Chapter 26 · The Black Box Under Her Skin

The scalpel was cold against Ivy's ribs.

She'd done field surgery on a dozen soldiers with worse lighting and shakier hands, but this was different. This was her own skin. The scar tissue was old, maybe three years, maybe more. She couldn't remember getting it. That was the problem. She couldn't remember a lot of things, and the oldest version of Cole—the one with the dead eyes and the burn scar across his jaw—had told her exactly where to cut.

"Two inches below your left breast. Lateral. You'll feel the casing before you see it."

She'd asked him how he knew. He'd just looked at her the way all the Coles looked at her. Like she was already gone.

Outside the med tent, gunfire cracked in short, controlled bursts. Cole's voice came through the radio on her belt, calm and clipped. "Contact east. Four shooters. I'm good."

He wasn't good. Nobody was good when four shooters became eight, then twelve. But Cole had bought her time, and she wasn't going to waste it.

Ivy pressed the blade in. The skin split clean. Muscle memory took over—retract, expose, irrigate. Her hands didn't shake. They never shook.