Sellen noted.

"Yeah, impressed. Sure. She clearly wanted to get rid of you as soon as possible."

"Sellen wouldn't let her. Poor Professor Renalla had to listen to her nonsense until the very end," you laughed.

"You’re all maniacs," Darian sighed, resigning himself to the loss of his potato.

In another toast to graduating from university, you raised your glass - the drink inside was particularly beautiful and looked delicious. When it was inside you, the glass bottom caught the reflection of a person, and as soon as you set the glass down on the table, you met his gaze.

His gaze was bright in the dark of the bar. Even from a distance, you could see that his eyes were amber. He was looking directly into your eyes, but you couldn't imagine what he might be thinking - the unreadable expression on his face was all you could discern, but his gaze was cold and seemed to look into your soul. For some unknown reason, you also couldn't stop looking at him, as if he had snatched all your thoughts and, without words, compelled you to focus solely on his figure. He was sitting with two of his colleagues - or so you thought, because they were all dressed somewhat similarly - at the other end of the hall, lazily but not serenely reclining on a sofa. With the fingers of his left hand, he was rhythmically tapping on his glass—not nervously, but keeping a calculated beat. A moment later, he squinted and smiled at you—not in a friendly way, but not threatening either, as if he had already understood everything about you long ago.

Rogier snapped his fingers in front of your face.

“Hello? Dear, you’re staring at that weird guy as if he’s a question on an exam that you can’t answer,” Darian remarked.

The man tilted his glass toward you, as if toasting mockingly. Your attention instantly shifted back to your table.

“I got chills from him,” Rogier said. “Not in a good way, I mean.”

That guy suits his hairstyle, you noticed, as if there was something special about his long hair pulled into a messy ponytail.

"Frenzied Flame" was next - shot after shot, you downed them, laughed, and argued about all sorts of nonsense, ordering more. The bar, in turn, was getting busier and busier over time - more people were coming in, anticipating the weekend. Your head hadn't started to spin yet, but you knew it would once you stood up. Your cheeks were already burning. Sometimes you couldn't help it, and your gaze returned to that man as if magnetized, but from his side, at that moment, there was no mutual attention directed towards you. Undoubtedly, your momentary distraction was noticed by your friends, and for the most part, they ignored it. "Like them older?" was the only thing Darian asked with a smirk regarding this, for which you elbowed him in the arm.

Closer to midnight, you remembered the existence of the last evening train towards your university - thanks to Darian for always drinking less than the others, already sipping coffee while you, Sellen, and Rogier were still arguing about whose life was harder - a doctor’s, a psychiatrist’s, or an astrophysicist’s (the argument ultimately didn't come to a logical conclusion).

Somehow gathering yourself and finally settling the bill for the evening, you stumbled out of the bar in high spirits. Darian asked to stand outside for a couple of minutes while he smoked; you declined the offered cigarette - you don’t smoke. Stepping away from the intoxicating heat, you all caught your breath a bit, quietly laughing during the conversation. When you were about to head towards the subway and then to the station, you decided to check your pockets to make sure you hadn’t forgotten anything. Documents, phone… Your hands nervously fumbled through your pockets, feeling them. You couldn’t find your student ID, without which you wouldn’t be able to get onto campus - damn it for not moving it from the outer pocket to the inner one.

“Shit,” you whispered. Your friends looked at you questioningly. “I think I lost my ID. I’ll be quick.”

You turned around to go back into the bar and check if your ID was left under the table somewhere, when a man came out of the door, the same one who had toasted you. He immediately focused on you, as if your face was exactly what he had been expecting to see, yet he clearly wasn’t in a hurry to catch up with you. You looked up at him as he stopped in front of you, and you already intended to walk past, when he raised his hand, holding something between two fingers. In the shape of an object illuminated by streetlights, you recognized your ID.

“Losing things already?” His voice was unexpectedly smooth, though it carried a hint of playful mockery. Standing so close to him, you caught a barely noticeable scent of antiseptic and... rain? Now, looking at him in the light, you noticed he had incredible snow-white eyelashes and similarly sparse strands in his hair. He flipped the card over, examining the information written on it; his eyes were clearly darting between your initials, moving over the lines and spending particularly much time studying your photo on the plastic. When he satisfied his curiosity, he handed the card to you. "It would be quite inconvenient to actually lose it, don't you think?"

Your fingers brushed against each other as you took the ID from him. 

Neither of you apologized for the touch.

Chapter Text

The graduation flew by faster than you could say anything.

When you held your diplomas and smiled at the photographer, it felt like this happiness and relief would last forever, completely overshadowing many obvious worries. In that moment, it was hard to think about how fate would soon scatter you and your friends to the far corners of life and take strange and unexpected paths. The farewell with them was not bitter - you were sure that you would spend many more years together with these people. Sellen hugged everyone goodbye and stayed to live in the dormitory at the research center, Rodgier went to the city to stay with his parents for a while, and Darian did not give any specific comments on what he would do next.

Two months after graduating from university, you moved to Leyndell. Having invested all your savings (not without a large portion of it coming from parental money), you were able to afford a small studio. It was located outside the central city ring, in a pleasant green area on the second floor of an old building - the apartment, although small, in need of renovation and almost unfurnished, was yours, and that made your heart feel lighter - at least you had solved that problem for the rest of your life. On the first floor of the building, where it was located, there was a flower shop, and you managed to meet its owner on the very first day of your move.

You quickly ascended the stairs, trying to haul almost all your belongings to your floor at once - you were frankly too lazy to go down a hundred times for all your bags, so you, out of breath, carried a huge pile - when a pretty girl suddenly appeared around the corner of the stairwell. Had she made any sound at all, you might have been prepared for her arrival, but she moved very quietly, which resulted in your inevitable collision. You bumped right into each other face to face, immediately bouncing back from one another.

“Sorry!”

“I apologize!”

You looked at each other and smiled. The girl was young, a shy blonde with short hair; she wore a bright red jacket over an elegant dress. She looked at you with open concern.

"Uh-sorry, I got a bit lost in thought..." she stammered, "Let me help you!"

You willingly let her relieve you of a couple of bags and allowed her to walk you to your studio at the end of the hallway. You thanked her and took the keys out of your pocket.

"Once again, I apologize!"

"That's alright, I didn't expect it either," you replied good-naturedly. "Do you live here?"

"Yes, it seems we are neighbors now. I live across from you," she waved her hand towards the door opposite and laughed. A very nice girl.

"What a good coincidence that we met," you politely smiled.

"My name is Roderika. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise, Roderika," you said after introducing yourself.

"Come by the flower shop downstairs. I would be happy to pick a bouquet for you if you'd like." Ah, the flower shop. Apparently, this is its owner, you thought.

"Thank you," you nodded, and you both went your separate ways.

The apartment greeted you with coolness. You looked around again - in the near future, you clearly needed to think about furniture, but for now, a bed and a small dresser would suffice. You checked the time; there was still enough time before the small "interview" at your residency location, which you could spend unpacking - you knew that if you didn't do it now, all your bags would remain in the same state for the next couple of weeks, so you decided to tackle it right away. The items went into the dresser, the laptop onto the kitchen island, and the University of Lucaria sweatshirt instantly found its way onto the back of the bed, forgotten. As you unpacked, your thoughts raced with questions: who would be evaluating you today? when would you start working? how difficult would it be to work in such a place? You decided to check the address of the necessary clinic just in case.

Central District, Siofra Street, building 1, "Mohgwyn Medical Center."

The friends were in joyful ecstasy when you told them the news. Sellen, of course, said that she always knew it would be this way, Rodgier joyfully hugged you and congratulated you, while Darian remarked, "Be careful with them, there are all sorts of rumors around here," barely hiding a smile behind his always stoic facade. In response, you laughed, assuring him that there was nothing to worry about.

You didn't know what to expect from today - you had an appointment with a person who would have a conversation with you regarding the residency, and if everyone ultimately agreed, they would introduce you to your direct mentor and show you the clinic - you hoped that you would be lucky in this regard and that everything would go well. Back in the early 4th year, you, along with other medical students, had an interview regarding residency - you remembered a serious but still pleasant man from the Mohgwyns clinic with whom you had a conversation - he was dressed in a strict black suit that accentuated his slightly angular figure. Mainly, it was he who asked you various questions, and at that moment, you felt that you had performed well; he ended the conversation with you on a good note, writing something in his notebook. After that interview, you did not have the feeling of uncertainty that arose after some exams when you thought you would most likely receive a grade below average. You were curious if you would encounter that man today.

Your phone buzzed. A new message appeared on the screen.

Sellen, 8:21

Good luck with the interview ;)

You smiled and thanked her. After you left, Sellen stayed in your room for a while before moving to her new room in the Lukaria Research Center dormitory. She sometimes sent dramatic photos of your empty bed and a bunch of crying emojis, expressing her feelings about your departure. You missed her - you had gotten used to her being your neighbor - compared to your everyday life at university, the silence of the apartment in Leyndell now felt especially lonely; you wanted to break the silence and start a conversation with your friend, but had to hold back to avoid seeming like a crazy person talking to emptiness.

The cold white light illuminated the conference room, mingling with the rays of the morning sun seeping through the half-closed blinds. There was something special about the silence of the clinic - time seemed to stand still that morning.

The man standing by the window with his arms crossed behind his back was intently watching the parking lot; with tired eyes, he was searching for something to focus on - thinking about how to start the conversation and set a convincing tone for the discussion of an important issue. He took a deep breath before beginning.

"Be careful with this resident. No of your usual nonsense," he said affirmatively.

Behind him, there was a quiet sound of a chair swiveling back and forth. The person sitting at the table was twirling a pen between his fingers, lazily looking at the papers before him. Your file was intriguing - the thought of how interesting it would be to guide you into the profession excited him to some extent. At first, he did not expect to see a familiar face. He looked questioningly at his colleague.

"Ansbach, what do you mean? Are we now on a gentle approach?"

"You know exactly what I mean. This student has immense potential - don’t you dare break it. Don’t turn her into one of your projects," Ansbach said irritably, turning sharply to the man.

The surgeon's face reflected a feigned carefreeness - a trait that had incredibly annoyed Ansbach for as long as he had known him.

"Her life is clean - no debts, no scandals. A good education, quality scientific work. This is not her place - she should have a future."

"That's the kind of person we need, isn't it? A good addition to the clinic. Who isn't interested in a good surgeon?"

"Varré. No." Ansbach stated firmly.

Varré stood up from the table, walking around it and slowly approaching his colleague. He looked at him with undisguised mockery.

"You’re still worried about the last intern, aren't you?" Varré said softly. "She lacked the skills."

"She lacked stable nerves when she ran away from you out of this clinic."

“Pfft, nonsense,” Varré simply said, looking at his watch. He straightened his doctor's coat as if it had any wrinkles. “I really hope our resident is punctual, hmm? I can’t wait to meet her.”

His impatience was not accompanied by a smile or any presence of emotions in his gaze. Ansbach assessed him with his eyes, intending to understand his true intentions, but, as usual, he surrendered to the unpredictability and decided to act according to the situation. In the corridor, hurried footsteps were heard, and after a couple of seconds, the face of the receptionist appeared at the door.

“Good morning. A girl has come for you - should I bring her here?”

“Yes, please do,” Ansbach replied.

Varre remained silent and sat back down, glancing over your resume once more, occasionally fixating on the recommendation letter. After a couple of minutes, the administrator returned, inviting you to enter the office. You were perfectly on time.

“Hello,” you greeted the men and immediately felt taken aback.

Upon meeting his gaze, you instantly recognized him - compared to the darkness of the bar where your first meeting took place, he looked completely different here. What was he doing here? A silly question, obviously, he worked here.

“Good morning. Please, come in and take a seat,” Ansbach was still standing near the desk. He gestured towards a chair, inviting you.

You entered the room. The door closed behind you. You felt a bit uneasy - you sensed a scrutinizing gaze on you, capturing every movement, as if you were a test subject in a cage. Ansbach noticed how long you were looking at each other but didn’t pay it much attention. You sat down - Ansbach positioned himself opposite you, and the second man sat to your right.

“I think there’s no need for us to introduce ourselves. As you remember, we already spoke during the first interview in Lucaria. This is Varré, the chief surgeon of our clinic,” the man nodded towards Varré; finally, you could put a name to the face. You nodded at him in acknowledgment. The nod went unanswered.

"Unfortunately, we don't have much time to chat today. We reviewed your resume, and we really liked it. The management has already decided to bring you on board; we just need to resolve a few organizational matters," Ansbach paused briefly. "Your first day will be on Monday; there's no need to delay the start of your internship. Varré will be your mentor throughout your residency. You will assist him in surgeries and be completely under his guidance. Since your tests at the university were quite impressive, I think we can soon allow you to handle serious cases."

"Not bad procedural accuracy," Varré noted. You looked at him again—he was propping his cheek with one hand, studying you with a bored expression. "Shall we check it again?"

His eyes mischievously sparkled. Varré got up from his seat—you noticed a small box in his hands. He approached you and placed it in front of you on the table; inside the box, you saw a suturing kit and finely sliced grape.

"Stitch it up. And quickly - the patients won't wait, right?"

You didn't have time to react; Ansbach sighed heavily, and Varré stood next to you, wanting to observe your hands. Fine, you thought, if you want to watch - then I'll show you. You glanced at the tools: the finest thread for microsurgery, thin needles, and a toothless tweezers to avoid damaging the skin. You picked up the instruments and leaned over the grape - it was medium-sized, plump, with the most delicate incision; for some reason, you were sure it had been made by Varré's hand. Ansbach shot an angry glance at him, but Varré was already fully focused on you.

Delicate work, you thought. The grape rested on the silicone surface. You prepared to work. The needle entered the skin towards the inside, a couple of millimeters from the edge of the cut - the skin was tight but fragile, so you had to be careful. The thread was passed through, leaving a 3-millimeter tail. Mirror the action, creating a perfect interrupted stitch. Varre watched every movement you made - your hands were perfectly steady, with no hint of tremor. He was almost surprised.

"Appropriate depth," he noted. Ansbach was watching too. Despite their watchful observation, you were calm - or at least trying to be, not getting distracted from the task. If you seriously thought about the fact that you are being watched, you would start to worry and get worked up.

"Fine technique," Varré said quietly, walking around you and stopping behind your back. Your shoulders tensed slightly when you felt him lean closer to you, "But do you like it?"

Ansbach irritably clicked a pen against the table.

Carefully, but maintaining a steady rhythm, you stitched the skin - a few stitches, with millimeters in between - and began to tie a knot, closing the "wound." Grape juice pooled in the corners, eager to seep out.

"Tighter. You don't want it to bleed."

You finished the stitch, tightening the wound. After a brief pause, you tore your gaze away from the table and lifted your head; Ansbach nodded to himself, clearly lost in thought. Varré clapped his hands when you set down the tools and quickly grabbed the sewn-up grape, directing it toward the cold white light of the ceiling lamps. He examined the stitch, smiling at something. Various thoughts were swirling in his head, but he was satisfied - he was ready to work with you.

"Excellent... It seems we should greet you, hm?" You lifted your head to see him; Varré squeezed the grape tightly between his index and thumb; juice spilled out. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed that his left hand was twitching. He put it in his pocket. One second, and the grape was crushed and thrown into the trash. Varre took a napkin and wiped his hand as if nothing had happened.

Ansbach clicked his pen and stood up from the table, no longer paying attention to his colleague. You noticed that they clearly dislike each other; at least Ansbach was irritated in Varré's presence, while the latter didn't seem to care much about such things.

"Follow me, I'll show you everything you need to know for today. Varré, get back to work."

Varré indifferently shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll be waiting for you on Monday, lambkin," he said to you with an insincere smile before turning his back to you.

"Goodbye," you quietly replied, not letting the strange nickname pass by your ears, and followed Ansbach out of the office.

Once in the corridor, you walked in silence for a while. You weren't quite sure what you should say or ask, just as you weren't sure how Varre's ambiguous character fit his face in your mind. It could be said that to some extent, you even feared him - from the very first second you saw him in the office. He seemed too unpredictable for a person in his profession, but now you decided to brush that thought aside - perhaps you were just attaching too much importance to it.

"One moment, please," said Ansbach, when you noticed that you had returned to the entrance. He went behind the desk to the receptionist and searched for something in the drawer. When he returned, he handed you a small key and a schematic map of the clinic. "Take this. It will come in handy. I'll show you the main offices so you can find your way in case you need to."

You were heading deeper into the clinic. The complex was huge and consisted of many buildings, but for now, you were only interested in the main one and the surgical department in the fifth one, where you would spend most of your time - they were connected at the back of the main building. The main building was five stories high, divided by departments - Ansbach led you through, occasionally mentioning offices that might be useful to you. You noticed that he was limping on his left leg, and it moved somewhat unnaturally.

"If you have any questions, reach out to Varré. Don't be afraid of him, but don't let him pressure you either, that's my advice. He may seem strange to you, but he is truly a professional in his field. He is an excellent surgeon; you just need to deal with his personality a bit. If anything, you can always call me - you have my contact information."

"What is the daily schedule?" you asked, wanting to clarify the details.

"At first, you'll sit with him during patient appointments. You'll watch and observe, then you'll switch places. Diagnosis is just as important as a surgical operation, so you need to be able to do it. Periodically, Varré will arrange tests for you or show you something in practice. To keep you in shape and prepare you for working with patients. Consider it a continuation of your education. As for your presence in surgeries, ask Varré directly; he will decide that himself. The workday starts at eight in the morning."

You were carefully watching both where you were going and what was drawn on the map of the rooms. Everything in this clinic looked sterile; the perfect cleanliness around was probably even too perfect, the lamps shone with a cold, unwelcoming light. The floor beneath your feet was so clean that it almost squeaked, it looked like ice that reflected bright light. Finally, people began to appear in the corridor—both patients and doctors—and it now seemed very crowded. However, the surroundings did not feel alive—it was quiet, doctors moved quickly from office to office, not raising their gaze and disappearing behind the heavy doors of the reception rooms. The air was filled with the smell of antiseptic and a barely noticeable scent of medications. When you reached the back of the complex, Ansbach showed you where the technical rooms with lockers and other necessary items were located. After that, you headed to the surgical department. The fifth building was radically different from the main one; the light here seemed to be even whiter and colder so it made your eyes strain and your head almost started to spin. The paint on the walls was paler and more drab. There were fewer people, and an unpleasant chill was running in the air. Perhaps you were imagining things again? In the main corridor, there were numerous patient rooms, and after turning right, behind a glass archway, the operating rooms began—Ansbach led you past them, but he did eventually stop near one; it was the second to last in the corridor.

"You'll be here most often, in this building. Remember these operating rooms," you looked around. The third operating room was the last one on the map. So why was there no fourth one drawn? The man hesitated a bit, as if unsure whether to say something. You tilted your head questioningly when he turned to you. ”Listen… follow the protocols, okay? All of them.”

“What will happen if I don’t?”

“Remember what happened to the grape.”

You wondered what prompted his warning. You put the clinic's diagrams into your bag.

After a while, you finished the main inspection of the buildings. You tried to remember everything in as much detail as possible to use your time more effectively. Naturally, it would take a lot of time to get oriented at first, but Ansbach assured you that Varré or someone else from the staff would definitely help you if needed. Just in case, he left you the phone number of your mentor. You didn't feel the desire to use it, especially after meeting him in person.

"I think you'll receive a letter today or tomorrow, so keep an eye on the mailbox. Come earlier on Monday so that you and Varre can discuss all the details of your work right away. After all, I'm only giving you a general overview."

An hour later, you were released to go home. Ansbach said goodbye to you and hurried back to his direct responsibilities - you were glad that he was the one showing you everything today; this man gave the impression of being a reliable person to turn to. For some reason, you felt safe around him and were pleased at the prospect of working together. As soon as you stepped outside, your hands reached for your phone. You wanted to share the news with Sellen as soon as possible.

You, 11:20

Celebrating. I start work on Monday!!

Sellen, 11:25

Yay, congratulations :) Just make sure they don’t steal your research papers if you write them. I wasn’t so lucky with that.

Your face suddenly became serious. What did she mean?

You, 11:26

wdym?

Sellen, 11:27

I wrote a physics paper. Research. A couple of days later, it was posted online, but not quite mine. Total plagiarism, not a single mention of my name AT ALL. Furious.

Disgusting. You knew how passionately Sellen felt about her scientific work and how much effort she put into it, so you understood how much such incidents affected her, even if they happened to someone else.

You, 11:28

Sellen, I'm sorry... I'm sad to hear that. Have you tried asking them what the hell?

Sellen, 11:28

As if they would answer. Well, it’s fine. They’ll get the taste of their own medicine. Better tell me about your day, princess.

You, 11:28
You won't believe who my mentor is going to be.

You, 11:29
Do you remember the man who was sitting in the bar? Who returned me my student ID later.

Sellen, 11:29
Just don't tell me...

You smiled and continued to text Sellen on your way home. The weather was pleasant, so you decided to walk and enjoy it.

When you returned home and looked at the building once more, your thoughts jumped to Roderika, and you decided to stop by her shop. Perhaps you just wanted to meet someone so that life here didn't seem too monotonous – you were truly afraid that your routine might turn into a scheme of home - work - home in the near future, so any kind of friendship would be great. You quickly popped into the nearest café and bought two cups of coffee to go before heading to Roderika. The shop greeted you with a pleasant coolness and a wonderful fragrance of flowers. You immediately noticed your neighbor, assembling a beautiful bouquet of white chrysanthemums for a customer. In the surrounding greenery, Roderika looked like a genuine fairy – her soft features resembled the delicate flowers she sold, and her face displayed tranquility. At first, you gazed at her without distraction, but remembering how you felt in the morning under Varré's watchful eye, you quickly looked away and began to examine the shelves filled with various plants in bright pots. Behind Roderika was a transparent cold room filled with fresh flowers, and looking at them, you almost decided to ask her to gather a bouquet for you as well. Thanks to the large amount of sunlight coming into the room through the huge windows, everything was covered in soft daylight - the place was a celebration of life, no less. The tranquility you experienced here was hard to put into words. Out of the corner of her eye, Roderika still caught your previous embarrassment – she was surprised, but actually very happy to see you. The girl couldn't suppress a smile. She tied an elegant bow around the bouquet, adjusting the wrapping.

"Here you go, your bouquet. I wish you a wonderful celebration," she handed the bouquet to the man, who quickly accepted it, thanked her, and hurried on his way.

"Hi," you said as you approached the counter. "I decided to stop by and take a look. Treat yourself – to our acquaintance."

"Thank you so much! To be honest, I didn't expect you to actually come," Roderika took one cup and inhaled the aroma of coffee. Judging by the expression on her face, she liked it.

“Oh, I had a lot of time after the interview. As I got to the house, I decided to have a look. Amazing shop,” you said, still looking around.

"Interview? For a job?" Roderika asked.

"Residency," you clarified.

"Oh, so you're a doctor... A serious choice for a profession," the girl remarked, "I definitely wouldn't manage, ha-ha. It's great to help people."

"That's for sure..."

"And which clinic?"

"Mohgwyn."

Roderika noticeably tensed. Her face now reflected anxiety. She frowned - it made her face much stricter.

"Be careful with them," she simply said, slightly drooping.

"Is something wrong?"

You began to wonder why the mention of the clinic elicited such a reaction from her; now it was harder to brush off Ansbach's warning.

"No, no, nothing... Actually, really nothing. It's just that strange rumors about them occasionally arise, but usually nothing suspicious gets confirmed," Roderika replied, shrugging. "And I'm very gullible. So, extra caution won't hurt. Especially since the company is large."

"I see. I'll keep that in mind," you replied, pondering.

You decided to change the topic. You didn't want to continue this conversation, in case it turned out strangely.

"Are you the only one working here?" you asked. "It must be difficult to work for the store all the time."

"I really love flowers," Roderika confessed. "I often don't even notice that I work almost every day. In the summer, though, I sometimes hire students for part-time work."

"Rest is very important for health."

"You sound like a true doctor," Roderika giggled, covering the lower part of her face with her hand. Shy.

"I'm trying to become one."

"And where did you study, if it's not a secret?"

"In Lucaria."

"Wow, it's very difficult there... I was afraid to apply. Such a workload isn't for me..."

"Yeah, there's not a moment's peace, that's for sure. We tried to make studying a bit more bearable though," you replied. Following the routine, in your last years you didn't even notice how tired you were from studying - constant effort was rarely rewarded.

While you were talking, Roderika decided to tidy up her desk a bit. Gathering the trimmed flower stems and clearing away leaves and fabric scraps, she moved a small box from one corner of the table so it wouldn't be in the way and put it somewhere down. You immediately recognized the tarot cards in that box. An interesting hobby, you thought.

The bell at the entrance rang, and new customers entered the store. As much as you wanted to chat a bit more with Roderika, you should let her work in peace. You smiled at her and said, "See you again," as you headed for the exit. She nodded in response and fully shifted her attention to the visitors. You decided to head to your apartment, sit with your laptop and relax a bit, reflecting on everything you had seen and heard at the clinic today. You entered the building and climbed the spiral staircase to your floor. Unintentionally, you noticed the mailboxes. A corner of a letter was sticking out of yours.

You opened the box, carefully took out the paper, and examined the letter. The sender's information included the clinic's address. So fast? You hadn't even had time to get home. The front door of your apartment clicked shut behind you. You placed your things in the hallway and hurried to open the letter. Quickly scanning the text, you caught the most important information.

"You have been assigned to operating room number 3, with accompanying work in operating room number 4. Welcome to our team."

At the bottom was the signature of Varre, and beneath it was the most important signature - of the director of the clinic, bold and undoubtedly beautiful. A small note accidentally fell out of the letter - it smelled strongly of antiseptic. A barely noticeable red stain was visible in the corner.

"Will be waiting for your results, lambkin.”

Chapter Text

When Roderika returned to her apartment in the evening after work, her thoughts were occupied with the memory of how you had entered her flower shop the day before yesterday. She was pleasantly surprised that you had actually decided to do it. The girl did not hope that your chance meeting on the stairs would lead to anything at all.

Roderika turned on the lamp at her desk and looked up at the window above it —  it offered a beautiful view of the night city. It was a quiet evening. A light, warm breeze occasionally crept in from the open window, ruffling the light curtains. Admiring the lights illuminating the dark streets, the girl reflected on your conversation — she hoped that everything would go well for you. The clinic had an unblemished reputation, but as is known, rumors do not arise from nowhere. After sitting in thought for a few minutes, the girl took a box of cards out of her bag. She pulled them and began to shuffle. In the silence of the apartment, a soft friction of cardboard against cardboard could be heard as the large cards fell on top of each other. Slowly shuffling the cards and silently asking them her question, she pulled the ones that were knocked from the deck and placed them on the wooden surface of the table.

Three cards. What had led to the situation. The heart of the events. A possible outcome. Roderika carefully turned over the first card, the Wheel of Fortune. 'Her life has been a happy one up until now...' thought the girl. She remembered what you told her about your training in Lucaria and a residency. Heights that not everyone can climb. Would this card really signify a shift towards failure, or was it just one of the inevitable shifting cycles of your life? Turning over the second card, Roderika hesitated for a moment when she saw the angle of the drawing. The Devil card. Someone has appeared in your life who will lead you to your downfall. Without reasoning over this card, the girl hurriedly turned over the third one. She froze in surprise. Lovers…? Not at all what she had hoped to see, absolutely not. Roderika wanted the reading to be good, but she wasn't going to argue with the cards either. Deep down, she hoped it was all just a mistake and that no readings ever reflected reality. She sighed heavily and quickly, even with a hint of irritation, put the cards back in the box and with a sharp motion shoved it into the drawer, closing it with a slam.

“Very bad,” the girl whispered. “I need to leave her blue violets and a begonia. I hope she'll understand.”

When the alarm clock rang loudly in your room on Monday morning, you swore that you would change the ringtone, otherwise, it wouldn't be long before you lost your nerves. You irritably looked out the window. The morning was clearly not for you. You would have to adjust. By the time you arrived at the clinic, you were fully awake and more or less alert. You hoped your first days in the new place would go smoothly. When you entered the main building, the administrator greeted you right away, the same one who had escorted you to the office last time. You politely returned the greeting. She silently asked you to come over to her.

“Hello. It's good that you came early. I need you to sign some papers,” she said tiredly and pulled out a whole stack of documents from behind the counter. Your eyes widened at the volume. She looked at what was on top and laid it out in front of you. “Consent for the processing of personal data.”

For participation in research activities, industrial safety, social protection of workers... Barely audibly reading the information to yourself, you signed. The next document.

“Non-disclosure agreement,” Prohibits the dissemination of information regarding the health of clinic patients, the intellectual property of the company, ongoing research…You read and signed. The next document.

“Responsibility for experimental procedures,” Provides for the employee's liability for the consequences of voluntarily undergoing experimental medical procedures... Doubting, you signed. No experiments, you thought. The next document.

“Responsibility for handling organs,” Logical. You signed.

“Recognition of mental stability,” She turned to you with another sheet. “Strange, I'm aware. Don't ask.”

Shrugging, you signed. As far as you know yourself, you are quite stable and had no intention of losing your mind from work.

“Ah, and the last one. The surrender of intellectual property. This is the unpleasant part, to be honest,” All research, scientific developments, discoveries, and improvements made on the territory of the MMC belong to the clinic. The only document from the entire list that you didn't want to sign. Your thoughts darted to Sellen and her situation with the Lucaria research center. At least here it was spoken of openly. The administrator was watching you expectantly. “Don't worry, in any case, you probably won't have time for research. Our surgeons are always running around like they're on fire.”

You sighed and signed the last agreement, pushing the sheet away and returning the pen to the girl. She thanked you and placed a pager on the counter. Did someone still use this?

“This thing is now your lifeline. Don't leave it for a second. A little advice: Varré doesn't like it when people meddle in his affairs. Be careful with him, agreed?”

“Uh-huh... I got it,” You blinked sluggishly and nodded. For some reason, you felt as if you had just sold your soul.

“Did you remember the key? Go change and definitely check the locker. Good luck!”

Still processing what had happened in your mind, you turned and headed towards the technical rooms and, fortunately, you remembered the way. In the warm light of the morning sun, the clinic no longer seemed so cold. As you walked in the right direction, you looked around: tall potted plants stood here and there, trying to compete with the soulless walls of the clinic, and neatly hung posters with information and various reminder pictures of the "health care" variety adorned the walls. Everything was arranged as if by a ruler, with an almost unhealthy perfectionism.

You entered the technical room. It was quite large inside, filled with an endless number of metal lockers. Here and there you could see a few people, their figures occasionally hidden behind the doors. You took out the key and turned it over — the number "87" was printed on it. Quickly orienting yourself, you found your locker and opened it. You found that everything you needed or could use had already been left inside: gown, medical uniform, disposable supplies and, most importantly, right next to the door, on the edge of the locker, was your plastic pass. As Ansbach had told you before, it gave you access to the operating rooms. A small note lay next to him. "OR3. You'll wait for the end of the operation if you arrive late." Harsh. After changing your clothes and picking up your pass, you returned to the corridor and walked toward the surgery. As you passed through the transition and into the building, you snickered because it was much more gloomy than the entrance to the complex. When you approached the operating room 3, you immediately noticed Varré. He was leaning against the wall, looking at his phone with little enthusiasm. You had a couple of seconds to take him in. He looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes, which you concluded rarely ever disappeared from his face,  whether the first time at the bar or the second time here at the clinic — he had them every time, but they just varied in size. Had he been working that night? Noticing movement from the side, he lifted his head in your direction.

“Punctual. How convenient,” he said, looking you in the eyes. Further down the corridor, a rhythmic muffled noise could be heard, as if... very loud ventilation? No, that would be too unnatural for it. You paused for a moment, listening to this sound. It seemed to be coming from the next operating room. “… lambkin?”

You snapped back to reality, pulling yourself away from your thoughts. You didn't hear most of what he was telling you.

“Oh, sorry…”

“Wake up. If you fall asleep in the OR, you have only yourself to blame,” he said, frowning. “I advise you to listen closely. We don’t want you to be turned away on your first day, do we?”

Varré stepped away from the wall and told you to follow him; after walking a bit further down the corridor, he unlocked the door to one of rooms. It was opposite the one you had been trying so hard to listen to. Giving the nameless surgery room door a quick glance, you silently followed Varré. There wasn't much space inside: this room was more for various tests than for performing surgical work; too many things, shelves, and diagrams on the walls. You noticed one of the frames, inside which, on paper faded with time, a human body was outlined, with numerous golden dashed lines schematically drawn on it. Some areas of the body were marked in blue. “Research on the potential for enhancement. The impact of partial cryostasis.”

“I wanted to check you one more time. For my peace of mind, so to speak," he said, putting on new sterile gloves. "I want to make sure you won't mess up my work, do you understand? Come closer.”

He handed you the gloves and, when he stepped back, you noticed that there was a wide steel tray on the table behind him, on which something was rhythmically trembling. As you approached, you realized what it was — a medium-sized pig's heart was connected to a moving mechanism simulating a heartbeat. There was a gaping, non-bleeding incision on the heart. Surgical instruments lay nearby in a tray. 

“That time I was just aiming, then, with the grape,” Varré commented. “Sew it up. If blood comes out, you'll be responsible for mopping the floors today.”

“But they're clean.”

“It's not the floors here. It's after the surgeries. Don't be smart, dear,” the man warned you. He turned on the lamp above the table and leaned over the organ slightly. Using the tips of his fingers, he touched the soft tissues, pointing at the incision and slightly pulling it apart a little. “This incision has varying depths. Do you need me to explain what you needs to be done?”

“No, thank you. I wouldn't be sitting here otherwise, would I?”

“Language, lambkin,” you caught a tic every time he addressed you with that nickname.

He carefully turned the stand over. On the back of the heart was a black-and-yellow spot, more resembling an incomprehensible crust — the spread of the deathroot, you concluded. During your training in Lucaria, you had only briefly touched upon the topic of deathroot, not delving into it more than a couple of lectures and one practical class devoted to it. It was believed that its progression could only be halted in the very early stages. However, this was complicated by the single fact that, in the early stages, patients did not feel any discomfort in the area where the root was spreading. Currently, the deathroot was the main mystery in medicine, over which centers were racking their brains over how to diagnose what is difficult to see even in general tests. 

“Do you know anything about this?” Varré asked you. In fact, he did not hope to receive a positive answer from you - he was well aware of what and how they taught in Lucaria.

“Only general information. We haven't had the deathroot in our practice.”

“So today will be the only and main lesson. I won’t repeat it. A successful student will remember it the first time, right? But first, let's deal with the scar.” He turned the tray back. His manner of speaking was starting to irritate you, but you decided to suppress any discontent towards him. Still, there was a note of eternal disdain in his words that was hard to ignore.

Shaking off your thoughts, you started working on the heart. For a moment, you were overcome with doubt - why exactly a beating one? The first task was to remove the necrotic tissue and excess blood clots from the incision. You carefully manoeuvred the hook to gently hold the wound open. For cleaning away the dead tissue, you used tweezers and a scalpel. Varré stood across the table from you, leaning over it and watching your work. The beating made the task more challenging, but you continued to work with focus, ignoring it. Had the movement beneath your instruments had been a distraction, you would have shot out of the surgical course like a rocket into space. Varré was watching you, contemplating what he would do if he were in your position and considering how your methods differed and how much of a gap in experience he would have to bridge by teaching you various things. He disliked the idea of you being a hindrance, but on the other hand, he wanted to give you a chance. At least for variety’s sake. To his surprise, you were handling it better than he had initially expected. A spark of interest flickered in his eyes. Performing such an operation in practice would naturally be unlikely — after all, a patient's heart usually is only briefly stopped if surgery is required. Rather, he just wanted to see if you could manage such a complex, improbable situation. Meanwhile, you had already treated the cut and were finishing up on the edges of the wound. The hardest part remained — stitching it up. Given the situation you were put in — the heart was beating actively, at a medium pace — you will have to sew between the beats, placing stitches directly through the wound. It was located on the ventricle of the heart, which meant that you could suture it in one or two layers. You took a short pause, tuning into the contractions and relaxations of the heart. When it paused, you tried to quickly pierce and pull the thread through. The first couple of times everything went quite smoothly, however, after the third beat, you began to lose the rhythm; you were instantly overcome with anxiety, and you made an inadequate grab of healthy tissue and the thin suture thread cut through in one place. You bit your tongue to avoid cursing.

“Keep going, don't hesitate,” Varré said, leaning on the table. He gave you a break this time.

“I'm not hesitating. I'm preparing.”

You continued to rhythmically place the sutures. In half a minute, everything was done. Varré turned off the mechanism and assessed your work — only a couple of drops of blood fell, but your head was almost spinning from how intensely you had focused. You exhaled. It seemed you had completely forgotten that you needed to breathe.

“Adequate. Obvious mistakes, but we will fix this in time,” It must have been his version of praise? You decided that you accepted it. Not giving you a moment to rest, he turned over the tray. You had already forgotten about the root. “Look how it pulses. Not in time with the heart. Cut shallow — it will grow back. Cut too deep and the heart goes in the trash. This particular spot can be removed without consequences. If the growth is deep, you can consider the patient already dead. Most such operations end up like this.”

You examined the root closely. A terrifying thing, if you really think about its nature: it sits, like a parasite in the body, slowly and imperceptibly killing you from the inside. 

Varré took a size 15 scalpel from the tray and handed it to you. He walked around the table and stood behind your back. 

“In such cases, you need to cut confidently and clearly,” he said, waiting for you to try to remove the affected parts. You aimed uncertainly. You had absolutely no experience in this area. Right now you felt like a blind kitten; you didn't understand how deep to cut and how not to touch the healthy tissues. You were already about to refuse to do it when you felt Varré lean over you and take your hands in his. Even through the gloves, you felt how cold they were. He was half a head taller than you, you noticed. 

“Angle it this way. Only if you don't prefer to provoke heart ruptures,” he said, quickly adjusting the position of your hands and immediately stepping back from you. When he took his hands away, you still moved your finger a millimeter to the side. Varré saw it, and you could have sworn there was a spark of undisguised irritation in his gaze, but he didn't comment on it. 

You made a trial incision. The scalpel seemed to be in an imperceptible black sludge. It was difficult to assess whether you did it correctly. Is it even possible to work with this?

Varré immediately understood that it would be easier to show you by example. He stood next to you and took another scalpel of the same size.

“If you examine affected areas in a rotation, you'll notice that the crust comes off not too difficultly and the main challenge here is to lift it. On the other hand, you usually won't encounter such a weakly affected piece. Everyone arrives here with entire gardens in their bodies, which are impossible to cut out.” You stepped away so he could stand comfortably in front of the heart. He slightly trimmed the soft part of the lesion, and, gently pushing it up, with a swift motion lifted the crust and effortlessly cut away the entire root-infected part. Incredibly fast and perfectly precise. From the movements of his hands, it was immediately clear why he was the chief surgeon. You were impressed, though you didn't feel like complimenting him.

The rot plopped onto the tray with a wet, unpleasant sound. You grimaced. Varré stepped back and returned with a jar in his hands. He carefully moved the rotten lesion inside. “Roses grow well on rot, lambkin. And this will go into the collection.”

He took off his gloves, throwing them in the trash, and turned off the lamp over the table.

“Hold this. Do you feel that it’s alive? That’s usually how it goes - you cut the rot from fragile skin, and it grows back again. And now imagine that this,” he shook the jar. “Is in your heart.”

We cut the rot out of fragile skin… You pondered his words, carefully taking the jar in your hands and lifting it to eye level. The disgusting fragment inside had spread across the bottom as a black mass. Even far less pleasant was the fact that the clot made the jar hot.

“Why is it so hard to detect?” you asked.

“We are trying to study it. But, like others, we haven’t made much progress.”

“I see…”

You remembered Darian and his brother. A wave of nausea washed over you.

"Awakened a desire for research? Our place is above bodies and corpses. Leave such endeavors to the useless thinkers," Varré said to you.

You gave him back the jar in the hope that you would never hold the root in your hands ever again.

After you left the operating theatre, Varré led you through the corridors and around the corners in the same way Ansbach had led you last time. There was only one difference: after the operating rooms, Varré came to a staircase and led you up to the floor above, where there were other, isolated rooms. He pulled a card out of his pocket and unlocked one of the doors and opened it. There were no markings on the door, nor a number hanging on it — nothing to distinguish it from any other door on the floor. You followed him inside. It was a small office, but it was surprisingly bright as it was on the sunny side of the building, and the sunlight filtered in nicely through the white blinds. Glancing around the small room, you noticed that it was clearly Varré’s private office. Apart from the huge number of folders in the bookcase — not typical of reception offices — and the papers on the desk, stacked neatly, what stood out here was the very ordinary sofa. The two desks were positioned close to each other. One was busy but immaculately clean, with patient files and documents arranged in the corner or in racks. The other desk was empty except for a computer and some loose square sheets of paper for sticky notes. 

“This is my office. Now yours too. When we're not on call for diagnostics or the OR, we'll work here… Mohg believes that sharing a workspace together develops trust,” Varré said. “Just try not to clutter up my side, if you please.”

“I'm a cleaner,” you shrugged. 

“And your sleeve doesn't have a stain on it, it turns out,” he chuckled. You glanced down at the sleeve. A small stain indeed remained from the test. 

“It's not mine,” you said, tucking your hands behind your back. 

“Naturally. Take care of the sanitary standards. For the record: even though the workday officially starts at eight, the night shift reports in at six and we have a meeting at seven

“Hint taken.”

“Good for you.”

The phone rang and Varré irritably walked over to his desk to answer it. He seemed more disgruntled than before when he ended the call. 

“You're in luck. You'll go as an observer.”

The next hours passed like in a blur.  The first thing you did was go back downstairs to the operating room. Varré gave you clear instructions: stand, watch and stay out of the way. “And try to pay close attention,” he added. In a few hours, you had familiarised yourself with the entire list of the most frequent operations. As you had been instructed, you were present in the operating room like a ghost — Varré even doubted that you were there at all for a moment. He almost gave you an "A" for obedience. 

During lunch, as you sat and relaxed in the office in complete silence, you were still feeling slightly uncomfortable in his presence. It wasn't quite clear if it was due to his temper or the fact that you would have to spend the next few years under his supervision. You saw him as competent and steady-handed at work, but unfortunately, the same didn't apply to his manner with you. You hoped that it wouldn’t turn into a minefield where you had to walk around looking for the right answer to his questions. For his part, he saw in you the makings of a good doctor, as well as the beginnings of your quiet rebelliousness, especially when you changed the angle of the scalpel or the grip on it. Whether you tried to demonstrate your deafening confidence in your theoretical knowledge or to hint to him that you had your own opinion, he didn't care. 

With your phone in hand, you took a seat on a couch. 

You, 12:20

What's up? How's Devin doing?

Darian, 12:21

He's stable. For now. In a bad shape, but they say it's only logical at this stage. He asked how you were doing. It's been a while since you've visited him

You, 12:22

I'm sorry, Darian. I'm going in after my shift tomorrow. Bringing favorite brownies

Darian, 12:23

I don't need an apology. Don't sweat it if you're going to cancel. Again.

You, 12:24

I PROMISE

Devin had been an inpatient at the regional hospital for almost a year. Your biggest regret was not being a doctor already when you met him. Perhaps then you could have figured out a way to help him. You were horrified when, while you were still at university, Darian shared with you and your friends that his brother would never be coming home. You visited him often, sometimes together, sometimes alone or with Darian, but you tried to be with him as often as you could, and it wasn't about pity — you all really loved him, just as you loved Darian. Sometimes you thought they were the same person, with one difference: Devin was a little more calm and, sometimes, sensitive. The fault of this whole situation was nothing but the deathroot - after today, you began to feel like it was going to haunt you for a long time to come. You hoped that it would be possible to find a way to treat even its later stages, and it was bitter to realize that you couldn't help Devin anymore. It was impossible for you to imagine how Darian felt, having to force himself to forget that he could already count the weeks Devin had left to live. You often blamed yourself for sometimes having to put off going to the hospital to see Devin in favor of your studies. 

One more call.

“How dear you all are to me,” Varré muttered, reluctantly answering. “What?”

You tore your head away from your phone and waited to see what he would say.

“I heard you,” Varré replied before hanging up. Still sitting half-turned toward you, he continued to sip his coffee. “You're assisting me.”

With Varré watching over you, you underwent your first surgery at the clinic and it went more smoothly than you'd imagined in your fevered thoughts. He commanded your every move, kept an eye on your hands and sometimes took matters into his own hands, but everything was a success in the end. He even praised you — if "okay" was considered a compliment in his mind. You casually ignored some of his minor corrections because they felt like nagging, but you took note of many of them because they were genuinely helpful. During today's operations, you found yourself thinking that, overall, you were fortunate to have him as a mentor. All you really needed to do was ignore his temper and watch his hands.

As you walked towards the lockers at the end of the day, you convinced yourself that it was time to stop overthinking things related to your work as a doctor. In practice, you always knew enough to avoid making mistakes, whether it was theoretical knowledge or some practical skills; it was all about experience. When you opened your locker, you didn't immediately realise what you were looking at — your eyes fell on a tall, thin vase containing a single white rose. It was beautiful, pure-bright and lush. The stem was immersed in a strange, peculiarly golden, thick liquid. Who could have left it there, and how had your locker been opened?

“A gift from the CEO,” came Varré's voice from behind. Your heart skipped a beat in fright because you didn't hear his footsteps. He stood leaning against one of the lockers not far from you. “His way of saying welcome.”

“Beautiful,” you said, gazing mesmerized by the rose. Reaching out to touch the stem, you instantly yanked it back as if you'd been scalded — the sharp prick in your finger caught you off guard. You looked at the spot where your finger had immediately become inflamed in surprise; a small drop of blood was gradually protruding from the small wound. It seemed to you that the thorns weren't there....

“Careful. Sentiments kill, and roses wilt pretty quickly around here,” Varre warned you, disappearing behind a row of lockers, not even saying goodbye. 

What does that mean?

Tomorrow we need to move it to the office on the desktop, you thought. You quickly packed up and ran out of the clinic, looking forward to a relaxing evening. You knew that you would probably never experience such pleasure again in your life; after all, you knew what the life of a surgeon was like. The street greeted you with a slight chill. You breathed in the fresh air with a full chest, your eyes relaxing as you adapted to the soft evening light; still, it would take a long time to get used to the horrible lamps. To your surprise, looking around, you noticed a painfully familiar face. You hesitated for a moment.

“Rogier?”

He turned around and greeted you with your favorite easy smile. You were always happy to see him; The sight of him always gave you a sense of calm. You ran up to him happily and immediately hugged him tightly, to which he responded by interlocking his arms behind your back and pulling you against him. 

“Hello, my hard working friend,” laughed Rogier, taking his time to break the embrace. 

“It's so good to see you!” you exclaimed, unable to hold back a silly smile. “But what are you doing here?”

He pulled away, and it was only when he stepped back that you realised how cold it felt without him around. It felt a little strange. Was it that cold, or did Rogier have an elevated temperature? You shivered. It was definitely just cold: you were standing there in only a light T-shirt while Rogier was already in a sweatshirt. 

“Stopped by to meet someone here not too far away. Thought I'd try and catch you.”

“Who do I have to thank for divulging my new schedule?”

“I think you already know,” Rogier said with a smile. Looking at him closely, you noticed he was rubbing his chest nervously with one palm. 

“Is something wrong?” you nodded. 

“Oh, don't worry, it's fine. It's just,” he stammered, “Under stress, sometimes my heart races uncomfortably. The doctors sentenced me to sedatives and lowering my frantic rate.” 

“What are you so worried about?”

“Darian's brother, actually. Let's have some coffee, shall we? My treat.”

Ah, that. You were equally concerned, but you hoped that Rogier would pay more attention to his health. You'd often noticed how particularly agitated he was about Devin, perhaps because he was very close to Darian. They had become inseparable over so many years at the university; as close as you and Sellen were, so close were they. 

“Let's go to my house. There's a nice spot there,” you said, and taking him by the elbow and steering him in the right direction. Rogier didn't mind at all. “And don't you dare skip your pills. I'll be asking you personally now.”

You spent a pleasant evening together, catching up on all the topics that had came up since you last saw each other. 

On a small table at the threshold of your apartment you found another vase. It seemed that everyone was trying to give you something today. This time it contained blue violets, a begonia, and a small yellow rose. Apparently, Roderika had left these for you. 

A large Tarot card was pressed against the tabletop underneath the vase. It showed seven swords above the blindfolded girl's head.

Chapter Text

A few things knocked you off balance that day. It seemed as if everything was slowly turning upside down, without you noticing it yet.

Despite your quick adaptation to the clinic, you had doubts about what was happening outside its walls. It had been a few weeks since you'd promised to visit Devin. Once again, buried in your own affairs, you missed every opportunity to visit your friend during visiting hours. It was hard to fit them into your new schedule; every day you were now up at the crack of dawn, and after a hard day's work, you were diving headlong into domestic chores — the apartment was giving you a warm “welcome” in the form of broken or missing items that forced you to scour the local stores in the evenings. You were ashamed of it, not so much in front of Darian for the empty promises, but in front of Devin. You knew how lonely he was in the hospital, because his brother couldn't always be there, either; condemned to the nurses' eternal presence in his room, Devin tried to ignore their now-familiar faces.

In a week, your work issues with Varré have more or less settled down. Still occasionally provoking you to show your stubborn nature, he still allowed you to express your opinion. You didn't agree on many basic things: keeping order in the workplace, the volume of conversations on the phone or with each other. He didn't tolerate having your stuff in a space he considered “his” while you didn't care — in your mind, there was nothing personal at work. You compromised on things: your sweatshirt wouldn't be placed on the back of the couch, food wouldn't be on the side table that was on the corner of your desks. If Varré provoked you, your rose vase was defiantly pumped over to his desk, in response to which his worksheets were casually knocked in your direction. Often entering your office, Ansbach would sigh heavily, not bothering to comment on your bickering. You never crossed the line of propriety between mentor and apprentice, balancing on a fine line that cut off everyday working professionalism and attempting to pick a fight with Varré. You were still trying to get a feel for his demeanour, wondering what kind of man he might be, but you found it difficult: Varré had given you no hints to help you discover even a fraction of his true character. You saw only what he showed you: impeccable surgical skills, a love for teasing his colleagues, and a certain secrecy about his life. You couldn't imagine him outside of this clinic.

However, there were times when you questioned his attitude towards morality.

Varré was reading something intently at his computer, occasionally looking down at the papers in front of him. He grumbled irritably, which didn't pass your attention.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, distracted from compiling a report on the inpatients.

“No,” Varré replied dryly, silent for another second. He sighed tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Harnessed again to somehow have time to participate in the root research. It's like I don't have anything better to do.”

“And who wants what from you?” you inquired, not really hoping to hear an answer.

“I have no idea what a surgeon can do there. All I need from them is information on how to cut it out of a person, and they want me to make up treatments there. Do I have time for that or what?”

“You don't like them much,” you remarked.

“I'd rather sleep in my spare five minutes than plough on at hard labour.”

Yeah, he could use a nap, you thought, humming to yourself. You found a modicum of sympathy in looking at his perpetually tired face, even though he tried to pretend he didn't care. How many hours a day did he even sleep?

“How's your stomach?” asked Varré, ostensibly casually, and rose from his desk. He stepped back to the wardrobe where his work stuff was kept. He was concentrating on searching for something inside, giving it more importance than talking to you, and while at first it might have confused you, now you paid no attention to it. 

“Why?”

“They're preparing an operating theatre. A leg with gangrene… We happen to be low on anesthesia,” Varré answered, standing with his back to you. You looked up at his back, completely forgetting about your work. At first you thought you heard him wrong, so you decided to ask again.

“What do you mean we’re low?” you asked surprised, looking at him wide-eyed. 

“We have a good ENT specialist if you have hearing problems, dear,” he said irritably. He hated repeating himself and you learned it the hard way.

“We can't do this surgery without anesthesia,” you did not believe what he could be getting at right now. The possibility that anaesthesia could be lacking in a place like this didn't go through your head. Are you sure you weren't asleep?

“You've got two choices: either we work with what we've got, or we make him lose his leg straight up the thigh and probably die. Which one do you like better?”

“That's inhumane,” you were completely shocked. You didn't expect him to make decisions like that. “We have no right to give him a minor anesthetic in case of amputation!"

“I've performed 39 such amputations, 26 of the patients survived. Situations then were far worse than they are now. What would you rather choose: statistics or your morality to write a death certificate later?” Varré asked. He finally turned to you. His face carried a disturbing smile. You could see in his eyes that he was angry with you and would not tolerate your insubordination. “Are you holding on to this place or not?”

It was... quite an impressive statistic. Only you couldn't decide for yourself what exactly was impressive about it. Where did he do all this stuff? Clinics don't get that many people in for amputations compared to other necessary surgeries, and Varré clearly wasn't old enough to have racked up that kind of numbers in normal working years.

“...Holding on.”

“Then do what I tell you and you won't have a problem. Don't forget who decides your fate here.”

What an insolence. How dare he say such a thing? You sat stunned, unable to find the right words to answer. Varré sighed heavily and looked at his watch. Your pagers beeped loudly and the number of the third operating room came up on their displays. 

“Let's go,” Varré said. “And no nonsense please, lambkin.”

You didn't want any part of this. It was against your morals. 

Annoying squeaking overhead irritated as you examined the man's leg. Black spots of gangrene spread from the foot up to the knee. You can never say you're prepared for everything in a doctor's job, which is why you weren't surprised to find the situation almost sickeningly disgusting. Amputation was something you were already familiar with at this point, fortunately or unfortunately. The patient turned out to be a young guy of 20 years — you learned from the medical certificate you hastily read while running to the operating room that he was already a soldier. When Varré saw his pale, haggard face, you noticed something like a glimmer of sympathy in his gaze, but it evaporated as quickly as it had appeared, so you dismissed the thought at once. In the context of the last argument, you weren't sure if Varré was even capable of feeling something like that.

Varré took the syringe and the small contents with the solution. Ketamine, you thought. A small dose. Too small for an operation like this. Was there really no other option? 

“Fifteen minutes tops,” he said, looking you straight in the eye. He seemed dangerous in the light of the operating theatre, and you couldn't control the feeling of anxiety around him. If the operating theatre was his nature, he was clearly not prey in it. “Do what I tell you without delay. Did you hear me?”

You didn't answer. The patient lay on the table and stared at the ceiling. Tears of pain flowed from his eyes, rolling down his pale cheeks. Periodically, a heart-wrenching moan came out of his mouth. You have to help him, because it's your duty, but how can you justify what he's going to go through in the next half hour?

“Lambkin.”

He jolts you out of the flood of doubt. Your gaze cleared. Oh, but how you were beginning to hate that nickname. 

“I get it,” you said aloofly. 

“Excellent,” Varré said, turning his attention back to the patient, who was secured by him tightly to the table with straps. He filled a syringe with ketamine and gave a quick and precise injection, followed by a shot of lidacaine. You watched him sadly, your mind reeling with the thought that it was only one quarter of the usual dose. You felt sorry for the patient, but all you had to think about now was helping him as quickly as possible. 

“The pain will soon dull. Let's do a circular,” commented Varré, preparing his tools. It was the fastest way to do the surgery in the given time frame, but there was a much higher chance of complications. You hoped there would be as few as possible. Looking at the patient, you already knew that he wasn't ready for this operation, he was here as soon as he could be. No one had prepared him for the fact that he would permanently lose a limb to a shell that had hit his leg and set off a series of horrible infections. You sympathised with him, realising with melancholy that he did not have the moral privilege of other patients to talk to a psychologist or other mental health authority. 

When patients fidgeting subsided slightly, Varré reached for the scalpel. The guy was still conscious. You knew with horror that he could still feel pain. There was no turning back once you entered the operating theatre. Your fingers twitched nervously. You have to calm down! Since you've been here, Varré hasn't even raised an eyebrow. Did he really not care? Or had he seen enough not to be surprised? Perhaps it was you who was too morally weak for the job? You'd never thought of yourself as such, but in such a short period of time, it was as if Varré had sown a seed of doubt in you. 

“Hold him. I will make a perpendicular incision,” Varré commanded without looking at you as the patient's eyelids began to tremble and close. You obediently complied. You stood on one side of the table, with one hand pressing against the guy's chest and the other holding the thigh of the operated leg. The skin  of his parted under the scalpel like rotten fruit skin; the blade quickly sliced into the flesh. Varré swiftly switched from the scalpel to an amputation knife — which instantly cut through the mass of soft tissue in the leg. Under your hands, you felt the patient's muscles tense, and a second later, he screamed in agony, jerking upward but meeting the resistance of your hands and straps and sinking back onto the table. “Hold him tighter, for God's sake!”

Your gaze fell on the leg being operated on. Pieces of blackened flesh rapidly pulled away from the bone, exposing internal decay. A foul smell of gangrene filled the room, making you feel nauseous. The soldier writhed in pain, his eyes wide open; pupils were dilated, sweat beaded on his face, under your palms, you felt his feverish temperature. The ketamine had clearly taken effect, as the incoherent mumbling from the guy made no sense; among his indistinct words and prayers, you distinctly heard a single word, "mom," which pierced your heart. You dug your fingers into his flesh just to hold him and stop the wild shaking of his torso.

Oh God, you thought. God. Your heart raced in a frantic rhythm, chasing panic; you wanted it all to be over quickly, for the poor guy to be released soon, for him to stop suffering in inhuman agony. You wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes when it was all over. He would think you were demons. Demons?

“Demons!” the guy cried out, instantly falling silent, “let me go… mom…”

“It will be easier for him now,” Varré said tensely, working on the flesh. You felt the patient relax beneath you, slumping on the operating table. He must have reached a painful peak after which he wouldn’t feel the pain as intensely. He was still mumbling something, indicating that he was conscious. Ketamine clouded his mind, and you couldn’t guess what he was actually seeing with his eyes.

“Hey.”

You looked up at Varré’s voice. He was staring intently at you.

“Breathe.”

This was directed at you. You had indeed forgotten to breathe. Gasping for air through the mask, you noticed that your breath was uneven. He saw your shocked expression, which hadn’t left the patient’s face. You wondered: what was Varré thinking?.. Probably, his mind was clear and focused.

“Calm down. Get the retractor,” he said measuredly, making you focus on his voice and, for a moment, it even helped you. He lowered his gaze back to the limb. He did not tremble, his breathing was steady, his hands completely calm. And there was not even a tremor in his left hand that he was always trying to hide.

You hesitated to release the patient. He did not struggle, only his chest rose and fell in panic, and you noticed it was gradually speeding up, occasionally shaking with the spasms that were coming. He coughed several times, and after turning his head, he vomited, spitting out a disgusting yellow mass that landed at the edge of your shoes. You grimaced but ignored it, quickly bringing the retractor to Varré with shaking hands. 

“Pull it back.”

You obeyed. The bloody flesh was held back, exposing the bone that needed to be cut.

“Get the saw.”

You reached out. The saw was light, the cold of its smooth handle passed through your glove. Just as you were about to hand it to Varré, his voice interrupted your movement.

“Cut. Don’t shake.”

You were so dazed that you had no strength left to think about his instructions. Adjusting yourself more comfortably in relation to the limb being operated on, you brought the saw to the yellow bone. An angle of about 15 degrees. The teeth touched the hard surface. You knew you needed to make fewer movements, but to make them precisely. The longer you hesitated, the longer the poor guy had to suffer. Biting your lip, you made the first cut. After a few moments, the bone finally cracked, and the affected limb was severed. You froze. Varré quickly took the severed limb and placed it in a container. You were still trying to process what was happening. The patient continued to moan, sometimes moving and coming out of delirium.

“Grab the tools. Stitch up the stump,” an unquestionable command. Fortunately, you handled this part excellently. You hurried to finish the operation to escape this nightmare and think about something other than the soldier's screams. You wanted to wash yourself; you could feel the mix of all the terrible existing smells around: gangrene, blood, the burnt smell of hair from the sawn bone, vomit. Antiseptic. You wanted to scrub your body to perfect cleanliness, even though it wasn’t dirty, to rub until the smell came off with your skin. A disgusting residue remained on your soul, but at least now you knew that the patient would be okay. The lump in your throat intensified, rising higher. Varré looked at you: your face had practically turned green, your unfocused gaze darting from the soldier’s face to the stump of his leg and back. He placed his palm on your shoulder to get your full attention.

“Get out,” he simply said. “We're done for now. I'll handle the rest myself.”

Were you angry at his sharpness? No. You were grateful that he gave you the chance to escape the situation. There was no need to repeat it twice; your legs carried you to the first doors of the preoperative area. Along the wall stood sinks; you rushed to one of them and leaned on it with your hands, gripping the edges tightly to maintain your balance and not fall to the floor. Your head was spinning, everything blurred before your eyes as if you were drunk, and it seemed that you could still hear the deafening scream of the patient in your ears. A lump formed in your throat, your shoulders trembled, your stomach twisted in painful spasms, and you bent over the sink. Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes. You coughed, spitting out the bitterness from your mouth. You hurried to take off your gloves and quickly turned on the cold water. The stream drowned out all the sounds coming from the table where Varré was left alone with the young patient. You rinsed your mouth and washed your face, a contrasting feeling of warm tears mixed with the cold running water hit your skin. You sniffled pathetically. Is it going to be like this from now on? What happened felt as if you were not severing a limb, but your own dignity along with your faith in medical ethics. You rubbed your dirty shoes with disdain, polishing them until they squeaked. Your thoughts darted to Varré, and you couldn't find another description for him other than a cold and ruthless person at this moment. You doubted that he even tried to find a way to provide anesthesia for the patient — he made his decision so quickly. You felt like an accomplice to a violation of the rules, guilty of the suffering of a human being. You were trembling, the realization of what had happened finally sank in fully. You covered your mouth with one hand, stifling the sounds of your crying. You leaned to the side and felt that you could no longer stand on your feet, so you had to sit down on the icy white tile. Pressing your knees to your chest, you sought the comfort of warmth in your own body, but only encountered unpleasant rejection.

It took some time before you heard footsteps nearby. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Varré was looking at you indifferently, holding something in his hand. When he crouched down in front of you, you noticed a small bottle he placed in front with a translucent brown liquid inside.

“You're trembling. That's a good thing. The sooner you get over it, the sooner you'll get used to it. You'll need it here,” he said. You didn’t want to look at him. “You did well. He will live. Drink this if it makes you feel better. Or pour it out.”

You stared at the bottle standing next to you for a long time. Whiskey. One shot. Hesitantly, you reached out, twisted off the cap, and downed its contents in one fast gulp. Varré watched as your throat quivered. Deep down, he felt a little sorry for you, but for some reason, he knew that you would go far. He also didn’t understand why he still hadn’t left, staying with you in that moment while you tried to recover. Studying your face, he caught sight of the dirt on the smooth skin of your cheek that you hadn’t washed off. Bone? He reached out his hand to you, and you flinched away, but that didn’t stop him — there was nowhere for you to move. In the soulless light of this room, Varré appeared to be a frightening figure. You wanted to hit his hand and pull it far away from your face because his touch was the last thing you wanted to feel. He wiped the dust away and removed his hand himself. You were still diligently ignoring him, sitting broken on the floor.

When you returned to your office, you had no strength left at all. It seemed like so little time had passed, but it had drained all your energy. As you left the operating room, you noticed that the table was already clean and the patient had been taken to the ward. Everything around was perfectly sterile.

You thanked the higher powers for the opportunity to simply sit quietly, and that’s exactly what you did, weakly flopping onto the sofa. Varré entered the office right behind you, closing the door. He looked as if nothing had happened, and this puzzled you, becoming the cause of your provocative interest.

“Why did you tell me to amputate it?” you asked, your gaze fixed on his face, sharp as a scalpel.

“First lesson in field surgery,” he replied.

“But we’re not in a war zone,” you said angrily, hugging yourself around the shoulders.

“It’s a good learning opportunity. Besides,” Varré sighed, “this guy was pulled out of a military hospital. He would have died there if it weren't for the general. And if we hadn’t rushed.”

“Couldn’t they have done something there…”

“No. They couldn’t,” he replied sharply, as if putting a period at the end of your conversation.

You needed to breathe some fresh air. You stood up and, without bothering to tell Varré where you were heading, walked toward the staircase leading to the emergency exit. The street greeted you with a gentle warmth, a light breeze pleasantly brushed your face, drying the remnants of tears. It was quiet. The leaves of the trees moved in a soothing rhythm, and you finally felt the sensation of your head being filled with cotton dissipate. You simply stood and watched.

A couple of minutes later, the door creaked open behind you, and someone stepped outside, but you didn’t have the strength to turn around and see who it was. The person aligned with your shoulder, and from the corner of your eye, you recognized Ansbach. His perfect posture, as usual, gave him a calm confidence. You couldn't say that you were ready for a conversation with him, whether it would be a good conversation or a bad one. He stood with you in silence for a while, giving you time to calm down, as he clearly noticed that you were in poorly concealed stress.

“I don't know what happened, but apparently Varré has messed up again,” he began slowly.

You lowered your gaze to the ground. The nausea hadn't completely left you. Your stomach felt uncomfortably empty.

“Does he do that often?” you muttered.

“It depends on what happened.”

You sighed heavily. A sharp pain pierced your chest as you inhaled. He wanted to know, and you understood that. But was it worth telling him? You thought about the answer. If you don't tell him, he will think you are trying to hide something. If you tell him, he will find out that you conducted the operation outside of regulations, and in that case, both Varré and you will be in serious trouble. On the other hand, as the head, he must have known Varré long enough to treat him with utmost caution and keep an eye on his actions. And still, you didn't want to jump into the fire.

“Nothing terrible. I'm just not used to it,” Why did you justify him? That question arose the moment after your answer.

“Well, I'll trust your judgment.”

“Why did you say to follow the protocols?”

“So that what happened doesn't happen, I think.”

You scoffed ironically, almost slipping into nervous laughter. What a pity that Ansbach wasn't your mentor. He inspired much more trust than Varré and seemed more stable.

“Tell me, how are your successes?” Ansbach inquired, wanting to hear your own thoughts rather than reports from work. Before answering, you thought for a long time, and Ansbach politely did not rush you.

“Not bad. Varré is a good teacher. He shows a lot of useful things...” you said thoughtfully, tapping your fingers on your thigh. Did you really think so, or were you just trying to convince yourself of it?

“Have you been able to find common ground?”

“I don't know. What about you?”

“I don't know either,” Ansbach smirked, shifting his gaze to you.

You looked at him for a short time in response. It was pleasant to talk to him. An inexplicable feeling of safety came with Ansbach.

“I need to get back. I haven't finished the report yet,” you said, preparing to head back.

“Don’t worry about that. Check the cafeteria. Take a little break,” Ansbach advised, remaining in place as you headed inside the building.

“Thanks. I'm not hungry.”

“If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”

When you returned, Varré had already vanished without a trace. His lab coat was still hanging on the back of a chair, the pager lay near the keyboard. There was no sign of where he could have disappeared to. On the desk, you saw two files with documents and approached closer to see what exactly they were. You pulled out one of the sheets in the first file and examined the large table taking up the entire sheet you were holding and the next one in the file below it. A roster of donor donations for the past week. It listed all the organs that had come into the clinic's circulation recently. Everything was listed: livers, kidneys, hearts, lungs and much else. You concluded that half of them had been taken out by consent of the relatives of dead people — at least you hoped so very much. The turnovers were truly impressive. You sat down at your desk, relieved to be immersed in studying the papers to distract yourself from thoughts of amputation; you loved digging through all sorts of information. Flipping through the tables, you studied the information on patients who had had their organs removed. To your surprise, occasionally there was someone other than middle-aged men and women on the list; a couple of teenagers and young children lurked at the end of the list. You realized with bitterness that they were no longer alive, or they wouldn't be donors. A bright thought was the hope that they might help save someone's life. 

You switched to the second sheet. This was where the organs were distributed to the operating rooms, or put into short-term storage until they needed to be transferred. Most of it was scheduled for surgery during the week: a few surgeries in ORs one and two, one in OR three, where you were working today, and the rest allocated where needed. There was a legitimate question: where did the leftovers go? The list of incoming organs was infinitely longer than the allocation in work, the period of canned storage of organs did not imply their postponement in use for more than 24 hours (and that is if they were kidneys). You pondered seriously, not understanding what these lists were going for. Tapping your fingernails on the table, you looked over the lines again and again, hoping to catch the logic. 

You rifled through the remaining papers looking for something else, and you did find it — two sheets lay at the end, catching your quick interest. One of them was handwritten: “Operating Room 4. Stock Inventory.” The handwriting was unmistakably Varré’s — you'd learned to recognize it from hundreds of others. On the second sheet was a printed list of disposals. You put them side by side and decided to compare them carefully. 

“Found something interesting yet?”

You startled and flinched so badly that you even rolled backwards slightly in your chair. You threw your head up and stared wide-eyed at Varré, meeting his playful gaze in return. Varré had purposely put the least important bits of information to you to see if you would grab the opportunity he was offering or not. He wanted to see if you were a good fit, but wouldn't explain anything to you, of course. 

“Did you leave this for me?”

“It's been helpful. For me. Show me,” he hinted at the discrepancy in information. You turned in to go through the documents, once again noticing the mistakes.

“Time periods, dosage,” you paused, “there's no signature here. On the consent to donate. There are a lot of inaccuracies. A good part of this list should have been thrown in the trash. Why are the liquids renamed here?”

Varré smiled. The papers rustled as you sorted through them and showed them to Varré. He stood over your table with his arms crossed, the fingers of his left hand, encased in gloves, tapping rhythmically on his elbow. You heard that dull sound, but you didn't find the repeating pattern annoying. 

“Attentive, hm? The past one left out many details.”

“Past one?”

“The assistant.”

He was pleased. Finally, someone truly attentive to detail had come his way. He took all the papers from you, crumpled them up, and sent them to the trash. You wanted to be indignant and ask why he did it, but he beat you to it. 

“They were forgeries,” Varré said, but now you were no longer in a hurry to take his word for it. “Focus on what you were doing before surgery. It's unlikely we'll get anything else put in today.”

You were relieved to get back to work, but you couldn't stay focused on the case for long; thoughts of the poor patient kept coming back to your mind. You were still uncomfortable with what had happened, and you could hardly look up at Varré when he spoke to you. Nevertheless, without realising it, you had almost made excuses for his actions. He was saving his life, after all, as a doctor should. Should his offence be taken into account? From your point of view, of course it was, but the priority was still saving his life, which Varré did without question. Were you perplexed by his decision? Of course you were. Did it make you feel a twinge of disgust for your mentor? You couldn't decide, because looking at his hands as he worked, you were mesmerised. For yourself, you decided to treat him with slight distrust. Could a man with a clear conscience be so calm about a patient's screams? Or perhaps there was something here that explained it? Either way, the reason was unknown to you, but you hoped you could figure it all out sooner or later.

Toward the end of your shift, you decided that you were going to Devin, and nothing was going to stop you today. You'd written Darian a quick message to let him know, and he'd responded with a great deal of skepticism and ill-concealed irritation. You couldn't blame him — it was well deserved. Darian had also mentioned that he was going to come to the hospital himself today, and you thought with gravity that you were unlikely to avoid a confrontation. The fact that Darian wasn't that hard to make up with was gratifying.

Just as you start counting down the last half hour to the end of work, Ansbach brings with him a not entirely happy notice for you.

“Need to take inventory.”

Varré cursed under his breath and for the first time in a long time you were in complete solidarity with him.

“Is it burning?” asked Varré grudgingly.

“The deadline is today.”

“And who is it burning for?”

“To the director.”

Varré rolled his eyes, but either only you noticed it or Ansbach chose to ignore it. You bit your lip nervously, putting off going to the hospital was no longer an option. You had to figure out a way to move out of the inventory.

“Is something wrong?” you realised that Ansbach was addressing you. Two pairs of eyes looked at you: the tired and doomed look of Varré and the attentive gaze of your superintendent. Ansbach noted to himself that today, unlike your usual behaviour, you were clearly keeping a close eye on the time.

“No...” you said sadly. If you have to do an inventory, then you need to do it quickly. “Sooner we start, sooner we finish.”

“Exactly.”

The three of you, accompanied by an awkward silence, went down to the basement where the storages your department was in charge of were located. The unpleasant dampness made you shiver slightly, and you wished you'd worn a dressing gown. Ansbach led you to the fourth storage. The three of you, accompanied by an awkward silence, went down to the basement where the warehouses your department was in charge of were located. The unpleasant dampness made you shiver slightly, and you wished you'd worn a dressing gown. Ansbach led you to the fourth warehouse: it was divided into several sections and had a large walk-in refrigerator — you hoped you wouldn't be forced to go inside, and Ansbach immediately pleased you by sending Varré straight in. He tried to move away from the prospect of freezing and swap places with Ansbach or you, but was instantly rebuffed and went into the fridge. Quiet triumph flashed across your face in the form of a barely perceptible smile, and it doubled as you turned your attention to Ansbach's satisfied face. 

“Shall we lock him up in there?”

“Can we?” you asked with a spark in your eyes.

“Well, not for long... You've seen him, he'd rather find a secret door than put up with it.”

Two young surgeons entered the warehouse with you — you sometimes crossed paths with them in the corridor and remembered their faces. Ansbach quickly assigned you and you began to work on your task.

You considered the inventory on the racks, noting to yourself some of the interesting things that caught your eye. The jars of golden liquid caught your eye most of all, and you immediately remembered that this was the liquid in which you had been given a rose on your first day. You carefully picked up the jar and twirled it in your hand, scrutinising the stickers on the glass. “For write-off,” “Project Trina,” “Miquella, cryostasis.” What are these names? Nearby, the refrigerator door opened and a disgruntled Varré came out of there — his gaze immediately fell on your figure and he noticed that you were examining the gold jars. He hoped to himself that you'd realise you should be holding them tighter so you wouldn't drop them. You blinked — the dust tickled your nose, and you sneezed loudly, your hand shaking, almost letting go of the expensive jar. You clutched it to your stomach so you wouldn't drop it.

“Shit,” you said quickly, “Oh. I apologise.”

“Bless you...”

The young surgeons were cowering by the large shelves that held tanks of formalin. Inside were spinal cord samples.

“Why are some of them gold tagged?” one of the surgeons asked.

“For the museum,” Varré muttered.

“Really?”

“Do you jest?”

“Varré’s keeping these for his transplant,” commented Ansbach.

“No, I'm saving them for your retirement.”

“Thank you kindly, but I'm doing fine.”

“Yeah? You stitch like a drunken grandfather, my friend, you could use a newer spinal.”

“You’re the one to talk with that hand shaking.”

“Are you two flirting or something?” you asked, standing half-turned towards them. The sharp knock of your nail on the glass echoed loudly around the room.

“God forbid...”

After dealing with the top part of the shelves, you crouched down and struggled to pull out a heavy drawer that was under the bottom shelf of the rack. The wood creaked as it slid across the concrete, raising a large amount of dust into the air. You grimaced and quickly waved it away, peering inside: surgical saws, holders, and other tools were dusty within, all except for one — it lay on top and was relatively clean, even too much so compared to the others. Its handle gleamed in the light, and you carefully took it out of the box. There was no serial number on it.

“Planning to steal it?” Varré moved to the neighboring shelves.

“Well, I'm thinking about it. I'm doing some repairs, and this metal would make a nice headboard,” you pointed the tip of the saw towards the dusty junk.

“I can offer you amputation waste. It’s been collecting for a while — it would make a good orthopedic base for a mattress,” his words made you glance at him with a hint of doubt. He was definitely teasing you about today's operation. “Don't make that face; everyone does it. Calm down.”

“Such an interesting hobby of yours, doctor. What about spines?” You surprised yourself with the fact that, despite your condition, you decided to respond to him with a joke in return.

“That's unlikely, but I can check another storage for you,” Varré gave you a smile that almost seemed amused. Ansbach sighed heavily from behind. Varré ignored him, nervously tapping his left hand with a pen on the tablet that held the accounting papers. Some careless random lines were visible on the paper. You started to notice that he tried to keep his left hand occupied during free time, but was perfectly calm during surgeries.

You quickly entered the information into the availability table, checking the time on your phone periodically. You had to make it in time. Colleague surgeons were making quick work of their section, deftly counting the consumables on the shelves, Varré was unenthusiastically separating the items to be written off, whistling and throwing them into the proper box without regret, every now and then noticing you watching the time. You spent a fair amount of time sorting through the junk and considering what you'd leave for work, until you noticed that shift time had long since come to an end and gone to recycling. Ansbach walked up to you.

“Leave the papers on your desk and run,” he said. “I'll finish up here.”

“What a charitable thing to do. Can I be released?” asked Varré.

“No. You're in no hurry,” Ansbach besought him.

“Are you sure?” you asked hopefully, nervously clutching the edge of your T-shirt.

“Of course,” Ansbach said confidently, “Don't worry. You can go.”

“Thank you very much!”

A little after you, two surgeons left, and then Varré and Ansbach were left alone. They were silent for a long time, and probably would have ignored each other like that, unless Ansbach wanted to find out the reason for your day's stress.

“What did you do today?” he asked directly.

“What do you mean?”

“Don't play stupid with me, Varré. She was stressed and just out of surgery. What did you have going on in there?”

“The girl wasn't used to the nasty kind of activity. Can you blame her?”

“I very much doubt it was her. I don't want to take advantage of my position, so I urge you to tell me everything. I won't press her, but such a procedure is good for you from time to time.”

Varré was silent, pondering what he wanted to answer Ansbach. His conscience did not torment him for the consequence of his dubious decision. He sighed and, looking Ansbach straight in the eye, replied.

“You know perfectly well what it was. One problem — all the anaesthetic was distributed past the point of need.”

“Did you have her chopped alive? Couldn't you have sent her away and done it all yourself? I made it clear to you that you didn't need to involve her in your business.”

“I didn't involve her in anything. She had the opportunity to report it to you, but she didn't. Apparently our petal has her own priorities? Besides, you assigned her to me, that means I should make a good surgeon out of her, shouldn't I?”

“We must give her the opportunity to leave here clean and experienced… I hope that you at the very least have the decency not to use her,” Ansbach hesitated, “She does look a bit like you when we first met.”

“Be thankful I didn't leave you lying out there. Stay out of my business, and I'll stay out of yours.”

“Don't let her go to the fourth. I… I am begging you.”

“... I'll think about it. Maybe her interest will override it.”

“Make sure she has no interest there.”

Luckily, you arrived on time — what's more, you even managed to run in for Devin's favourite dessert. You knew the nurses would probably forbid him from eating sweets, but you still hoped for luck. The hospital greeted you with a half-empty area. On weekdays, the place was fairly sparse. At the entrance to the building where Devin was lying, you met Darian. He was as serious as ever, his usually scowling face looking more tired than before, probably because of his fatigue about his brother's ambiguous condition. It was obvious that Darian held a slight grudge against you, but he tried to soften the corners of his mood, because despite everything, he was still happy to see you. No matter how you looked at it, you were a close person to him, though he wasn't sentimental enough to admit it out loud. His gaze flashed with relief and a touch of joy when he saw you at the front door. You hurriedly approached him.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

“Hi...”

You were awkwardly silent, choosing your words.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean for things to turn out this way.”

“That's okay. I'm just worried about Devin.”

“I know. But I shouldn't have made empty promises.”

“You shouldn't have. But the important thing is that you're here. Shall we?”

He walked you to the ward, and besides Devin, you saw another pair of familiar eyes. You broke into a smile, recognizing the beloved figure of the girl sitting next to Devin.

“Hi, Devin. Hi, Sellen,” you greeted as you approached the bed where Devin was sitting. He had lost a lot of weight since the last time you saw him; on his skin, barely visible under the collar of his T-shirt, you noticed dark marks from the roots. You could only hope that he wasn't feeling much pain. Devin was happy to see you — his face lit up, and Darian was glad to see his brother content, as it had been happening less and less lately. You took turns hugging Devin and Sellen before settling into a chair beside them. The bag of pastries was quickly opened and devoured, of course, because both Devin and Sellen loved sweets. Darian stood by the bed, looking at you with warmth; he was finally glad to see all of you together. It was a pity that Rogier couldn't come today, but he had his reasons for which he apologized a hundred times.

“Thank you for coming. I'm glad to see you. My brother is probably bossing you around as usual,” Devin smirked, glancing at Darian.

“Deservedly so,” you shrugged.

“Let's not talk about that. Tell me, how's the internship going? I have already interrogated Sellen about her affairs and now it’s your turn. Darian isn't exactly overflowing with details about you...”

“Like I know anything myself…” Darian indignantly commented.

“I don't even know where to start...” you said shyly. You didn't really want to talk about yourself while you were at Devin's, but since he was genuinely interested, you were picking out what was worth sharing.

“Well, we already heard who your mentor is. Thank you to our word-of-mouth radio.”

“Be more respectful to your elders, if you please,” Sellen leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other.

“Huh, yes... That's how it turned out... I was surprised when I saw him there.”

“Yeah, nice little gift. And how is he?” It was clear that Darian had been skeptical of Varré from the moment he saw him that first and only time.

“He's a professional,” you replied briefly, not wanting to go into details.

“Clearly, that's not all you can say. Come on,” Sellen urged you. “Spill it.”

“Well, he's a bit strange. I mean, sometimes I feel like... I can't trust him,” you said, lowering your gaze to the floor. You nervously crossed your fingers, running a nail along your cuticle. Darian frowned.

“Meaning?”

“Well, it's hard to say anything specific about him. There's a lot to learn from him, but he has a silly way of communicating. He's often blunt, but you can find a compromise with him. Also, his left hand usually shakes, but he constantly hides it.”

“And you didn't waste any time. What color are his eyes?” Devin asked with a smirk.

“Amber...” you quickly caught his mood. “Devin!”

“I'm silent, I'm silent.”

“And what is it about him that you don't trust?” Darian asked — he was always concerned about your safety, and that's why you often treated him like your older brother.

You hesitated. You could tell them about what happened today, but you didn't know if it was worth it. You were ready to trust such information to Sellen, because you knew you trusted her one hundred percent and more. But with Darian, you didn't know how he would react to such ambiguous news — would you encounter his usual skepticism? Or would it be distrust? To be honest, while you were driving, you thought long and hard about your feelings towards Varré, and ultimately concluded that your thoughts about him being exceptionally cold and ruthless were a product of your panic. In reality, you could hardly draw such a conclusion based solely on today's events.

“You seem off today. What happened?” Devin remarked sadly. You immediately reproached yourself for ruining his mood. The image of a crying patient was before your eyes.

“Today… there was an operation. We got a guy from the war, he had gangrene. Well…” you hesitated. You didn't lift your gaze from your hands. “We performed the amputation almost without anesthesia. He said it just happened that way.”

Three pairs of eyes looked at you in shock. You felt it weighing on you, and an unpleasant aftertaste remained in your heart from this realization.

“I can't believe there was no anesthetic in the clinic. But I also know he wouldn't have made that decision lightly. Among all the operated patients, Varré was the most sensitive to the soldiers; I noticed that. I don't know why.”

For a moment, silence reigned in the ward. It seemed everyone was lost in their thoughts until you broke the silence again.

“And there's also an operating room that they're trying to keep hidden from unnecessary attention. It wasn't on the map. And the head of the department told me to follow the protocols, but apparently, I've already messed up here.”

Sellen thoughtfully looked at the ceiling, slightly leaning back to rock on the back legs of the chair. A clear thought process was reflected on her face — that expression was one you often saw in the dormitory while you were studying together at university. Darian and Devin exchanged glances.

“That guy Varré of yours is shady,” Darian crossed his arms over his chest. “He won't lead you to good.”

“Are you really okay? That must have been a shock for you...” Devin asked, gripping the edge of the blanket over his legs.

“Everything's fine. The main thing is that we saved him,” you replied, finally tearing your gaze away from your hands. The hangnail you had picked at was stinging unpleasantly. “Thank you for your concern. In any case, I will try to stay out of trouble.”

“Yeah. And don't let that guy lead you around by the nose. I don't know what he's up to, but types like that are usually not pleasant.”

“Ugh, I thought you would find yourself a man... You buzzed in my ears about his eyelashes back then,” Sellen sighed, trying to lighten the mood.

“Sellen. That's the only thing I liked about him, and I take my words back!” you exclaimed, your cheeks turning red.

“Do you have a photo?” Devin asked curiously. You tried to remember if you could find it somewhere, but nothing came to mind.

“No… if I find it, I’ll send it to you,” you said.

“There's nothing to look at,” Darian muttered.

“Just the eyelashes…”

“You are very easy to buy, sunshine,” Sellen sang with a smile.

You spent the rest of the evening with Devin until the nurse kicked you out, saying that visiting hours were over. Devin was overjoyed to see you all again.

Varré, 20:34

finished your papers. double espresso, no sugar, medium - I expect it on my desk tomorrow morning, you may not thank me, lambkin 🌹

You, 20:40 

I won't

You, 20:45 

You lied to me. The anesthetic was always there

Varré, 21:36

not in our possession. stop crying about it. the guy is alive, our hands are clean. noble ethics do not save lives.

You, 21:37 

Funny. I would say thank you if you ever told me the truth

Varré, 21:37 

[typing…]

Varré, 21:40 

then consider this truth: if we had lost him, it would not be you sitting on the floor.

You, 22:00

I see…

You, 22:00

Thank you

Chapter Text

In the grey coolness of the street, the bells rang; the bright light of their cast body reflected the nonexistent sun in the sky. The glare blinded your eyes as you tilted your head back and looked at the misty sky, thinking about how you would like to turn back time and experience this year completely differently. The drops of your tears were not visible on your black dress; they fell onto the dense fabric, absorbed, and disappeared into its color. In your palm, there was no warming heat from Sellen's hand, which held you tightly.

“May the Lord be with you,
 And with thy spirit.”

Rogier's uneven breathing was barely audible to your left. You didn't look at anyone standing around, and you didn't need to glance in Darian's direction to know that he couldn't hold back quiet tears and couldn't bear to watch the measured work of the steel shovels digging into the earth. You wanted to approach him and hug him, but you knew Darian too well to understand that at this moment, he absolutely didn't need that. The dull pain in your temples reminded you of your regret for not spending more time with Devin. This thought became a razor on your conscience — cutting as deeply as all the past arguments with Darian. It always seems that there will be time for a person someday, but only until there isn't; your guilt for this was difficult to measure. Looking at his lifeless face in the pale light of the church arches, you noticed that your thoughts were simultaneously swirling in your head and devoid of comprehensible ideas.

There was no funeral repast. Darian was not one to need public repentance, and he did not consider this ceremony necessary — in his understanding, everyone could remember in personal silence, recalling what they experienced with his brother. He was not afraid of facing misunderstanding or judgment, as he was alien to emotions regarding condemnation. When the final handful of earth found its place and, after some time, most of the people who had come left the cemetery, you headed back to the church as you wanted to sit alone and think while Darian remained motionless by his brother's grave. You knew that besides solitude, he needed nothing else at that moment, just as Rogier and Sellen knew, tactfully leaving Darian alone.

The high arches of the church provided space to release some of the weight, the bright colors of the iconostasis shimmered in the light streaming through the windows, reflecting the soft gilding of the frames. You looked straight ahead, focusing on the face of the saint, which you could see even from such a great distance. Tranquility. You sat for a long time, immersed in thought, not remembering that you needed to return to your duties at the clinic; you absolutely did not want to think about it, and the thought of returning to the pale walls of the operating rooms and offices certainly did not appeal to you. The thought of duty weighed heavily on your heart, causing a depressed feeling of anxiety that arose every time from a reluctance to face any circumstances. The phone lay heavily in the inner pocket of your dark jacket which was thrown over your black dress to ward off the chill.

The muffled clatter of heels on stone echoed off the high walls.

Darian sat down beside you. There was still a small gap between your shoulders. You sat in silence for a long time as you gave Darian the opportunity to choose for himself whether he wanted to talk.

“I must apologize for being angry with you,” he began quietly.

“No, you don't have to,” you replied, “It was deserved. Let's... just forget about it.”

“Yes, I agree.”

For some time, you continued to gaze at the iconostasis. Its appearance brought a strange sense of calm.

“I want to get permission to participate in the study of the deathroot,” you confessed out of the blue. Only today did you finally decide that you were ready to give up any free time you might have had.

“This... is a bold decision,” Darian hesitated. You didn't look at each other, “I hope you don't blame yourself for his death? I know your moods.”

“I regret that everything happened faster than I had a chance to do anything.”

“You did everything you could. You were still there.”

“Not enough,” you said bitterly, and Darian knew it was true, “I can't do anything for him anymore. But at least, maybe I can help someone else...”

“The desire to help people is a noble trait. Do not get rid of it, even if you are pressured to do so.”

You realized that he was hinting at your situation in the clinic — memories immediately surfaced in your mind of what Varré had written to you when you saw his messages before sleep after that day.

“Tell me more about your work. In detail. Especially about that mentor of yours. I want to know if any danger threatens you.”

“Everything is fine, really. There's nothing to worry about.”

“I insist,” he cut in.

You sighed. It was sometimes quite difficult to argue with Darian, because if he had made up his mind about something, he would stand his ground until the end. After thinking for a long time and analyzing everything you had seen at work during that time, you chose where to start.

“Well... I don't even know…”

“Start with Varré,” Darian said, clearly setting the course of the conversation, for which you were partly grateful to him.

“Varré… I… I'm not sure what to think of him,” you began, “He really is a professional when it comes to surgery. Under his guidance, I've become more confident in many practical things. But when it comes to his morals, there are big questions. He particularly cares for some patients: soldiers, children… But he can also prescribe inappropriate medication. Refuse to use acceptable surgical methods. Lie in reports… But if you saw his hands at work, you would understand why I haven't run away from the clinic yet…The number of people he saves infinitely overshadows all the "Buts". Our head, Ansbach, told me on my first day to follow the protocols. All of them. I think he was hinting at the fourth operating room.”

“Then they have something to hide. Such warnings don't just come out of thin air,” for the first time in a long while, Darian turned halfway towards you. He crossed one leg over the other and focused completely on your face, “What could be there, in that fourth?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you think it's something bad?”

“I don't know…”

“Better not to get involved if you’re not forced to. And be careful with your mentor,” Darian said seriously.

“You sound just like my mom,” you smiled slightly.

“All my remaining close ones have the stupid trait of getting into trouble.”

You snorted. You wanted to change the subject.

“How are you feeling?” you asked, and immediately regretted it; the question seemed incredibly stupid in light of today’s events. Darian responded with an embarrassed look, his posture clearly showing fatigue: his shoulders slumped, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in the last few days, which you thought was absolutely true.

“I’m fine,” he replied, “I was ready for this. In fact, I’ve been ready for the last couple of months. Of course, it still hurts. He’s my brother, after all.”

“I understand you... I’ll try to be closer. With all my heart,” you whispered.

“Thank you,” Darian smiled softly. It was a rare occurrence, “Let’s try to see each other more often and argue less.”

“Of course.”

He turned back toward the altar. Heart-to-heart talks with Darian were as rare as his genuine smiles, he wasn't particularly fond of opening up about his feelings, but today, at a moment like this, he felt it was absolutely appropriate, especially since you weren't some random person in his life.

“I’m glad we talked like this.”

“So am I, Darian.”

“What are you doing?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Nevermind. I don't really want to.”

“Then sit down and be quiet,” he said. You quickly glanced at him: today he seemed more irritated than usual, and you weren't in the mood to find out why. You silently sat down at your workspace and for a while couldn't concentrate or define your tasks; on the table lay a filled-out patient round sheet that you usually complete in the mornings while checking on the patients' well-being, and judging by the handwriting, Ansbach had filled it out for you today. You were grateful to him for yet another gesture of help. Under the round sheet lay a small note that he had left along with it. “Complete the rest documents and go home. I’m sorry for your loss. Varré won't say anything to you about coming in late and leaving early.” Your gratitude knew no bounds — you didn’t have the strength to work, only wanting to lie down and think in silence without any unnecessary actions. Varré, it seemed, found no reason to start a dialogue with you; only the quiet sound of him adjusting the microscope interrupted the silence on his side. He was frowning at something he was working on. You sometimes glanced in his direction, studying his changing emotions.

“Something caught your interest, lambkin?” he didn’t take his eyes off the tray illuminated by a bright lamp that casted long shadows over the sharp planes of his face. A gloved finger adjusted the lens, “I’m flattered by your incredible attention to my profile.”

“Nothing,” you lied, deciding to overcome yourself and start working. You reached for the documents.

“You won't concentrate,” he noted, “Grief doesn't contribute to productivity.”

“Are you suggesting I leave?”

“I'm not at the part where I suggest anything to you yet, no need to rush,” he retorted, finally raising his gaze to you. No squint. No hint of hidden motives. Only weariness found reflection in the expression on his face, “Come closer.”

You hesitated, turning your attention back to him. It was unlikely this was a way of sympathizing with your feelings, but perhaps it was a generous decision on Varré’s part to distract you? You stood up and approached the table where he was working. A viscous drop of black color lay on the glass.

“Did they force you into this after all?” you asked with a hint of mockery.

“No,” he replied, “I find it quite useful for inexperienced students like you, so I bargained with the lab staff. Just don't touch this with your bare hands, I ask you — I don't need another patient with that thing.”

He pointed his finger at the inscription “Caution! Liquid Rot” on the label of the glass container from which he had previously taken a sample. When you leaned over the microscope, your shoulder brushed against his hand, but he didn’t move away. His closeness surprised you — Varré smelled of antiseptic and somewhere there, the scent of bergamot was barely discernible; he usually didn’t drink his black tea without it.

“You bargained for this sample?”

He carefully moved the microscope closer to you and set up a lens with a click. You curiously looked through at the sample: a black mass pulsed as if alive, and you could see huge piles of clearly distinguishable microbes in one tiny drop. They resembled worms, crawling and mixing with each other in a black-gold liquid mass. You had never seen root particles under a microscope, and this discovery truly amazed you, momentarily making you forget the emptiness after the funeral, even for a little time — medical and research interest often overshadowed your other emotions.

“Now it’s ours. You can conduct any tests on it, except for mixing it into my drinks. It’s my small acquisition for your education. Consider it a reward for obedience,” he pulled off the tight gloves from his hands and threw them in the bin, moving to his desk, “I requested access to the lab for you.”

“That's... Ahem. Thank you,” you replied, embarrassed. It was an unexpected gesture on his part, especially considering that just this morning you said you wanted to do this. What an amazing coincidence, you thought, but it was truly a joyful one for you. Varré turned away, obviously slightly confused by your sincere gratitude.

“If you find out how to treat it, I may give you a graduation gift. Just remember where your main job is. It will take some time to get a pass to the laboratory, so for now, forget about it.”

Maybe he wasn't so bad after all?

His face instantly transformed back to usual as soon as a knock was heard at the door of your office. He stood up from the table to open it and you realized it was someone other than Ansbach, because he could open the door with his key card. A tall and very thin young man about your age entered the office, greeting you; he was way taller than Varré and slightly pale, he was frightened, as if he was entering a cage of predators. He was handsome, you thought while trying not to look at him longer than is proper, but found it difficult to tear your gaze away from his long light hair.

“Sorry for the disturbance…” he was uncertain, nervously rubbing his palms together. Varré, at first glance at the newcomer, understood that something had happened.

“What is it?” Varré’s question hit straightforward as he returned to the table and gestured for the guy to sit next to him. The young man moved a chair closer to his workspace, hesitating first and glancing in your direction. Varré followed it. “She won’t say anything to anyone. Right, lambkin?”

You looked him in the eyes and after a couple of seconds shook your head negatively. Varré was clearly pleased with your silent response. The newcomer awkwardly averted his attention, not knowing where to start. His lips trembled slightly. What could have scared him so much? It didn't seem like he and Varré were friends, so something must have forced the guy to come here.

“She didn't have any effect from the two ampoules, absolutely nothing… I followed all the instructions you gave me, I promise you,” the guy began to quietly babble. You looked at him suspiciously, watching his active gesturing; you could clearly see that his hands were shaking heavily, his shoulders were tense. “but… I… maybe gave her a third one?”

“Meaning?”

He hesitated, closing his eyes and hiding his face in his palms. He sighed heavily, his labored breathing barely audible through his long fingers.

“What was the reason for that? Instead of a proper treatment, you prescribed her death from an overdose. I didn't give you the instructions for nothing.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to… I really thought it would help her!”

Varré rolled his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. You melancholically thought about how someone was suffering again because of a mistake by the medical staff. You hadn't fully let go of that amputation, and now you were witnessing a foolish act involving heavy substances. To your disgust, you realized that for some reason this situation no longer surprises you as much. Have you really weakened your principles? Or are your feelings today were merely clouded by grief?

“Alright, give me your report,” Varré said in a commanding tone, extending his palm toward the young man. He handed over a crumpled piece of paper, wrinkled from him fidgeting with it out of nervousness. Varré gave the report an assessing glance, considering what could be concocted to hide the young toxicologist's mistake. A forty-year-old woman, the actual cause of death was an amphetamine overdose. From the bottom drawer of his desk, he pulled out a blank sheet. He took a pen and began to write.

“I’ll forge it for you, but you’ll need to play along and pretend nothing happened. Do you understand me?”

It was a blank death certificate. The young guy was silent for a moment.

“Thiollier?”

“Y-yes, I understand.”

“If anyone besides the three of us finds out about this… I think you understand me well, don’t you? You wouldn’t have gotten into this place without logical thinking, hm?”

“Thank you…” the guy said with a certain relief and looked up. He looked you straight in the eyes, and something made you think that you understood very well what he might be feeling right now. The only thing you couldn’t wrap your head around was why Varré immediately decided to help him — he never does anything just like that. And today, besides the fact that he decided for some reason to arrange a pass for you to the laboratory, he is also stepping in for someone else? This did not match any item on your imaginary list, where you kept everything you learned about Varré.

“Time of death: 10:40 instead of your 14:30. Cause: heart attack.”

10:40. Exactly the time when you were not at the clinic.

“I poisoned her, how will we cover this up? He could find out everything!”

“He won’t,” Varré said firmly, “only if you don’t mess up again like a first-grader. The more common the diagnosis and cause of death, the fewer questions it will raise.”

“But her relatives…”

“People are easily convinced by professionalism, Thiollier. Practice it in front of the mirror tonight.”

Varré confidently signed in the place of the responsible physician and turned the certificate toward Thiollier, pointing with his finger to the spot for the witness's signature. You didn’t need to stand next to them to understand that he was clearly not doing this for the first time — it made your already suppressed feelings itch. Thiollier watched. His face clearly reflected a full cocktail of emotions: regret, fear, nervousness. With trembling fingers, under Varré’s stern gaze, he took the pen from his hands. After a long hesitation, he finally signed the document. Varré took the certificate and approached you, extending the paper towards you.

“Sign.”

“Why me?”

“You heard everything, lambkin. You’ll be our quality control.”

An unexpected turn of events, and now you couldn't escape its consequences; you just wanted to turn to Ansbach, but you understood that Varré had you in a steel grip. You silently looked at the sheet handed to you.

“How will you explain that I was present? There are no records anywhere that I was at the clinic at that time.”

“No one will check. Unless you decide to tell Ansbach about it?”

“And what if I do?” A bold, direct question. You wanted to minimize any questionable decisions.

“That’s not the wisest idea, petal. But if you really want to — you can try. I won’t stop you. So, what will it be, your signature or refusal?”

You looked at the miserable Thiollier, who was still sitting in the same place; his gaze pleaded with you to sign the document. You really felt sorry for him, as he was clearly stuck here even worse than you.

“I’ll give you a little time to think. I’ll be back soon,” Varré put the sheet on the table not far from the microscope. The pulsating liquid was still stirring on the glass. Varré left the office, leaving you alone with Thiollier.

“Please… please, sign it,” he pressed his palms together in a pleading gesture, “Otherwise, they’ll dissect me in the banks in the fourth.”

Was it the right moment to ask him about the fourth operating room? Or should you have listened to Darian's advice?

“What does that mean?”

“Oh… it’s not important. Please!”

Another evasion of the question. And you hated it when someone evaded questions. What is happening around this damn place? You tapped your fingers irritably on the table.

“What do I get out of this?”

Varré returned with some papers. You couldn’t see what was on them from where you were sitting.

“Thiollier. Her signature in exchange for her training in the laboratory under your supervision,” Varré stood at a certain distance from both of you, folding his arms across his chest. He didn’t seem particularly pleased with your hesitation.

“Yes. Fine! Does that suit you?” the young man turned to you. You considered the offer — it seemed Varré knew how to play all his cards to his advantage: he would get your cooperation, and you would get access to what interested you. It wasn’t the way you wanted to gain access to the research, but the offer was undeniably tempting. You were surprised that the young Thiollier was participating in the laboratory work on the deathroot.

Was the game worth the candle?

“Alright. It's a deal.”

You signed where they wanted. Thiollier noticeably relaxed. Varré took the certificate and nodded with satisfaction. What would Darian say? Probably that you no longer have your old principles. That’s a shame.

“Will you definitely not tell? Like a hundred percent,” Thiollier kept his eyes on you.

“She’s mine. Of course, she won’t tell,” Varré replied softly, looking at the paper. Does he think you were his toy? His words angered you, but you held back and simply turned to the microscope. You had no strength left today to figure anything out.

“Thank you very much,” Thiollier stood up from the table. The legs of the chair creaked on the floor, “I... I owe you.”

“Obviously. Take it. We'll meet in the morgue in half an hour.”

“Alright.”

Thiollier hurried out, throwing you a grateful glance before leaving, but it only met your straightened back. When the door closed behind him, you and Varré were silent for a short while.

Tick-tick-tick. The hands of the clock moved steadily.

“Why?” you carefully rubbed the edge of the worktable, running your finger along the polished corner. The lamp flickered a couple of times.

“Why what?” his hand with the mug stopped halfway.

“Why are you protecting him? Wouldn't it be easier for you to refuse?”

“Would you have refused?” Varré tilted his head with interest. His long hair had come loose from its tie and touched his shoulders.

“You're deflecting the question.”

A low chuckle.

“Thiollier has brains, but he doesn't always know how to use them properly. He has a talent for toxin research, but when it comes to other things he's like a child,” you gazed thoughtfully into the microscope. The movement of microbes on the glass was somewhat calming. “We can't lose him. He's too useful.”

“Is usefulness your only reason?”

“What difference does it make, lambkin?”

“Oh, none at all,” you lied, “just curious.”

Microbes quickly devoured healthy cells, consuming them completely with a golden glimmer. Will the clinic eat you up too?

“Curiosity doesn't always do you good,” the pen returned to its stand with a clatter, “Dig around as much as you want. But you probably won't like what you find.”

“Is this a threat?”

“No. Why would I threaten you? You're a smart girl, aren't you?”

You fell silent, feeling confused.

Varré was watching your profile while you were lost in thought. How quickly your positions changed.

“Go home,” his voice cut through, “I'll finish your work again. But next time, I will demand payment.”

You didn't move. Your fingers were still gripping the microscope as if it were the last thread of survival.

“You already asked for coffee last time.”

His gaze wandered over your neat hairstyle, and he had no intention of apologizing for staring at you longer than was proper; the soft movement of your eyelashes when you blinked, your steady breathing, and your slightly furrowed brows. Studying your facial expressions was gradually becoming a part of Varré’s routine.

“I asked for it without sugar. What I received was over-sugared. A questionable compensation for my help.”

As you gathered your things to leave half an hour later, his voice stopped you at the door.

“Grieve, but only today.”

His left hand gripped the edge of the table until the knuckles turned white.

“Such luxury is a privilege few can afford. I won’t have your hands ruining my theatre.”

Before disappearing from his sight, you still wanted to know one thing.

“What will happen next?”

His smile never touched his eyes.

“You will go home, rest, forget about your… curiosity. And I will go down to the morgue, meet our friend, and figure out how to remove the excess toxins from the body. After that, we will all pretend that nothing happened. Tomorrow we will meet at work, smile at the morning meeting, and everything will be as usual.”

“Don't you worry about this?”

When he reluctantly let go of the table, you could see how much his palm was shaking — it was not stress, but a painful tremor. A long-healed scar of strange shape was barely visible from under the edge of his sleeve.

“I never worry, my lambkin.”

Chapter Text

Dreams rarely visited you at night, but when they did, you managed to remember them longer than the first hour after waking up.

You dreamed of the clinic.

It was different from the everyday picture: instead of sterile white light, here and there you encountered burnt-out or flickering lamps, hiding the corridors in an unpleasant half-darkness; around you reigned an unusual desolation and silence. The main building was always bustling, so such a scene left an unpleasant chill in your soul, making you want to get out of there quickly, to disappear, not to look into the distant darkness. You remembered walking down the corridor towards surgery, the hard soles of your shoes tapping an uneven rhythm on the pale slippery tiles. Tap-tap-tap. All the doors were closed, all the access magnets were glowing red, and the further you moved ahead, the darker it became around you, the harder it was to breathe; your chest tightened with an uncomfortable feeling of growing anxiety. Your body was plunged into darkness. You didn't know from where, but a phone appeared in your hand, and you were able to turn on the flashlight; it illuminated the bare walls with peeling wallpaper. Water splashed underfoot, and you found yourself ankle-deep in icy liquid, soaking your jeans and shoes through. Why were you moving forward? Shouldn't you have been looking for an exit? But why look for an exit? You were moving towards the operating rooms, yielding to incomprehensible feelings, as if you were being drawn towards them by a magnet, leaving no chance to turn back. Go back. Go back… why?

The doors of all the operating rooms were wide open, but the bright, almost blinding white light burned only in the very last one. You had never seen these doors open… The fourth operating room seemed like an unattainable peak. Was this your chance to finally learn something? You quickened your pace, the water under your feet splashing onto the still dry fabric of your clothes, but it was hard to walk, as if your legs were tripping over nonexistent obstacles. Or should you leave? You weren’t sure that…

A strong hand stopped you halfway. The blue latex burned your wrist where your palm was grabbed, your shoulder was unpleasantly, almost painfully jerked. You stopped midway, instinctively turning half-sideways to the thing that obstructed you.

He stood in the dim light. A tired, pale face was almost hidden in the shadows, giving him a sharp, detached, and aggressive look. His hair was disheveled, carelessly scattered from its usual hairstyle. No trace of the person you once knew.

“... Devin?”

He silently stared at you, not responding. The hand that had firmly held your wrist slowly released it, the fingers hidden in the glove cautiously uncurling. Why was he wearing gloves? You lowered your gaze to your reddened hand. Most likely, a red mark would remain. Your legs were very cold. A musty smell mixed with alcohol hit your nose. You didn’t notice how his fingers reached for your face, and you froze as he ran them down your cheek towards your chin; the glove was stained with blood. You didn’t dare to look up at him. In his face, which you had last seen under the arches of the church, there was a frightening emptiness, exacerbated by your realization that he was already dead, and there was not a single glimmer in his soulless eyes. Your lips began to tremble, and you, like a stone, did not move, looking down at your feet. Cold fingers grasped your chin and, pressing it from below, forced you to lift your head. Your heart skipped a beat.

There was no longer any Devin. Amber eyes looked at you, and in them was… so uncharacteristically much emotion, as if shadow was his element, the only place where he was so expressive. Breath caught in your throat. Now that it was indeed him before you, the picture made sense.

“Why are you trembling?” asked the familiar voice, “Calm down. I won’t let anyone hurt you, my lambkin.”

Behind you, the lamps changed color to a noble shade of blood. How well it suited Varré’s face, you thought, taking a step towards the surgeon and running your hands along the lapels of his medical coat. He did not take his gaze off you.

You woke up at dawn.

Morning report. Done. Patient rounds. Done. Not appearing at the morning meeting. Done, but with Ansbach's permission while his gaze suspiciously lingered on your face for a long time. Blood recount. In progress. It was really cold — thanks to the refrigerator, which for some reason was set a couple of degrees below the usual temperature, and you hoped that the person responsible, who signed the log, knew what they were doing. The sensations unpleasantly reminded you of your dream. You were looking through the crimson bags, turning them up with the labels. Reaching the corner shelf, you sorted through all the contents. OR4. OR4. OR4. Collection time: 1am. So, he did go down to that morgue. You must have been holding the consequences in your hand.

The pager beeped, and you quickly pulled it out of your pocket. OR3. You left the storage room and headed upstairs, a prayer spinning in your mind that nothing complicated or lengthy would come up today.

When you saw both Ansbach and Varré at the entrance to the operating room, you realized that your pleas had gone unanswered. They were quietly discussing something while other staff members entered; you recognized among them two surgeons you had done inventory with and a female anesthesiologist you had chatted with a couple of times while raiding the coffee machine on the first floor near the cafeteria. It was becoming a rare exception to see Varré and Ansbach talking to each other without a hint of irritation. When you hurried to approach them closer, their attention quickly shifted to your figure; Ansbach noted how subdued you looked, and you noticed that the circles under Varré’s eyes had become noticeably darker. You looked at each other a little longer than colleagues typically exchange glances, and Ansbach thought to himself with displeasure that the situation was starting to rapidly spiral into chaos — his warnings had clearly been lost amidst everything else. You looked at Varré to let him know that you knew enough about how he worked and what he did. He looked at you so that you would know who was in charge.

“Polytrauma,” Ansbach explained to you, “There will be several people. Varré and I will be operating, and you will be on standby. Be ready to replace one of us, but that's unlikely to happen. One girl on anesthesia. Two surgical assistants. We should manage, but it will be difficult — the guys will have to leave, and we will be left with just four of us.”

“Why is that?”

“Not enough hands. It's that kind of month,” Ansbach said darkly, looking at the clock.

Varré was silent and had no intention of saying a word. How not typical for him…

You went through the first doors following Ansbach.

“Liver, intestines, pancreas,” Varré glanced at you over his shoulder as the room was being prepared in the background, “Listen to what we ask of you and there won't be any problems.”

He seemed like a different man now; there wasn't some spark in him that you had seen in the silence of your office. Before you stood an ordinary surgeon, in whose eyes you could see a firm confidence in his skills. Was it the influence of the other doctors he was trying to blend in with, or was there something else here that you just didn't understand?

When the operation started, you tried not to interfere and really do everything they asked. Ansbach took the initiative, and for the first time, you were able to see how Varré submitted to someone; it was unusual in your eyes because usually, either you operated together in the presence of an anesthesiologist, or even though there were other people with you, Varré was still the one in charge. You provided the tools, quickly responding to their words or helped them directly in the operation.

The operation lasted a long time, but you knew that the preparation for it took even longer: weeks of tests, donor preparation, patient preparation, countless hours of work from both the doctors and the patients family. But watching Ansbach and Varré work, you had no doubt that everything would go as it should. After a couple of hours, you switched places with one of the young assistants. You could finally have some little time to rest and you defined did not envy the position of Varré and Ansbach, who are forced to operate without it.

Finally, you could just... observe. You could watch how Varré’s hands moved, how his fingers held the tools with a certain meticulousness, you could see how precisely he worked — there was not a hint in his movements of how much his hand had trembled last night. Next to him, even the measured, years-long, and confident professionalism of Ansbach faded, because there was something in Varré that set him apart from other surgeons, and right now you were absolutely certain that you were not imagining it.

Accuracy. That was what struck you in his hands. The way he worked so confidently — his light hands handled their tasks so well. Under the thin layer of gloves, his angular knuckles, tightly encased in blue latex, were visible, highlighted by the harsh light of the lamp illuminating the workspace. His fingers carefully gripped the metal, those very fingers that could decide someone's fate in the blink of an eye, and you had no doubt that your fate could be decided by him as well. One rough mistake on your part in this place, and you would be lying on the table while he worked on you like a jeweler, as his beautiful fingers delved into your blood oozing from your torn body. Beautiful?

Oh, dear resident. And yet, you felt something, because looking at the muscles of his forearms as he reached out for the instruments that assistants handed him, you wanted to run your less confident fingers up his arms to the sleeve of his shirt, smearing a shiny trail of antiseptic and crimson translucent blood across his skin.

The rhythm with which his hands moved over the organs was almost musical, hypnotizing you so subtly that you barely managed to pull yourself out of the stupor. Your attention was so captivated that even the emptiness and fatigue you felt since yesterday were dulled.

You felt your cheeks flush with color, and thank God you were wearing a mask so that it couldn't be seen, because it was clearly not the heat in the operating room, but that strange feeling barely arising beneath your abdomen. This was your end. Everything was lost, because you could not deny the obvious fact to you. Nothing about this person attracted you, except for the magic of his hands. And you were embarrassed by the suddenness of your inner discovery. Were you ashamed to admit it? Yes, you were. What's wrong with you, anyway?

“Faster, you idiot,” an irritated voice of Varré pulled you out of the hypnosis, “What’s the hold up?”

He was scolding one of the assistants. Ansbach ignored it, focused on suturing the organs. The anesthesiologist nearby nervously glanced at Varré, which you were sure did not escape his attention — little ever escaped his notice. The machines beeped, monitoring the patient's condition.

“God, just switch back places, I beg you,” Varré kept his gaze fixed on the patient's body, but from his furrowed brows, you could tell how irritated he was. It was becoming easier and easier to read his emotions with each time.

The guy looked at you in confusion, and you resolutely stepped in his direction, silently switching places as Varré wanted. You immediately understood the reason for his anger — he was already preparing to sew the portal vein to the donor liver, which required his full control, so he couldn't tolerate anyone else's delays.

You put on new gloves and prepared to help him at his first request. It seems he was pleased that it was you who was once again at hand — you were accustomed to his pace, which positively affected his mood, something Varré himself had not yet noticed. Quite soon, the assistants were forced to leave the operating room. Only you, Varré, Ansbach, and the poor anaesthesiologist remained. The situation forced you to shift from Varré to Ansbach, not giving you a chance to breathe; everything depended on their micro-control, and the longer the operation lasted, the faster you and the anesthesiologist began to tire.

How many hours have you been here? Five? Eight?

Varré and Ansbach did not lose control. When it finally came to restoring the gastrointestinal obstruction, and the operation gradually moved into the final phase, you were asked to provide direct assistance. You took the instruments in hand and, under Ansbach's guidance, began to work. You were doing well, the head of the department noted to himself; it seems that despite some questionable decisions, Varré still imparted some knowledge to you, and not bad knowledge at that. After dealing with suturing the intestines, you moved on to drainage, and then to closing the wound. You had long lost track of time — while you were suturing the incision, it felt like you would soon collapse to the floor in exhaustion. Varré, on the other hand, showed no signs of fatigue; most likely, he had come to the surgery already worn out.

When the patient was taken to the intensive care unit, the anesthesiologist sighed heavily. She sat down on a chair next to the operating table and leaned her head heavily on her hand.

“Nightmare,” she could only say.

Ansbach checked the time.

“Yeah, we really put in some work...”

12 hours? No wonder it felt like an eternity to you.

“I'm leaving,” Varré said, quickly throwing off his gloves and mask, “And don't call me on my day off, for heaven's sake.”

“And the reports? I haven't taken them off you yet,” Ansbach glanced in his direction.

“No and no again. Don't even get me started. Are you trying to kill me or something?” It seemed they wouldn't agree on that today, “Come on, lambkin, let's go.”

Without further question you gladly followed him, saying goodbye to your colleagues. Your office greeted you with blissful silence.

You wearily flopped down on the couch. Your head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton under pressure, your temples were tense, and your eyes were tired from the harsh light. Varré followed in and sat next to you, but in a way that your shoulders didn’t touch, and he tilted his head back, closing his eyes. A heavy sigh came from his side. You couldn’t help but close your eyes as well. Stretching your legs out, you only now felt how tired they were.

“Where did you even get a couch in the office?”

“Traded.”

“For what?”

“For a cooler.”

You didn’t really believe his words.

“Are you kidding?”

“Mhm,” Varré grunted, opening his eyes and slightly tilting his head in your direction, “They brought a newbie to the guys on the top floor, and there was nowhere to fit a table. They wanted to take this thing somewhere, but I managed to grab it for myself. It was a bit empty here anyway.”

“Damn… you did well,” you said contentedly, feeling yourself gradually relax — just a little more and you would start to doze off, but you already knew that you wouldn’t be able to sleep for long anyway. If a doctor looked at you, he would say it was stress. Obviously. But that would be the truth.

You had no strength to get up and start getting ready to go home. You placed your palms on your stomach and allowed your thoughts to flow. They consumed you as you pondered about Devin, exacerbated by your nightmarish dream; to be honest, your conscience was eating you from the inside. Every time you caught yourself thinking about him, your heart would start to ache and race uncomfortably, affecting not only your work but also your state outside of it; you noticed that you had developed a slight shortness of breath every time you got up from your chair or walked even short distances. How you managed to ignore it during surgery was beyond you.

Perhaps you shouldn't have given your thoughts so much freedom... Unintentionally, your memory played back moments you had experienced with the brothers. There was so much in those images: happiness, joy, sorrow, quarrels, and so much, so much, so much; all these thoughts piled up, but one stood out more than the others. Nothing like this would happen again because you missed the chance to help. But are you to blame for that?

Your breathing quickened. An unpleasant heaviness settled in your body, and it became unbearably heavy, even though you were in a comfortable sitting position; your limbs felt weak, and in panic, you sensed a slight numbness. In one brief moment, fear gripped you, but all that was before your eyes was the pale face of your friend, looking out from the dim corridor flooded with water. Tears welled up beneath your eyelids. A sharp pain shot through your heart, and your weak hand flew to your chest, digging your nails into your skin through the medical clothing.

Varré instantly opened his eyes as soon as he felt a sudden movement from your side; he saw you, panicking and wide-eyed, sitting awkwardly, your face reflecting pain, your breath coming in ragged gasps as if you had just run a long distance at a frantic pace. He quickly placed one hand on the back of your neck, while the other rested on your belly, gently pressing you to bend in half. He softly but firmly directed your head between your knees.

“Breathe,” he said firmly, “Slowly. Four seconds in, hold your breath, then release.”

You could hardly concentrate on his voice; your head was buzzing, and you were scared, wanting to curl up in a corner quickly and brush him off, so—

“Control yourself,” the palm barely left your stomach, “Or I'll inject you with a sedative myself.”

You tried to obey and do as he said. Four seconds to inhale. Hold your breath. On the exhale, it was loud how much you were shaking.

When the panic almost passed, you slowly straightened up and leaned back against the backrest again, raising your gaze to the ceiling. Your eyes were stinging. You wanted to turn off the light.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“Calm your tachycardia,” Varré sat partially turned towards you, resting his forearms on his knees. “It's audible from three corridors away.”

You didn't answer anything, but you were grateful that he was sitting next to you now. You still felt the warmth of his palm on your neck...

“You are tolerable, you know,” you were surprised at his sudden acknowledgement, “Better than all the previous ones. Most crumble. They get scared to the point of shaking. You handled it quickly and now you’re just… working. Not everyone would cope with the pressure we put you under… It even irritates me.”

A quiet laugh escaped you. Your throat was very dry.

“Is that… your way… of giving a compliment?”

You were breathless.

“Don't flatter yourself. It's just an observation,” Varré forced himself and got up from the couch to start getting ready to go home. He wasn't going to coddle you as if you were a baby, and you understood his approach.

Nevertheless, you knew that it was a compliment, and it was nice to hear it from him. A good change from his usual remarks.

Outside, a downpour had been falling for a long time, pounding heavy drops against the windows and sills. Thank goodness you decided to leave a spare umbrella at work during the first week just in case, but it seems Varré was not so foresighted; he was glancing discontentedly towards the window with a hint of sadness.

“Get ready to go home,” Varré turned off the desk lamp, “It's not very comfortable to sleep on it.”

“Have you tried it often?”

He snorted.

“Buy yourself some sedatives in the next few days. It'll be helpful,” he said at the door.

“I know that already.”

He left, and the door closed behind him with a soft click. You took a deep breath, spending some time resting. After a few minutes, gathering your last strength, you managed to get up and, finishing your tasks in the office, headed to your locker to change and leave the clinic as quickly as possible. There was no one else in the corridors anymore, the only person you met on your way out was the girl at reception. She smiled sweetly at you and said good night, looking sympathetically at your tired face.

It was cold outside. You opened your umbrella and stepped onto the road — your feet instantly got soaked, and you shivered from the unpleasant familiar sensation; the nightmare still lingered, flaring up in your memory for various reasons. Cold water seeped into your shoes again. A disgusting chill ran down your spine. You needed to hurry home, or you would not avoid a repeat of your recent panic. Splashing through puddles, you nearly ran toward your neighborhood; waiting for the bus was pointless since they had long switched to a night schedule and ran much less frequently.

After ten minutes of walking in the cold, you saw the green sign of a pharmacy in the distance; it shone brightly in the dark, softly illuminating the bricks of the building it was in. There was no one around on the street, even though the area was usually quite lively; everyone seemed to have gone to sleep long ago. The rainy weather brought a sense of melancholy, not helping your condition at all. You decided to follow Varré’s advice and buy some pills after all.

Closing your umbrella, you entered the pharmacy and immediately met his gaze.

“Are you following me or something?” you asked as you approached the counter. The seller was absent; he must have stepped away for something that Varré came to buy.

“That's a question for you. You came in later,” he tucked an ID card that looked very much like those issued to soldiers right after the war in Caelid into his pocket. You decided not to ask questions, but if your assumption was correct, then a lot of things would suddenly make sense: his scar on the arm, the tremor he tried to hide, his attitude towards military patients, and some other details you had noted about him.

“I live that way,” you muttered, averting your gaze towards the door.

“Hmm,” he crossed his arms over his chest.

The seller returned to the counter and placed a small box of pills on it. Sleeping pills, you noted. In the largest dosage. Did he use them all the time?

“Anything else?” the young man asked, looking up at both of you.

“No,” Varré took out his wallet and paid.

“For you?” the seller turned towards you. You hesitated for a moment. Varré pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the guy.

“Show your ID,” Varré said to you. Not quite grasping where he was going with this, you still took it out and handed it to the seller. He nodded, taking the paper from Varré’s hand with him and went back inside the pharmacy.

“... What just happened?” you asked in a daze. Varré sighed.

“What they would sell you without a prescription can only be called street charlatanism,” he explained, “You were lucky that I'm so caring.”

“Did you forge it for me or something?”

“Why immediately forge? I prescribed it for you.”

“You are a surgeon.”

“I have many talents, lambkin. It's a pity you're too blind to see them.”

You wanted to give him a flick on the forehead. Or hit him in the face.

“Why do you carry it in your pocket?”

“I forgot to give it back to you.”

“You should buy some memory pills.”

“Touché.”

When the seller returned and you paid for the medicine, you and Varré went outside together. There was barely enough space under the small awning, so you stood shoulder to shoulder; you felt the warmth emanating from him, which, no matter how much you didn't want to admit it, was pleasantly soothing. The rain was pounding heavily on the awning in a chaotic rhythm. Back at the pharmacy, you noticed that Varré was soaked from head to toe: his hair, darkened by water, lay messily as he tried to fix it with his palm, un-dried droplets slightly dripping down his neck to the edge of his dark t-shirt, soaking into the collar. You tried not to stare.

“I’m going right,” you said.

“Me too,” Varré said.

“Let’s go. But you’ll hold the umbrella.”

“Since you insist, lambkin.”

You opened the umbrella and you two stepped into the puddles. The water reflected the evening lights of the signs and lanterns, merging into one long, bright spot. He took the umbrella from your hand, and your fingers touched, but no one paid attention to it. You and Varré walked in silence, trying to avoid particularly deep spots on the ground, but now and then accidentally splashed water on each other. You were distantly immersed yourself in your thoughts, almost forgetting that he was walking beside you. You need to ask in the coming days how Darian is doing. He must be having a very hard time.

“How long will the pass take?” you didn’t take your eyes off the ground, “I mean, to the lab.”

“I don’t know, maybe up to a week. Why?”

“How can I make it faster?”

“That’s unlikely.”

“How?”

Varré clicked his tongue in irritation and thought for a moment.

“I can give you Thiollier’s number. With him, you probably won’t have to wait that much.”

You smiled. You must dedicate a lot of time to contribute to the study of the root — now it was essential for you. It wasn’t an attempt to fix something, but perhaps a way to prevent something. Your phone buzzed. A message from Varré and a phone number appeared on the screen.

“Thank you,” you looked at him, “Really. It’s important to me.”

He looked at you too. His face showed only fatigue, which most likely reflected your own.

“Don't mention it,” Varré muttered and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with his free hand. Skillfully opening it, he took one out with his mouth and then offered the pack to you.

“I don't smoke,” you shook your head. He said nothing, hiding the cigarettes and pulling out a lighter.

A sharp smell of tobacco hit your nose, but it wasn't unpleasant. For some reason, you found Varré’s company more pleasant than going alone in such a state. The silence around him no longer felt awkward. Since when had everything changed so much? Until this moment, you hadn't noticed any differences.

When you reached the intersection and stopped at the traffic light, you turned to Varré again.

“I need to go that way,” you nodded in the direction.

“What a pity. Maybe I should kidnap this umbrella?”

“Not a chance, give it back!” you grabbed the handle, and he let it go with a smirk. “Are you going far?”

“What difference does it make? I'm soaked like a dog anyway,” he zipped up his jacket and, without saying anything more, stepped out from under the umbrella and walked down the street. You watched him walk quickly through the puddles until the traffic light turned green.

On the table by the door of your apartment stood fresh white lilies.

Chapter Text

Finally, you saw something later than five in the morning on the clock. When the birds began to sing outside and two playful rays of sunlight slipped through the curtains into the room, you were still lying in bed with tangled hair, lost in sleep. Thank God, it was peaceful — perhaps it was the pills, or maybe your excessive fatigue finally played its role and freed you from any dreams, plunging your overloaded mind into deep rest.

Your morning was slow. At first, you could barely find the strength to get out of bed; your body ached after the workday as if you had run a marathon, not just stood by the operating table, and then, with heaviness in your hands, you lifted your arms to reach for a bag of coffee from the kitchen shelf. Standing and watching as the drops of drink slowly trickle through the filter of the cheap coffee machine into a large cup, you kept yawning, just managing to cover your mouth with your hand. It makes such a loud noise, you thought. It might break any moment. Your stomach was weakly tugging from hunger. The refrigerator, however, was empty.

The weather outside, annoyingly, was incredibly nice; a cloudless sky, bright sun, and a light breeze beckoned to go outside and take a walk, but the body craved the opposite.

You stood by the door to the balcony, thoughtfully watching the people passing below. You would have to go to the store anyway... Maybe it's worth stopping by Roderika's? Her shop brought you an inexplicable sense of peace, so despite your little strength, you were still able to gather yourself and, although it took a long time, step outside.

In the flower shop, a peaceful silence still reigned. At first, you didn’t notice Roderika, but as it turned out, she hadn’t gone far — through the transparent glass of the refrigerator, you saw her tenderly arranging fresh flowers in large vases. Drops of water trickled down her hands. She must have felt cool right now. What a… familiar feeling. When she turned around and saw you, she noticeably cheered up; brightly smiling at you, she waved her tiny hand in greeting and hurried to meet you. However, as she approached you, she subtly became anxious.

“Hi,” she shyly looked you over, “Is something wrong?”

“Hey,” you studied her puzzled face questioningly, “What’s the matter?”

“You look… almost sickly…”

“Ah… I’m fine, just had some tough days. Just tired,” you brushed it off, forcing a smile, “I just came to say hello. I like it here with you.”

“Well… If I can help with anything — just let me know,” she rubbed her forearm with her palm, “And thank you! Although, to be honest, the shop isn’t doing very well.”

You walked to the counter, and Roderika pointed to a chair behind her, inviting you to sit. You silently shook your head. Near the entrance of the store, a musical wind chime softly jingled, playing a melody every time a breeze passed by. The sound was truly pleasant.

“Why? Not many sales?”

“Yes, it seems to get worse every month. I don’t even need an assistant anymore — it’s easier to close the shop when I want to leave.”

“Oh... I'm sorry to hear that. I regret not knowing anything about advertising, otherwise I would have tried to come up with something.”

“Hehe, no need! How's your work?”

You stared at the wooden counter. Work...

“Sorry if—“

“No-no, it's all right. I was just thinking a bit,” you hurried to reassure her. Roderika was even charming when she was embarrassed, “Slowly. It's just that so much has piled up... Like being thrown into a cauldron. We were sitting in the operating room until late last night... well, standing... You get it.”

“You must be really tired then! You should get some good rest.”

“Yeah, but I have a mouse hanging in my fridge.”

"So that's what pulled you out, huh," she laughed lightly. It was pleasant to talk to her, and unlike with other people, you didn't feel the urge to be cautious around her, as if you had known each other for a long time.

The entrance bell rang, and you turned to look at the guest who had entered. Meeting the familiar amber gaze, you almost cursed. His reaction was probably similar to yours, as the speed with which he turned his gaze away was enviable. As he approached the counter, you had a chance to take him in; he looked more energetic than on weekdays, dressed simply, but that simplicity suited him well. You shook yourself out of your thoughts. Why were you even thinking about what suited him and what didn’t?

“Hello! Can I help you with something?” Roderika clearly hadn’t noticed your embarrassment and the verbose silence between you and Varré. Apparently, she didn’t consider that you might be acquainted.

“Hello. White roses. Nineteen of them,” Varré said briefly, not looking at you. He smelled of cigarettes. He must have just finished smoking. You were close enough to feel it.

“Shall I wrap them up?”

“No need.”

Roderika hurried to get what he had asked for, heading to the refrigerator. An awkward silence lingered between you and Varré.

“Nineteen? Who are you planning to make happy?” you broke the silence with a smirk.

“Oh, I woke up and thought I’d look for your house. Figured I should court you,” he replied, turning to face you and leaning one hand on the counter.

“Ugh, no. You sound like a creep. Though you do resemble one sometimes,” you muttered.

“You asked for it,” he tapped his fingers on the wooden countertop, “I’m not getting them for myself. And not as a gift. Though I prefer red much more, if you ever decide to surprise me.”

“How tacky.”

“What flower do you think of first, then, lambkin?” Varré asked, studying your face. He noted to himself that you, at least, looked less downcast than you had for the past two days. Still tired and a little bit sore.

You pondered.

“Peonies.”

“And you mock roses?”

“What's wrong with peonies?”

“Predictable. Boring.”

“Says who?”

He rolled his eyes, not giving you any more answers. Roderika returned and placed the flowers on the counter to prepare them for sale.

“Do you need help with how to care for them?” she began trimming the stems.

“No. Their recipient is… familiar with fragility.”

You stiffened.

“So who is the lucky one?”

“Must you know everything, lambkin?” he removed his hand from the counter, “For the director. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” you frowned.

“Would you like anything else?” Roderika carefully arranged the flowers and tied them with a rubber band for convenience. It seemed she decided not to focus on your conversation or left the questions for later.

“Five peonies,” Varré smiled at Roderika with an unusual, fake innocence, “And add some gypsophila. Wrap them in something… tender.”

She chose the wrapping. Tap-tap-tap. His fingers were playing a rhythm. He put his hand back on the counter. How hard it was to tear your gaze away... Good thing he thought your attention was a tired stupor. Roderikas gaze flitted over the rolls until she settled on a delicate blue paper, quietly unrolling it to the desired length and cutting it with scissors. The large white and pink peonies were beautifully complemented by the white gypsophila, creating a sufficiently lush bouquet, even though it didn't have many flowers. The composition turned out lovely. Unlike the roses, Varré’s second request was quite clear. Looking at the resulting bouquet, you realized that he probably had some taste, after all.

Thanking Roderika, he took a wallet out of his jeans pocket to pay, then took both bouquets in his hands.

And handed you the bouquet with peonies.

You looked at the flowers and then at him in shock, frozen and unsure how to react. He was smirking, watching your reaction and the growing blush on your cheeks with satisfaction, silently reveling in the pleasure of having put you in such a predicament so quickly. Varré occasionally caught himself thinking that he enjoyed putting you in such situations.

“For you, my insufferable dear assistant,” he playfully bowed to you, “Your favorite flowers, lambkin.”

Roderika subtly reached for the deck that she always kept hidden under the counter and, rummaging through the cards, quickly pulled one out, examined it, and hid it back. The result confirmed her suspicion.

You hesitantly took the bouquet from Varré’s hand, expecting him to quickly take it back or do something similar, but nothing came from him — he let go of the bouquet, allowing you to examine it up close. You could smell the pleasant fragrance of the peonies. Their bright white color... reminded you of operational lamps. However, against the backdrop of the sterility of the roses that remained in Varré’s hands, the peonies still created a sufficiently vivid image.

“I... Um...” you were very embarrassed, "Thank you..."

“Of course. You're welcome. See you on Monday,” he adjusted the roses more comfortably and headed for the exit. You watched him until the door closed behind him. As soon as he was out of sight, Roderika couldn't hold back.

“The peonies. Do you know the meaning?” She looked at you with interest, “Are you two familiar?”

“He is my mentor…” you couldn't take your eyes off the bouquet. Why would he do this?

And most importantly — why did you like this gesture so much?

“Ah, I see,” Roderika began to quickly clear the remaining trash from the table, “And how do you find him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, as a person. And as a teacher,” petals, thorns, and stems flew into the black bag.

“Quite... tolerable,” you stroked the soft delicate bud. A pleasant feeling on your skin.

“Be careful,” Roderika stood in front of the place where she hid the cards so you wouldn't see their scattered state. Not that you would judge her, she just wasn't sure how you would react.

“Why did you say that?”

“I... I'm sorry,” she hesitated and sighed, “You can consider me superstitious. Or that I believe in non-existent things, but... I sometimes read cards. In general... Sorry, maybe I did a reading about your fate without your knowledge.”

“Oh, I see...” You paused, “And what did it show?”

It seemed your question calmed Roderika.

“Last time and right now, just before he left, I drew the same card,” she shrugged. The answer remained quite vague.

“And..?”

“Let's check how things go for you from now on. If everything aligns, then I'll tell you.”

You decided not to pry for an answer.

“If anything, I'm okay with it. And I already know that you read cards. You left me a card.”

“Ugh... I had already forgotten about that!”

You laughed at her embarrassed reaction.

“Need to take the flowers home. I would also like to go for a walk if I have the energy.”

“Take care. Have a good day.”

“Thank you. Likewise.”

From that moment on, the bouquet of peonies filled your somewhat empty apartment — it looked nice on the windowsill near your bed, soaking up the sunlight through the window. The only thing that was off was that you didn't have a vase, so a wide water pitcher was put to use.

You decided to take a walk to the nearest park — to stroll, think, breathe in the fresh air, and stop by the store on the way back.

Despite the crowded weekend, you still managed to find a nice spot by a tree near the lake. There was a quite beautiful view of the water's surface, reflecting the sun's glimmers; they danced across the water, bouncing light onto the green grass. You leaned against the tree trunk, stretching your legs out in front of you; occasionally, people walked by along the edge of the lake, which was lined with a brick path, but they didn't bother you much, and you didn't pay them much attention either—passersby didn't even notice you. You were sitting, immersed in your thoughts. While nostalgically recalling Devin, you decided to write to Darian and Sellen to find out how they were doing, but neither of them was in a hurry to respond, and while it was quite typical for Darian, Sellen, who usually replied very quickly, made you wonder if something had happened to her.

You were watching the people passing by when a surprisingly familiar figure pulled you out of your thoughts; you even squinted to make sure you were seeing correctly. A person was quickly approaching, and you recognized none other than Ansbach, dressed in light sportswear and deciding to go for a daytime run. Of all people, you wouldn't have taken him for someone who actively engaged in sports, although even in work clothes, it was always clear that he was fit enough to suggest he didn’t sit still much. Your gaze fell on his leg, and you saw that his ankle was bandaged. Should he even be running at all? Ansbach ran past you on the path opposite, seemingly not noticing, and you watched him with a respectful gaze — you yourself wouldn't dare to undertake such feats on a rare day off. I wonder, did he do this on weekdays too?

Half a minute later, when you had already torn your attention away from him and he had disappeared from sight, you unexpectedly heard his voice from the side.

“Hello. Sorry, I didn't notice you right away,” Ansbach approached from the side and, holding a water bottle in his hand, lowered his head in greeting, “I thought it was worth coming back to say hello.”

“Hello,” you nodded in response, “I didn't know you were into sports.”

“Well, I try to keep myself in shape. Others would say I'm already old enough to start worrying about my knees,” he laughed, and you waved him over, inviting him to sit next to you on the grass.

He stood for a short while and caught his breath, then he accepted your offer after all.

“Are you really allowed to run?” you looked questioningly at his bandaged leg.

“Yes, thank you for your concern. It's an old injury, it doesn't bother me much anymore. This one is just a parting gift from Caelid,” he noted with a smirk.

You froze.

“You were… stationed there?”

“Yes, for a rather short period. Until I was redirected from there with these same injuries. I was taking shrapnel out of my own leg while the young guys next to me were bleeding to death. I didn't last more than three months.”

You stiffened with surprise and sat for a short time, watching the people and the ducks that had flown to the lake.

“Varré never told you anything…”Ansbach's voice grew more serious.

“What exactly?” you tensed.

“That we served together. That he lasted a lot longer in Caelid than I did,” his knuckles turned white as his fingers clutched the bottle, “He sent me home and stayed there to stitch up guys, only so he could watch them die in that putrid filth later. That's where Mohg found him. A ghost with a scalpel, who tried to suture dying people and moved to the next one when they died mid stitch.”

Yes, a lot of things made sense now, but you still looked at Ansbach with surprised eyes. He held onto his knee and wrinkled his face in pain.

“It's going to rain tomorrow again, it seems,” he said quietly, looking at the clear sky.

The ducks flew away from the pond, rustling their wings. Ansbach's hand rubbed his barely trembling ankle. It reminded you of the way Varré tried to calm his own tremor.

“He's... familiar with a lot of things. Especially he taught himself that some bodies exist to save others,” he abruptly rose back to his feet. The crown of the tree cast light shadows on his angular face, “Such is your mentor. I often don't know what's left of him myself.”

Where he had been sitting, the grass had already risen back up, as if he hadn't even been here. All that remained of Ansbach's presence was a slight breeze and what he had told you. You plucked a long blade of grass from the ground and used two fingers to tear it in half, the tip of it touching your wrist and tickling your skin.

Caelid... a godforsaken place, remembered only by war and an outbreak of scarlet rot. Countless people were buried beneath its rotting soil and beyond; those who passed it on their way east said that the still sweet-smelling odour still lingered in the local landscape.

You kept pulling blades of grass out of the ground and tearing them in half. General Radahn. They say he did die during that war, but no one has ever confirmed it. Malenia... She was beautiful in the pictures before the war. What was taken out after the outbreak only looked like an incoherent, meaningless doll. Rumour has it that she's still alive. You thought she had a brother... But you weren't sure if your memory wasn't failing you. What was his name?.. Two blades of grass came out of the ground at the same time. Ansbach and Varré... Is this the fate of ordinary people?

When you got up from the ground, you felt your legs actually stiffen.

The laden bags dropped to the kitchen table with a thud. Your hands trembled with tension — are you sure you'll have time to eat it all?

Your gaze fell on a bouquet of peonies. You couldn't stop thinking about what Ansbach had told you. Was that really the reason for Varré’s cold mind? Was that why he was so quick to do things that could be considered callous?

But still. What was he hiding in OR4?

It was as if a light bulb went off in your head at that moment. You quickly pulled out from the drawer the letter you received after your first visit to the clinic. Unfolding it and rereading the lines written inside, you pondered. Occasional help in the work of the fourth operating room… Did that mean you had the opportunity to get in there with your pass? Or was it a way to lure you in? Perhaps it was a promise? Is there a chance that you are just imagining all of this? On the other hand, you are indeed assigned most of the surgeries in the third, as stated in the letter.

Should you try to go in there?

Or did Darian give you good enough advice?

How much “or”…

You tossed the letter onto the kitchen table. Your gaze fell on the white pass lying where you had thrown it yesterday.

“Nobody will blame me for trying, right?” you whispered, not taking your eyes off the plastic.

Or will you truly not like what you see there?

Rogier, 15:48
 Hi. Can we meet tonight? I want to talk to you about something.

You read the message. Why was he writing so seriously?

You, 15:48
 Yes, of course. Will my place be okay?

Rogier, 15:49
 Yes. I'll be right there. Just tell me the exact address.

Half an hour later, to your surprise, Rogier was already at your door. Was he in the neighbourhood? Was it on purpose? A heavy foreboding, which you could not explain and hoped was only a figment of your fatigue, did not leave you.

He looked... Concerned. As tired as you were, but there was something inexplicable in his expression that he tried to hide behind a mask of habitual joy. You were still glad to see him. He immediately asked to sit down, and you waved towards the bed. You and Rogier sat down on the edge, and you looked him over, puzzled. He clutched the folder hard in his hands, and you, praying you were wrong, thought of the folders you saw often in the hands of patients and doctors at the clinic. You've rarely seen Rogier so lost.

“What's wrong?” you put your hand on his shoulder. He was silent, unable to squeeze out a word, “Please... don't be silent. I can see something has happened.”

“Yeah, I just... I'm not sure how to say it right.”

“You can show me. It's in the folder, isn't it?”

As he closed his eyes and sighed heavily, as if trying to calm himself, you realised that what he was going to say might be harder than the news of Devin's death.

He just held out the folder to you. You hesitantly ran your trembling fingers along its sharp cold edge, then opened it and pulled out the contents. White sheets of analyses, followed by black X-rays, dark as void. You switched on the light on your phone and shone it through so you could see it better.

And immediately regretted doing so because your heart skipped a beat and you thought it had stopped altogether. The longer you looked at the x-ray, the more you thought you were dreaming.

“Please... Just don't cry...” He was broken, looking at how much your hands started to shake.

“Is this a joke?”

Rogier was silent, and you could feel yourself starting to panic.

“Rogier?”

He shook his head, raising his gaze to you. Tears were quietly rolling from your eyes. There was a large root near his heart, and it looked like a big bulb fused to the left wall of the organ and preventing it from beating properly. You couldn't imagine how much pain he was in. One of the roots was sticking out, penetrating the ventricle. Although, if you look closely... Not just any root. It was like a parasite eating everything from the inside out. It was like that microscope was in front of your eyes…

“Why did you hide this from me?! Do I mean less than Darian? This has obviously been going on for a long time!”

“I didn't want to hurt you! I know how hard you're trying to become a doctor. I know how painful it is for you to realize that you won't be able to help.”

You lowered your head blankly. It felt like it was just another nightmare, like you were dreaming and would wake up with a pain in your head, except it wasn't ending. You put the phone and the X-ray next to your pillow, forgetting about the torch. You felt your head start to spin, losing you in space, you tried to calm the feeling by rubbing your temples with your fingers. The fatigue came on abruptly, becoming three times stronger than it had been before. Was this not a dream? Why? Why is all this happening? Why did everything go downhill sharply after such a crushing start? First Devin. Devin was in pain. Devin was hurt for a very long time, very bitterly. Now Rogier?

How long was he planning on hiding it? Did you mean nothing to him?

No, no. This is completely stupid. It doesn't make any sense!

“How long ago?”

“Even before the first year of university.”

“Six years?..”

Six years... What was it like to hide it for six years? You looked bitterly into his eyes, and he looked at you exactly the same way, as if you were looking into a reflection. For six years he has been around and laughed with you while this… thing grew inside of him. Six years of lectures, shared coffee and secrets - all poisoned by his silence.

“I didn't think we would become this close. And then I got scared. I got scared because you've become like family to me.”

Fear... Yes. You were well aware of that. You were scared too, for many reasons. Rogier was like a kitten; small, scared and lost.

“How do you feel?”

“Like a wire is in my chest. And it pains me to breathe. Forgive me.”

“Don't apologize, you fool. I'm the one to blame for everything.”

“No. It's not your fault.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks. You moved closer to him and hugged him tightly, his shirt scratching your cheek, smelling of books and flowers. Rogier responded by snuggling closer, as if you were about to disappear. His heart was beating at the wrong rhythm. No. It's not going to end like it did with Devin. You're a lot closer to being able to do something about it this time. Oh, how you wished you'd become a doctor a little sooner.

“I'll find out what can be done. But you must promise me something,” you whispered, “You'll agree to the surgery. Please, don't make me force you. I promise I'll do everything possible. Maybe there's still a chance. I can't mess up like I did with Devin. I'll ask to schedule the appointment as soon as possible.”

“I don't have much time left…”

You pulled away from him and took him firmly by the shoulders, forcing him to focus on your face. He was crying, too.

“Shh. If you trust me, you'll listen to me. When you suddenly feel unbearable pain — call an ambulance and tell them to take you to our clinic. Then immediately call me. Promise me.”

“I… I promise. But who will operate? Nobody in their right mind would do that.”

“Varré. He is the only one who won’t flinch.”

Rogier frowned incredulously.

“That butcher of yours? What if he refuses?”

“I'll be his nightmare until he says yes. I'll do anything to get him to say this.”

Chapter Text

In the darkness of the room, the laptop screen glowed faintly, illuminating her focused face. Dark hair had escaped from her bun, carelessly falling over her eyes, causing her to periodically push it back. Sellen, as if hypnotized, didn’t even check the time, just continued digging deeper until someone noticed the account theft.

“Damn Seluvis, how far did you hide this?” she muttered, hoping she wouldn’t be caught. In front of her was a pile of information, in which, like in a haystack, she needed to find the tiniest needle — what she had worked on for a long time and what had been taken from her. Sifting through articles, password-protected research papers, letters, excerpts, Sellen tried to find something useful, feeling as if someone was already breathing down her neck, about to discover her audacious intrusion into the Research Center's defenses.

Fingers clicked rapidly on the keyboard. Sellen almost missed something important… Fortunately, her brain was working too fast for her not to notice.

“Wow…” she lowered her feet to the floor, sitting up straight in the chair, “What do we have here?”

She leaned closer to the monitor with interest — the chair creaked as it barely moved.

A password. They were unlucky that her brain was tuned for programming. The main thing was that it didn’t turn out that Seluvis decided to work in the middle of the night.

The girl opened the article. A surprised gasp filled the room — what she had been looking for finally appeared as a link to her unnamed work in this lengthy article. Sellen frowned discontentedly, scanning her gaze over the text.

“You stole my model for… cryostasis? Are you kidding me?”

Her gaze caught on the names and titles flashing across the page. This was not just an article, but an entire project; letters, links, a mountain of links to various studies, it was all here, and it was all purely medical. How did they manage to integrate her model, which was not designed for medicine? And why such a long study on cryostasis? Is there even a chance that it works?

The only one who ever achieved even initial success in studying this issue was Miquella, but he disappeared as quickly as he appeared in the news circles. Sellen wasn't even sure if she was mistaken or not.

Sellen immersed herself in studying the article.

“Oh, my princess, you're going to love this...”

Among all the information, she found a cooperation agreement between the Center and the clinic where you worked. The text of the agreement made it clear that there were reservoirs located somewhere in the clinic, and not just one, for which all this research was conducted.

In the summary table she unfolded under the next paragraph on the study, there was information about the effects of cryogenic solutions on human organs. Sellen didn't dare to delve into the details; it became much more important for her to understand what was happening between the clinic and the center.

The enormous turnover rates of organs what was she discovered deep into the links of the system before the connection was severed and the recording on the flash drive stopped.

“Shit,” her phone screen instantly lit up. She shifted her gaze to fearfully notice that it was Seluvis who decided to invite her for a tea.

Since the day Rogier shocked you with the news, enough time has passed for the initial shock to wear off and give you space to reflect on the available options for help. The day after his visit, you immediately contacted Thiollier — he was still thanking you for your assistance and promptly responded to your request; for the entire following week, you met in the laboratory after shifts, where he showed you all the developments and brought you up to speed on the ongoing research, of which there were indeed many, but one specific project caught your interest the most, as it could be beneficial to you.

Fatigue gradually set in, only increasing each day in proportion to your work, but you tried to put all your remaining energy into making sure it didn't affect any surgery.

You looked at the clock with resignation. Your lunch had just started, and you were already hurrying to the neighboring building. You and Thiollier decided to use all the time you could spare — you told him about the situation with Rogier, to which he responded with sympathy and expressed a desire to dedicate even more time to the laboratory.

When you entered the cool laboratory, Thiollier was already sitting at the microscope.

“Oh, you're finally here,” the glass clicked as he switched modes and turned to you, “How's it going?”

“Not bad,” you sat down next to him. Somehow, you quickly found common ground — unlike with Varré, it was very easy to communicate with Thiollier, “It seems that after lunch, we won't be left in peace.”

“What's going on, an operation?”

“Yeah, quite a big one... That guy has a root near his lung. And I have no experience in cutting it out,” You frowned in dissatisfaction, recalling the unrestrained... enthusiasm with which Varré described what was prepared for you.

“Oh… I'm pretty sure he'll be fine. Just don't cut anything you shouldn't…” he leaned back comfortably in his chair.

“Thanks for the support,” a barely noticeable chuckle came from Thiollier, “I really don't know how to do that.”

“Me neither. But if you succeed, we can run tests on it. Oh, by the way,” his lab coat rustled as he got up and walked towards the refrigerator. He took out a vial and a folder with documents from the nearby cabinet. He carefully placed all of it on the table in front of you, “There are two pieces of news. One good and one bad.”

“Let me guess — where do you I want you to start?”

“Don't laugh at me,” sometimes you couldn't tell if he was genuinely upset or not... “The good news is that this here might be a new… medicine? The bad news: it's quite possible that the harm it does is no less than the benefit, and it would be good to test it on someone.”

You looked curiously at the vial; inside, the liquid is yellowish, and you already knew in advance that it tasted bitter. If it can even be drunk at all.

“Well, how do we test it?”

“We need living cells, so a simulation on organs outside the body won't work anymore. Ideally, we need someone who still has a root inside, but... How should I put it... In general, terminal?”

You looked at Thiollier, and the fact that his face reflected that he didn't want to do this calmed you.

“This is the most suitable environment. Too healthy people might suffer if the composition turns out to be too toxic for other organs... Do you understand? Don't think I'm some kind of monster...”

“I understand you. But we don't have time to look for such a patient and also get their consent.”

“I know!” he exclaimed and immediately fell silent, “... Sorry. I'm trying to come up with something, considering that we need to solve something with your friend quickly.”

You sighed.

“Thank you...” you noticed the microscope, under which a black sludge was writhing on the glass, “But how is this medicine supposed to work?”

“Theoretically, it should draw the infection to the surface, stopping active infection. In cases where the root has grown in deeply, it should destroy the active cells and reduce the area of damage. It definitely won't remove the outgrowth that's sticking into his heart, but it should be able to dissolve part of the liquid and hardened growth. If the infection is spreading through the limbs, it can be injected... theoretically, again. So far, we've only tested it on donor and incubated organs.”

“Wow...” you seriously pondered. Finding a patient... with such requests seemed quite complicated.

“I have concerns that this liquid will destroy the walls of the organs. It has a bold composition, and I'm not entirely sure how to apply it in the case of a living patient... Rather, how to organize it all. I think you understand...”

“So the operation, in a good way, is done in two steps: first cutting out the root and sewing everything up, and then injecting a drug to clear the organs of liquid contamination?”

“Yes,” Thiollier nodded.

“The sludge will move through the tissues to the outside and suck up the infection while destroying the crust.”

“Yes...”

“And how do we collect it? We can't keep the patient alive and open on the table the entire time.”

“That's my question.”

Your head was starting to hurt a little.

“And did the organs not get destroyed in the tests?”

“Fifty-fifty. In some cases, the walls were eaten away, in others, they weren't. You can't predict it.”

“And how realistic is it to simply transplant donor organs?”

“The infection will still remain in the cells and blood and will grow back. You'd better ask Varré about the probability of death,” he shrugged, “I'm not a surgeon, after all.”

“I'm afraid I already know his answer... Let's think about where to find a person for the test. Or maybe how to test this thing differently,” you carefully took the ampoule and looked at it in the light, “We'll meet in the evening anyway.”

“Alright... And what about your patient today?”

“Well, theoretically, it's not fatal,” the ampoule quietly returned to the table, “Based on the X-ray.”

“Too bad,” he quickly covered his mouth with his palm, “Oh. Not in that sense! Alright, go and forget it. You won't have time for lunch.”

You smiled. He was still somewhat amusing.

You returned to the office and, not noticing anyone at first, wanted to turn on the light, but as soon as your hand reached for the switch, you caught a glimpse of a familiar figure out of the corner of your eye. Varré was quietly sleeping, with his arms folded on the table and his head resting on them; there was something incredibly exhausted in his posture that made you want to occupy the couch and quickly skip the workday. By the way, why hadn’t he taken it? You watched for a moment as his shoulders subtly moved with his even breathing; his hair had come loose and lay messily over his forehead.

You quietly walked to your desk and took a container of food out of your bag. Thoughts consumed you; about how you needed to hurry and think of a way to help Rogier, and in between, Ansbach’s words about what they had experienced in the past crept in. Since that day, you hadn’t brought up the topic once— yes, you were curious, but you had no intention of asking Varré or Ansbach himself anything. You were content with what you had to deal with in your routine. It wasn’t to say that you understood Varré much better, but some of his habits were certainly explained by that conversation, as well as why the slightest delay from other people annoyed him so much. He must have been used to relying only on his own speed?

The day after you saw Rogier’s X-ray, you approached Varré with a plea that he will take the operation upon himself if necessary; for you, it was a heavy gesture that you made solely out of a lack of choice. You still didn't know what he was really capable of. Your amazement knew no bounds when he agreed to it, and so quickly too. “Alright,” he said then. “But I am not responsible for your decisions. Remember that if things don't turn out the way you want.” His words might have seemed harsh to you, but you couldn't blame him for it, because when it came to such a diagnosis, even a professional like him could be powerless. But for some reason, you really believed that he could save him.

Believed or were you just trying to convince yourself of it?

Will it end the same way it did with Devin? You need to find a way to implement the medicine. You have to do it.

“I’ve never seen someone chew salad so seriously.”

The crunch of the cucumbers stopped when you looked up at him. You didn’t notice when he woke up.

“You have something on your face,” you swallowed and nodded in his direction, mentally pointing to his cheek.

“What?”

“The patient’s diagnosis is printed on it.”

“Yeah, with your name. A tumor of humor,” he stretched unhappily, glancing at the time.

“You are so funny...” you grumbled as you finished your salad.

If you had known that in a few hours, when the shift was supposed to be coming to an end and you and Varré were still standing there trying to stop the uncontrolled blood loss in the patient and were on the verge of an argument, you wouldn't have gone to work at all.

You helped with carefully extracting the root, trimming the hardened ‘bulb’ at its base, working at the same pace as Varré. To say that you were nervous was an understatement, and thank God your hands weren't shaking, but your heart was still racing in your chest.

By the time the root could be extracted, you realised that you weren't just going to get out of here easily.

“Fuck…” Varré was barely tolerating the warming feeling as he cradled the root. The black tendrils spread across the blue latex, pulsing, but never making direct contact with his skin. Your gaze jumped from his hands to the upper part of the root that was still connected to patients lungs in a sick rot embroidery, “This shit is so fused to the aorta it's almost replaced it.”

“What do we do?”

“I have no fucking idea,” You’ve never seen so much hesitation in his posture before. A beat of silence — too long than it was needed — and he sighed, quickly thinking through the situation, “Cut it layer by layer. Cut flush to the root and stitch the defect.”

You bent over the body. Thin but firm lines connected the root and the aorta, merging into one. How do you even do that?

When you made the first incision, you felt it. The threads trembled. Varré quickly lowered his gaze to the thing he held in his hands. It was beating like a second heart, and its first, unexpected blow made your hand tremble for the first time in all evening. The scalpel had gone in too deep, cutting through not only the threads but also the rest of the healthy wall, and then everything fell away like a snowball; veins suddenly dissolved into black sludge, exposing holes in the lungs and a tear in the aorta, blood began to spill uncontrollably outwards, flooding the insides of the patient.

“Fucking hell!” he threw the root into the biohazard container, “Suture it up now!”

You quickly grabbed the needle driver .

First stitch. Too deep. Another one — not deep enough. Come on, get it together, you thought. Your glove melted under the black mass; hand stung from contact. Varré could see, out of the corner of his eye, how many mistakes you did; suture went ragged, hands trembled.

The blood flowed nonstop, and you realised… This was the end.

“That's it, stop,” his words were quiet but firm.

The heart monitor was showing a straight line. Blood drops started dripping down on the floor.

You closed your eyes.

It was absolutely unbearable.

You didn't have the strength anymore.

Taking two steps back after a few seconds, you pulled off your gloves, sending them into the container to the root, pulled off your medical apron, and silently stepped into the first room to wash your hands.

Varré contacted the workers to have them pick up the body. His thoughts were preoccupied with you.

He cut you off a little later, and by his posture, it was clear that he was displeased with you; arms crossed over his chest, he watched you for a moment before speaking, emotions barely contained.

“Why did you hesitate?” he was irritated, no, even angry with you, and it pushed you to your limits in response.

“I didn't—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he stepped closer, “You were trembling like a child. Is that how you behave over a patient?”

He grabbed your hand painfully — his palms was no longer gloved — and, turning off the water, he sharply pulled you towards the exit.

“Hey, what the hell?!” you indignantly tried to break free, tugging your hand towards you, but all you achieved was more pain.

“Be quiet,” he shut you up. This time, he was not going to tolerate your objections.

You quickly followed him, enduring his iron grip on your wrist. Varré led you into another, empty operating room and told you to wait and not move from your spot, then quickly left, closing the door behind him. You waited, nervously pacing back and forth, tracing circles around the perimeter of the room. After a few minutes, Varré returned, carrying a container with heart. He placed it on the table, took out a stand and tools, first making sure to get the new gloves.

“What do you want?” you asked, frowning.

“Come here,” he snapped. Not seeing any agreement from you, he added, “Do not resist. A lesson is in order.”

Under his persistent gaze, you approached the table. The doors behind you were locked from the inside, although you were sure that hardly anyone would come in until tomorrow.

“We'll stitch it up until the result is at the very least decent,” Varré pulled out a pig's heart and made incisions. You felt as if you had returned to the starting point — the same situation, but only the context was different, and now before you stood not a stranger, but a person who evoked countless mixed feelings in you.

You sighed and put on gloves as well, took the cold tools in your hands, while inside you a nervous, irritated fatigue was raging. You wanted to quickly get rid of his anger and calmly go rest, because you absolutely didn't want to endure his teachings.

“Forty-five degrees.”

“Why not—”

“Because I told you so, lambkin,” he stood behind you and took your hands in his, “Do you really have such a short memory span that you forget the basics?”

You tensed up, but surrendered to the force of his hands and allowed him to correct your grip and position. You began to sew the cut, but your emotional state didn't allow you to do it as successfully as you had before. Varré didn't step far away, standing behind you and watching your work, and this time, he was dissatisfied; the stitches were intermittent, erratic, crooked… Why weren't you listening to him? He seized your hands again, stopping your work. You felt his breath on your neck, sending shivers down your skin. When he inhaled, his chest almost touched your back.

“Focus. Or I will make you.”

His voice was right next to your ear. The warmth of his body pleasantly resonated with you through his closeness.

Focus while he holds your hands in his and is so close? Was that even possible? His firm fingers confidently held your palms, those very fingers from which you couldn't tear your gaze away? Heart, focus on the heart. It doesn't matter that your hands fit so well in his. Forget about it and work.

“Gods, are you really going to stitch up your friend like this? If so, I should think about how to keep you away from the operation.”

His statement hit you like a provocation. You flinched, dropping the tools from your hands and turned to face him — your elbow brushed against the tray, and scalpels, along with other instruments, clattered loudly to the sides and on the floor, hitting the corners of the table on their way. In the hand you leaned on, you felt a burning pain that made you gasp and draw it closer to your face — a painful cut remained on your palm, from which blood immediately began to flow. You clenched your hand in pain, and the blood flowed even more.

“Don’t pretend like you care whether he survives or not!”

Varré stood just as close, his unreadable emotions fixed on the blood running down your palm. A couple of red drops fell loudly to the floor.

You watched his face closely; how his pupils barely widened, his brows furrowed, his snow-white eyelashes trembled when he blinked. Have you already mentioned that when his hair became less neat by the end of the day, he became more… attractive and alive?

“... You clumsy idiot…”

Varré took you by the wrist and brought your hand to the light. The blood glimmered under the lamps.

“Fix it,” your voice was stern.

He raised his gaze to you, questioning your words. There was such a deafening silence around. You liked the touch of his hand, even though your palm was pierced with pain.

“Do you want me to fix you?”

He released your wrist and slowly pulled off your glove; the blue latex was torn just like your skin, smeared with scarlet liquid. The damaged protection fell somewhere to the floor. He pressed his finger against your cut and you instinctively pulled your hand away. Yours and his fingers were in your blood.

Not taking your eyes off him, you opened your palm again and reached for his face. With the tip of your finger, you touched his lips and traced down to his chin, smearing your blood across skin. Yes, the scarlet color was definitely made for him. Varré’s breath slightly faltered; he looked at you hungrily, his gaze was fixed on your lips. You didn't feel it, but his heart had picked up a wild rhythm; he was hypnotized, completely astonished and stirred by your action.

He stepped forward, making you press your lower back against the operating table — the corner dug painfully into your back, but you didn't care; with his free hand, he grabbed you by the waist, your hands flew to the lapels of his doctor's coat, staining it with blood, and pressing against each other in a heated fit, you finally kissed. It was like the final word in your mutual fatigue and irritation.

His lips were softer than you might have thought at first glance; they were pleasant to kiss, and you didn't deny yourself the pleasure of running your tongue over them. Varré enjoyed the little taste of blood, revelling in it and responding with the same passion and desperation with which you surrendered to him; he was pulling you closer, his hands gliding over your body, leaving you breathless.

The anger from his words still hasn't let you go. In the moment, you ran your tongue along his lower lip, caught it with your teeth, and bit hardly into it — he flinched, blood flowed, mixing with your saliva and adding a stronger taste of iron to the kiss. But this did not disturb him at all; on the contrary, it was as if this action only fueled his desire... Just like yours. Varré could barely pull away from you so you both could catch a short and needed breath.

“Satisfied now, my lambkin?”

He looked at you with a drunken gaze: slightly out of breath, he had lost so much composure in your presence for the first time, and it was now clear that he was not as complicated as he tried to seem. Your lips were stained with blood, and it was unclear anymore whether it was yours or his. You grabbed Varré by the neck, pulling him back to you.

“No. Do it properly.”

You, unlike him, were breathing hard, but you didn't pull away from the kiss anymore as if you were possessed; tongues glided over each other, quiet sighs and moans escaping your mouths, combining into a single excited sound. You couldn't get enough of him and didn't want that moment to end, pressing against him with the greed of a hungry person. With your healthy hand, you reached for his hair, not resisting the desire to pull the elastic off and bury your fingers in his curls, gripping the hair at the roots — your actions had an immediate effect, and he quietly but longingly moaned in pleasure. You should remember this.

Until this moment, you hadn’t suspected that you truly wanted all of this, but as you kissed him, you realized that you hungrily needed everything, and it didn’t matter whether it was right or wrong. Maybe you were just trying to convince yourself? Definitely not, because the desire to continue was too strong.

All mixed feelings towards this man eventually piled up on each other. But the only truth was that…

“You are so annoying,” you whispered against his mouth. Your breath was too hot on his lips. He smirked. His stubble barely tickled your skin, “You and your attitude towards me. Like I'm a stupid child for you. And your fucking jokes are annoying too.”

You touched your lips to the corner of his mouth.

“Such a bold statement. Did I give you any reason to think so, my dear? If my prescriptions don’t suit you, you can always leave.”

You laughed quietly. What a liar he is.

“You wouldn’t just let me go.”

“Perceptive.”

He took your chin and made you look him in the eyes. Dark, sweet feeling arose from submission deep within you.

“We are now birds of the same feather. You know what I do, and I know what you can do. After all, we look at the patients together, it's just that our priorities are... a bit different.”

“Priorities? You should consider whether you've brought the wrong priorities from the battlefield.”

His eyes darkened dangerously, and his fingers tightened around your jaw, making you wince in pain.

“Do not threaten me. You are in no position to.”

“And what will you do to me? Will you scold me?”

He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. Varré leaned in and left a slow kiss on your lips.

“Let's not think about who will do what to whom, hm? We can handle things pretty well together, don't we? Let’s keep up this good pace.”

His palm on your face relaxed slightly. You noticed that it hadn't trembled all this time.

“… You're always hiding something.”

“And you're always wanting to poke your nose everywhere.”

He let you go, taking a step back; you wanted to bring his hands back to your body and kiss him again, but Varré had already turned away and moved to the cabinet, retrieving something from it. He returned to you with bandages in hand. He took out a clean needle and thin threads, pulled a chair closer to you, and urged you to sit down.

“Give me your hand. And don't wave it around like that next time.”

He quickly dealt with stitching up your cut—it was deep enough to ignore and just cover with a band-aid. A dirty scalpel lay among other tools on the floor, stained with your blood. Varré’s touch on your hand felt almost weightless, almost tender, but you weren't fooling yourself — there could be no tenderness or care between you. You were just dancing around each other, playing cat and mouse with secrets and keeping quiet about things others didn't need to know.

The feel of stitching on your hand without anesthesia was far too unpleasant.

“All done. You'll have to endure the pain at work, but you asked for it.”

“I'll survive.”

“I like the way you think, lambkin.”

As you watched him put away the tools, a thought crossed your mind; perhaps it was crazy, perhaps it was insane, but this very idea in your head suggested the quickest solution to the problem of testing the ampoule that Thiollier had shown you. The clock already indicated it was time for you to go to the lab, and you were determined to do everything you could.

Whether your idea was reasonable or not, you didn't even think about it.

“If it bothers you in any way...” He braided his hair back into a ponytail, “It's not your fault what happened. That shit would have killed him, one way or another.”

To your shame, you no longer felt anything about it — you didn’t blame yourself for killing him, you no longer panicked, you no longer looked for any excuses. You just didn't care, really, like Varré probably didn't. And since when have you been like that?

“… What happened here means nothing. Don’t make it get to your head.”

He was definitely not referring to the surgery.

You didn’t say a word in response, just went and washed the blood off your face.

The only thing you decided to do before going to the lab was to ask Rogier how he was feeling, and his quick response only confirmed your intentions.

You found Thiollier in the same place he had been during lunch. The ampoule stood next to him, silently reminding of its danger.

“I know how to test it,” you said firmly. Thiollier looked at you in surprise before fully turning to face you.

“That was... quick,” he said in shock. His palm pressed against his knee.

“Rogier doesn't have much time to wait,” your wound was pulling uncomfortably. The pain echoed high in your shoulder. You opened the nearest cabinet to take out a sterile syringe. If Thiollier could, he would have paled even more at what he suspected you were about to do.

“Hey, you're not...” his long fingers wrapped around your wrist as he quickly got up, “No-no-no-no! Are you insane?! What are you—”

“Where is the safest place?” you pulled your hand out of his grip, and at that moment he realized he wouldn't be able to argue with you. He didn't want to take responsibility for your decision, but he also didn't want to condemn you to the fate of many patients. Frozen in panic, he watched as you preemptively opened the ampoule and drew a sample of the root from the microscope stand into the syringe.

Deep down, however, Thiollier understood your desperation as he knew the feeling all too well.

“... In the tip of the finger. From there, the infection will spread slowly, and, in the worst case, only after a few months—”

You injected the tip of your pinky on the same hand where a fresh stitch now adorned. The finger instantly darkened. Black translucent veins of infection crawled up to the phalanx, heat pierced the arm as if lava flowed inside instead of blood. You watched as it gradually crept upward until it stopped in the middle of the finger.

Were you crazy? Or was your situation so hopeless? What will you do next? Will you die on the operating table in six years, if you're lucky? You never thought that despair would lead you to such a decision.

It doesn't matter.

In Thiollier’s gaze, you saw only fear. It was the first time he witnessed how quickly the infection spreads immediately after entering the body.

“Inject the medicine,” you extended your hand to him. Thiollier sighed resignedly. His hands were shaking.

The medicine was administered almost painlessly; you felt only the heat and the constricting pain from the infection that tightened your palm.

“The infection will progress slowly from here. Theoretically, it will come out through the skin, but it will be painful. Probably... In the worst case, we might have to amputate your finger,” his hands trembled as he placed the syringe on the table, “Again, a finger is not a heart... I don't know if it will work the same way for your friend's operation. In the best-case scenario, after you cut out the root, you will need to inject the most affected area and then sew him up... But again, you need to somehow remove what will be sucked out...”

You looked at your pinky.

“We will sort it out,” you said, “The main thing is to cut it out, so that he stays alive.”

Thiollier barely nodded in agreement. Under his sad gaze, it became a little awkward.

If there were many different variations of medicine to save Rogier, you would infect your whole body and keep testing them.

“How long does it take to take effect?”

“By morning, everything will be resolved. If nothing comes out by then, it means that we need to cut.”

“I understand you. And if it does come out?”

“Then I’m not so stupid, and it works as I dreamed. Watch for any changes: nausea, organ pain, weakness, anything. And also...” he hesitated, “Varré will find out about this. He’ll be furious. What… should we do?”

“Nothing. It's none of his business.”

“But who will do the amputation? It’s not like we can inform Ansbach about it too?”

“Believe me, Varré will put me on the table himself to get rid of this when he learns what I did. The other question is how he will do it.”

Thiollier noticeably drooped.

“By the way, I won't leave until you answer my question.”

“Okay...?”

“What’s in the fourth?”

“I'll be killed if I tell you.”

“Don't worry. I can keep my mouth shut.”

“... Something that could ruin the reputation of this place if it’s found out. I'm begging you... don’t go there.”

Your finger burned. You clenched your palm. Hope that the plan would work flickered deep, deep in your soul.

Chapter Text

The finger hurt like hell when you woke up the next morning: it felt like it was pulsating, and the bandage you had put on before leaving the clinic had, fortunately, soaked through with black liquid. Your hand was burning, but the temperature of the rest of your body remained normal; there was no nausea, and thank God, the infection hadn’t spread up the finger and stayed at the same level, though it had turned very pale. You changed the bandage and carefully but thoroughly wiped off what remained on the phalanx, and the only thing that really bothered you besides your crazy act was the strong smell of decay coming from the dirty bandage. How the hell to hide it. You cautiously sniffed your finger, luckily, it didn’t smell that strong. You just had to keep it clean, right?

In the morning, you immediately headed to Thiollier’s lab to ask for his advice and assess the situation. When you saw him, you were taken aback: his sunken face seemed to have crossed a new threshold of paleness.

“Hi,” you approached him. Thiollier looked at you, and you almost wanted to pat him on the head to comfort him, he looked so miserable today. “Are you okay?”

“Are you kidding? I should be asking you that!” he jumped up abruptly. Now, to have a comfortable conversation with him, you had to look up. “How’s the finger? Show me quickly.”

You extended your hand, and he quickly but very carefully unwrapped the bandage with his overly thin fingers, afraid of accidentally causing you harm.

When he saw your finger, his face relaxed slightly. Carefully examining your skin, he turned your palm in the light.

“I thought I was going to lose my mind at night...” he sighed heavily. “You scared me with this... this. But I'm glad the ampoule seemed to help.”

“What next? Is it still going to flush out the infection?”

“Yes, I think it will. We'll give it another day, until evening. Please keep a close eye on it. If anything...”

“Amputate. I remember, don't worry.”

He let go of your hand and went to get new bandages. You needed to come up with an excuse in case Varré asked about your injury; not only did you have a cut on your arm that you had to endure through gritted teeth, but something else had appeared right after it.

“What are your plans for today?” Thiollier asked while carefully wrapping your finger, additionally padding it with cotton.

“I don't know yet. There's a morning meeting soon, then we'll see,” you shrugged. “I hope I can sit in the office with the paperwork...”

Thiollier remained silent, but you felt that he had something to say to you, and you weren't sure if it was worth probing — you were tired, and your strength was running low.

But there was also something you intended to do today, and you weren't planning to put it off. You just needed the opportunity.

At the morning meeting, Ansbach was unusually irritable, which made not only you but the rest of the department anxious— it was unclear what had caused his gloomy mood, but surprisingly, the only one who shared it was Varré. Clenching your injured hand in your coat pocket, you occasionally glanced in his direction. What was troubling them both? Unexpectedly for you, Varré fixed his gaze on your face, and you looked back at him from the other side of the table, but as memories of yesterday's... incident popped into your head, you immediately looked away, not noticing his barely perceptible smirk.

Not long after the meeting between you and Darian, an unpleasant conversation took place; you wanted to avoid it, but word for word, you both started to perceive each other defensively again, even though you promised not to argue — your discussion veered towards your agreement with Rogier, the operation, and who exactly would be performing it.

“Are you out of your mind?!” shock and anger blended in his voice through the phone, “Are you seriously going to trust him with the life of our loved one?!”

“Darian, you are the one who decided to hide everything from me! I'm trying to do everything I can, and I certainly won't listen to accusations directed at me!”

A terrible conversation that was and you didn’t want to replay all of it in your head. You didn't want it to turn out this way either, but nerves played their part — you couldn't remember the last time you weren't worried about something.

Work, focus on work. You need to sort everything out from your table, and then maybe everything will finally settle in your mind?

You reached for the folder...

Pain pierced your palm so sharply that you clenched it to avoid making a sound; squeezing it with your healthy hand, you prayed that Varré hadn’t noticed anything — it was foolish to hope for that, because his calculating gaze, barely landing on your figure, immediately calculated the pain from your tension.

“Are you okay?” he frowned, assessing your back with his eyes.

“… Yes…” you barely managed to squeeze out, trying to recover quickly. The sharp pain continued to throb in your palm.

The barely audible rustle of his clothes made you panic when you realized he was approaching you. He would definitely find out. He would find out, and it would be bad, very bad, because you understood that you would argue. Worse, much worse — he would do something to you that you clearly didn’t want. Varré came up to you and, placing a hand on your shoulder, pushed you to turn to face him. Blocking your escape, he nearly pinned you against the cabinet.

“Well?” he asked expectantly. You noticed how he frowned in confusion, as if trying to understand something; and he barely audibly sniffed. His gaze fell on your injured hand; you tried to hide the bandaged finger. Well, it seems you were done for.

Noticing your movements, he took your injured hand and lifted it to the light; your finger still burned painfully.

“What is this?” he shook your hand slightly to draw your attention to his question.

“I burned myself.”

“Oh, is that so?” he stared intently at your finger. “You should choose better who you try to deceive.”

Against your will, he began to unwrap the bandage; you tried to reclaim your hand, but he seemed to be infinitely stronger. Watching the bandage gradually loosen, you began to regret not lying and taking a sick day — why hadn’t this thought occurred to you earlier?

Varré nearly paled when he put the bandage in his pocket and examined your hand.

“What the hell is this?” he asked in confusion, not quite believing his eyes. You didn't believe your own eyes either: the fear and surprise reflected on his face were so clear for the first time, and you involuntarily lost all confidence in what you had done. He was genuinely scared, and if Varré was scared — it was frightening to imagine how bad the situation was, as you have never — ever — seen him scared. “You... where did you get this?”

He stared at you in shock. You remained silent, not knowing how to respond.

“I’m asking — where did you get this crap?” You turned your head away, as if trying to hide from him, feeling like a child being scolded, but, in fact, it was much worse. “It clearly appeared overnight. What did you do?”

What did you do? Really, what? It felt like you were doused in cold water.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. Don’t lie to me. What did you do?”

“Get off me! Why do you ca—”

“You are my responsibility and right now you are a walking biohazard in my workspace, therefore — I very much care, lambkin.”

You tried to break free again, but pain pierced your hand once more, and now you couldn't hold back a painful sob, closing your eyes and slightly bending over. Varré watched as your finger darkened before his eyes, covered with black veins that began to creep upward, enveloping almost all of your skin.

“Well? Quickly,” he urged you. You caught his anxious state, looking up at him pitifully. “Come on, lambkin.”

You hesitated.

“... Come on,” he said softly. You looked into his eyes in surprise — it sounded so sincere, you almost believed in the fact that there was something else except his cold pragmatism.

“I...” you tried to look anywhere but at him. “I... We... It was urgent to check.”

“Check what?”

“The effect... of the medicine.”

“What medicine?”

You didn't want to tell him.

“Lambkin?”

“... From the lab.”

The second you said that he understood what had happened. He knew what had happened because he knew a lot about you: you always thought the opposite, but Varré was a good observer; he knew how you thought, he knew your habits, and especially he knew that you... were simply kind? That's why you valued your loved ones so much, and that's why you were prone to making stupid decisions.

He would never admit that, deep down, he didn't want you to put yourself in such situations. He couldn't explain it himself.

“Do you even understand what you've done?”

“Yes.”

“No, you clearly don’t!” he snapped and abruptly released your hand. The barely perceptible sweet smell of decay still lingered in your nose, seeping through your skin. He recognized it among a million others. “Haven't you had enough of all the surgeries you've seen on this crap? Are you feeding yourself for the sake of… that friend of yours now? I imagined you were wiser.”

Varré began to pace slowly around the office, clearly contemplating something, while you stood in the same spot, unable to find the courage to step away even an inch.

“Did Thiollier put you up to this?”

“No, I did it myself.”

“What were you even thinking…”

What was the real reason for his anger? You knew that he should have been indifferent. So where did so much… involvement in this issue come from?

If only you knew how much any strong infection in a person's body truly repelled him and what memories it evoked... His hand began to tremble violently, but he tried to calm it down.

You raised your own hand closer to your face, horrified to catch how quickly the infection was creeping back up. Panic set in.

“Let's go,” he said firmly, pulling a pass from the drawer.

“Where?”

“I said let's go. You are not going to live with this shit.”

You quickly followed him, almost running up the stairs between the floors. Just in case, you hid your palm in your pocket. Once in the operating department, Varré confidently led you to a specific place.

You paused for a moment.

He unlocked the door to the fourth operating room and, noticing that you hesitated, looked back at you over his shoulder.

“Quit standing there. Or I’ll have to cut off your whole hand,” he said through gritted teeth and opened the door.

You hesitantly stepped inside. Is this really how you would end up here?

It was not an ordinary room: in fact, you had entered another corridor, which had several more doors, each of which was additionally locked, except for one at the end — it was propped up by something you couldn't see from afar. Despite this door being open, Varré led you to another place.

“Sit down,” he commanded.

The operating room was clean. Absolutely, frighteningly clean — not a hint of anything imperfect, as if it had been constantly cleaned, excessively so. Visually, it didn't differ from the others, but there was something about it that sent shivers down your spine. With your cotton, trembling knees, you approached the chair, and at its very edge, you suddenly wanted to flee from this place as quickly as possible. Was it the ringing silence, interrupted only by the clinking of instruments that Varré was preparing, or was it the way he looked so confident here — you didn't know, but catching glimpses of his movements made you feel so uncomfortable that your head was spinning. It was so cold here... Or was it your fear?

“I can't,” the lump quickly rose in your throat. You turned sharply; Varré didn't pay any attention. "Varré...”

“Sit down,” he insisted.

“Please...”

He turned halfway around and now… Now you were truly afraid of him.

“You should have thought about this earlier, my dear,” he nodded sternly towards the chair. “Sit down. I'll try not to hurt you this time.”

No, no, no, no. You can't...

He took a few steps towards you, grabbing your shoulders with both hands and seating you in the chair.

“Varré, please...” you whispered. “... I'm scared.”

And why were you afraid? Wasn't it you who locked yourself in this cage? Or did the realization finally clarify your thoughts?

He silently walked towards the door. It closed with a squeak behind him.

Your heart was pounding loudly in your ears. Tears slowly began to stream down your cheeks. Fear paralyzed your movements; you felt as if you were frozen; your finger had turned almost completely black. Why? Why didn't the ampoule work?!

While you were waiting, Varré went to the storage room further down the corridor. He didn't even notice that he hadn't fully closed the door opposite. Varré took the ampoules and syringe and, taking a deep breath, began to think about how to hide this excess consumption. Every time he was called to the gallery, it turned into an improvised show — surely the director suspected that he was blatantly lying, but as long as the surgeon provided results, he didn't ask questions. Or was he just too preoccupied for that?

When Varré returned, the first thing he noticed was your simultaneously frightened and empty eyes. You looked like a small, defenseless kitten. He almost felt sorry for you, but wasn't it your own foolishness that led to this situation?

He could have closed his eyes and let it all slide. So why did he decide to help you? Especially here, in this damned place where everything was accounted for?

Varré approached the chair and placed the ampoules and syringe on the stand, where he would later bring the tools and other necessary items for the operation. You looked up at him and noticed that his breathing had barely quickened. Was he worried about something? He took your cheek in his palm and gently ran his thumb across it, wiping away a tear — in a way, it calmed you, and this realisation felt infinitely unsettling. Why?..

What was he thinking about now?

“Turn your head away, my dear,” he removed his hand. In the cold of the operating room, the warmth of his palm felt almost familiar.

You did as he told you. Biting your lip, you focused on the pale wall.

“Varré...”

“What?”

He sounded irritated. You didn't say anything more.

A cold needle pierced your palm. Gradually, you stopped feeling it and lost the ability to move your fingers. Just in case, Varré secured your hand with a strap — the leather dug into your skin, leaving red marks. You had no intention of turning your head. You just wanted it to be over...

“Listen to me very carefully,” Varré began through clenched teeth, “because I won't repeat myself.”

The syringe clattered loudly onto the stand.

“If you want to be a test subject — fine. Coddling with fools wastes my time,” the scalpel glinted dangerously under the white lamps. You flinched slightly, “But. We work well together. That's good. And it proves to be useful.”

The metal touched your finger. You didn't feel it anymore, but still, turning your head, you met his gaze.

“So do us both a favor: stop trying to die before I'm finished with you.”

He was dangerous. Cold. But his eyes were very beautiful to you.

The unspoken truth hung in the air, saturated with antiseptic: you were more than just useful to him, and that frightened you both.

As soon as his hand began to guide the scalpel down, you quickly turned away. Emotions surged in your heart: fear, confusion about your own actions, the realization that you were now on the other side of a familiar boundary — you were sitting where your patients sat, and because of your own mistake, a finger was being amputated right now, while you were conscious. You bitterly thought, why did you do this? Of course, to make the possibility of saving Rogier a little more real.

You longed to go home. Home, or to Sellen, or to your mom, anywhere far away, so someone could tell you that everything would be okay, that everything would be fine. So someone could hug you and say that there was nothing to fear.

Somewhere where the suddenly started pulsing noise couldn't be heard. What was that, an exhaust? A generator? Where was that sound coming from?

You tilted your head back, trying to listen. Beside you, Varré was working quickly on your hand, focused on the infected flesh. Thank the Almighty that he brought anesthesia; otherwise, your life would have turned into a brief hell. He occasionally glanced at your tear-streaked face, but it slipped past your attention.

The sound was rhythmic, as if some machine was working, and it seemed to be coming not from the ceiling but from somewhere in the neighboring rooms. You only wondered about that sound once, when you came on your first day at the clinic.

Half an hour later, when Varré had bandaged your hand, and you stared at your palm with a heavy feeling in your stomach, the sound had almost ceased. The bandaged stump looked as if it was someone else's body, but not yours at all. How ironic. Not even a day has passed. How to work with this? How to explain to Ansbach what happened? So many questions that you couldn't find answers to... or didn't want to. You'll need to figure out how to hold the tools during the operations. Will Varre even allow you to use them?

Varré told you to sit in the chair until he returned, and at first, you obeyed, trying to overcome the growing feeling of nausea. You glanced at your hand just before he bandaged it — no trace of the deathroot, just like your finger, which quickly submerged in the liquid in the biohazard container.

It was bitter to realize that the “medicine” did not help at all. Perhaps, as Thiollier feared, it even made things worse, but you hoped that this infection was gone from your body once and for all. The hope of coming up with something to help Rogier crumbled as quickly as it had appeared. Is this really all you can do? Or do you still have a little time left? No, probably nothing can be done here anymore. You were exhausted and could only hope that something unimaginable would happen, something that would miraculously help your friend. 

Your legs went numb. You wanted to walk around. Where had Varré been for so long?

You got up from the chair and, after walking around the operating room, decided to take a look around when the noise returned.

Varré was taking longer and longer to come back.

After hesitating for a moment, you stepped out into the corridor inside the compartment. There was no one outside. Your gaze was drawn again to the ajar door, and only now did you realize that the noise was coming from there — close that door, and it would become much more muffled.

No, you shouldn't go there. You already felt weakened. The echoes of pain still lingered in your hand.

You had been curious for so long about what was happening here.

How bad would it be... if you took a look anyway?

How bad would it be for you if Varré found out? Surely he wasn't leaving something unsaid for no reason. Oh, he wouldn't like this.

Isn't a severed finger enough for you? Or have you completely lost your fear from stress?

The door quietly creaked open under your hand. Perhaps you were making a big mistake.

It was even colder inside than in the operating room — you felt it even before stepping inside. The room was dark. Taking a step inside, you noticed that the only light within came from a pale blue glow emanating from something.

Upon entering and getting used to the dim light, you realized why you shouldn't have come here.

They were arranged along the walls, three on each side and one in the dead end, and it was this that was the source of the pulsating mechanical sound: filled with golden liquid, in which you were presented with a rose on the first day, the tanks occupied most of the room. From here, you could already see what their contents were. To be more precise, not what, but who. Taking slow, frightened steps towards the tanks, you approached one of them, occasionally glancing back.

He was… almost perfect. His hair blended in with the surrounding color, his skin was flawlessly beautiful and the only blemish on it was the traces of red rot curling around his neck. He was ethereally beautiful, the almost childlike features of his face even in this state carried an innocence and a frightening peacefulness. On the tank, like a sticker on some artifact, was written his name. Miquella.

You had seen his name before. Sometimes you even tried to ask around, but many just looked away. Only Thiollier decided to respond at that time. He never mentioned any of… this.

Miquella became a hostage of his own creation, it seems.

But where did his clones come from?

You felt uneasy. Almost impossibly uneasy, as if each of these clones was watching your movements, observing with their lifeless eyes how you, as if you were truly the subject of experiments, incomprehensibly shifted your attention from one clone to another. Each of them was horrifying in its own way: one was completely infected with roots, another was covered in red rot, the third seemed to be stitched together from different limbs, the fourth… You didn't want to look at them longer than necessary. But only one of them was perfect, and he led — or perhaps completed — a series of tanks.

You were sure that he was the real one. It couldn't be otherwise, could it?

You looked at him as if enchanted, forgetting everything.

“I won't ask why you came here,” Varré’s voice sounded right next to your ear.

A couple moments later, you felt palms on your waist, pulling you back flush against his body.

“We both know you shouldn't be in this place, right, my lambkin?”

One of his palms moved away from your waist and returned a second later, clutching between his fingers a sharp scalpel gleaming in the semi-darkness.

You swallowed nervously, your soul at your heels. You found yourself at a dead end, the doors to the corridor seemed to have moved miles away from you, and Varré stood exactly in the way, separating you from salvation. You regretted always going along with curiosity. There was no turning back, and you both knew it. The scalpel touched your neck, and the other palm slid slowly from your waist to your stomach as Varré pulled you against his chest, hugging you tightly. Your heart is racing. What to do now?

“I am curious… How much do you need to see for the thought to finally sink into your fickle head that your curiosity borders on life, hm?”

You knew he really could take you and kill you right now and then carry you out the back doors and no one would ever hear from you again. He could forge your death certificate, he could hide the cause of death even physically on your body, he could cover his tracks and no one but Ansbach would ask a single question, and even then Varré would find a way to deal with it. You knew what he was capable of because you were too naive to help him in his dirty work. Thoughts tangled and floundered trying to think of something, while the scalpel, barely grazing the skin in the lightest of touches, let the tiniest drop of blood trickle down. It traveled towards your collarbones, leaving a scarlet trail in its wake; you saw how clone’s pupils dilated when they followed the red path. Varré leaned down and kissed the curve of your neck sensuously, running the tip of his nose along the soft skin. Your quickened breathing didn't escape his attention. The kiss sent a chill running down your skin; it was wrong, so, so wrong in this place and in this situation. Varré was a danger to you.

Then why… Why did you want him to do it again?

“Can you feel them watching you?” the scalpel glided along the edge of your shirt — the fabric parted like skin. “Every move you make.”

Varré’s palm possessively slid under your shirt and spread across your bare skin. Breath caught. Not just from fear — an inexplicable thrill at his control. The scalpel. His breath on your skin. A punch from the inside of the tank from one of the clones, provoked by the contraction of its half-dead muscles. From Varré’s thigh, pressed between yours. It was all so damn wrong. So why did your hips arch toward his touch?

“What... what... is all of this?”

Varré rested his chin on your shoulder.

“I warned you. that I can't just let you go from here now, right?”

Next time, you won't give in to your interest. Will you?

The finger burned as if it were still on your palm, but instead, there was only emptiness.

A drop of blood shattered on the floor. All the eyes in the room darted towards the stain, and only one, the purest of them all, was still asleep — the real Miquella that flowed in golden liquid like a drowned saint.

“Listen well,” Varré purred, gently stroking your stomach. “Now you are part of this ship. Obey me or you will become something inside them.”

Your eyes darted across the sewn body of one of the clones; you understood where the excess organs went, you understood why the accounting didn't add up. Now everything was clear to you, as clear as day: from this moment on, Varré tied the last thread to your body, and you would no longer take an extra step to the side.

“He already knows you're here,” he said seriously, but for some reason it no longer sounded like a threat. “Silence in the clinic. Lower your head and stay calm. And I will keep you out of the OR4. Mostly.”

You barely nodded. The clone stared at you intently, his dead, fish-like eyes reflecting nothing.

“But what... exactly are you doing here?” your voice was shaking.

He snorted, slightly releasing you and turning you face towards him.

“Skill maintenance.”

A lie. His shaking hand betrayed his words.

He placed his palm on your cheek. You silently, defeated, examined his face. Thoughts about what would happen next did not interrupt the fear of what you had seen.

Varré leaned in and gently kissed you. Not a threat — the final signature on your contract. When he stepped back, the real Miquella had already opened his eyes. He was watching. This lasted for a short time, just about half a minute, but his gaze weighed heavily on your shoulders and you could feel it with your back towards him. Then the tank buzzed, and he fell back into a long sleep, stained glass of the tank covered in thinnest ice. You weren't sure Miquella was even capable of thinking now.

“Let's repeat today's lesson, hmm?” Something seemed to pull you towards Varré... And it was impossible to resist. He looked at you expectantly.

“To obey you...” For the right answer, you received an approving smile as a reward. In the dim light, he looked so... “Say nothing. Pretend I don't know anything.”

The touch of his lips on your cheek felt almost innocent. A terrifying realization shot into your head — you were so drawn to him that you were ready to close your eyes to everything and give yourself to him. You were so, so attracted to his dominance, to his eyes, the way he held you and the way he made you feel. Conflicted. Excited. What did you have to lose anyway? 

“Good girl. I hope this settles well in your smart little head.”

When you left the operating room, the door closed behind you as if it were the last chance to turn everything back. You had almost lost hope for anything. A passing assistant glanced at you, noticing your lost state of shock. Varré did not follow you.

You couldn't know that, sitting on the floor across from Miquella, he was desperately trying to figure out how to fix everything. How to go back to that first day and say that you weren't suited for this job? To lie that you were talentless? With his trembling palm pressed against his chest, Varré couldn't understand why there was regret in his mind. Why, after everything, he didn't want you to get involved in this? What the hell did it matter to him? He had never been so unsure about anything. Why did he start to lose control?

“To hell with it,” he whispered to himself, closing his eyes, “whatever will be, will be.”

On your table in the office lay a white petal, half smeared with a scarlet substance. A note underneath bore a message written in calligraphic handwriting, and next to it lay an unidentified pass.

“Welcome to the family.”

Flipping the card over, you saw only three symbols on it — OR4.