Chapter 7 · Black Market Patch-up

"Stay still, or I’ll accidentally solder your optic nerve to your cheek," Doc snapped. He didn't look up from the mess of wires spilling out of my shoulder.

I hissed, my back pressed against a cold, grease-stained operating table that smelled like ozone and old blood. Every time Doc touched the exposed circuitry in my arm, a jagged spike of white noise screamed through my skull.

*Stop squirming, Vera. You're making the tremors worse,* Echo’s voice echoed in my head. It wasn't a sound; it was a vibration, a cold shiver that slid down my spine like ice water.

"Shut up," I muttered through gritted teeth.

"Who are you talking to, sweetheart?" Doc asked, squinting through a magnifying visor. "You’re glitching hard. I’ve seen corporate prototypes with better stability than this. Where the hell did you get this rig?"

"Found it," I lied. I tried to shift my weight, but my left leg gave a sudden, violent jerk, kicking a tray of surgical tools across the floor. The clatter echoed through the cramped basement, sounding like a gunshot in the silence.

Doc froze. He looked at the door, then back at me. "Found it? Please.