"Hold him down or we both lose a hand!" Mira screamed, her voice cracking as she slammed her weight onto the boy's chest.
He wasn't even fighting. That was the problem. The seven-year-old was arched like a bow, his small throat vibrating with a sound that didn't belong in a human body. It wasn't a scream. It was a melody—perfect, haunting, and loud enough to rattle the rusted surgical tray beside them.
"He's popping! Mira, he's going to pop!" Nora shrieked, her hands shaking so hard she nearly dropped the restraints.
"Shut up and pull!" Mira snapped. She gripped the boy's jaw, forcing his head back.
Under the skin of his neck, something was moving. Not a pulse. Not a muscle. It looked like ink swirling under a thin layer of ice—thick, black veins branching out from his carotid artery, pulsing in time with the song. The Black Vein. The plague that turned your blood into a symphony and your lungs into a bomb.
"I can't do this," Nora whispered, her eyes wide with terror. "We have to burn him. The Warden said—"
"The Warden isn't in this cellar!" Mira barked. She reached for her scalpel, the steel cold against her sweating palm. "Now pull his arms back before he ruptures!"
Nora lunged forward, grabbing the boy's wrist. The moment she touched him, the song shifted. It went from a lullaby to a screech. A thin line of black fluid leaked from the boy's ear, steaming as it hit the cold stone floor.
"God, it's too late," Nora sobbed. "Mira, look at his eyes!"
Mira looked. The boy's pupils were gone, replaced by swirling voids of ink. He wasn't seeing her. He was somewhere else, singing for a crowd that wasn't there.
"Not today," Mira hissed.
She didn't have anesthesia. She didn't have a sterile field. She had a disgraced medical license and a blade that had seen too much blood. She positioned the edge of the scalpel exactly two centimeters above the clavicle.
Her hand shook. Just a millimeter.
"Dammit," she cursed, her breath coming in short, jagged bursts. "Stop shaking, Mira. Stop shaking."
"He's humming again," Nora whispered, leaning in. "Do you hear that? He's calling someone."
"I don't care who he's calling!" Mira yelled. "If I don't drain the pressure in the next ten seconds, he's going to explode and we're both going to be covered in infected ink. Now hold his shoulder!"
Nora jammed her elbow into the boy's shoulder. Mira leaned in, her face inches from the boy's. She could smell it now—the scent of old parchment and rotting lilies. The signature smell of the Black Vein.
She pressed the blade in.
*Squelch.*
Instead of red blood, a jet of thick, iridescent black fluid sprayed upward, splashing across Mira's cheek and into her hair. It felt hot. Too hot. Like liquid lead.
"Oh god!" Nora screamed, jumping back.
"Stay still!" Mira roared, though she was blinking through the black sludge. She didn't pull away. She pushed the blade deeper, twisting it to create a vent.
The song stopped abruptly.
The silence that followed was worse than the noise. The boy slumped, his body going limp, the black veins in his neck receding slightly as the pressure escaped. He gasped, a wet, rattling sound, and his eyes flickered back to a dull, human brown.
"Is he..." Nora started.
"Alive," Mira panted, dropping the scalpel. It clattered on the floor. She wiped her face with her sleeve, smearing the black ink across her skin. "But barely. Get the bandages. Now."
Nora didn't move. She was staring at the door.
"What?" Mira turned.
"Someone's here," Nora whispered.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor—heavy, rhythmic, and deliberate. Not the frantic pace of a nurse or the shuffle of a patient. This was the sound of someone who owned the floor they walked on.
Mira froze. She looked at the boy, then at the blood-stained floor, then at her own ink-smeared face. She looked like a murderer in a slaughterhouse.
The heavy iron door groaned open.
Light flooded the dim cellar, casting a long, oppressive shadow across the room. A man stood in the doorway. He was draped in a heavy charcoal coat that seemed to swallow the light, his boots polished to a mirror shine. His face was a mask of cold precision—sharp jaw, eyes like flint, and a mouth that looked like it hadn't smiled in a decade.
Lord Silas Renn. The Warden of the Bastion.
He didn't look at Nora. He didn't even look at the dying boy on the table. His gaze locked onto Mira, scanning her from her messy hair down to her blood-soaked boots.
"I was told the disgraced surgeon had a penchant for rule-breaking," Silas said. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in Mira's chest. "I didn't realize that included performing illegal procedures on quarantined subjects."
"He was going to pop," Mira snapped, stepping forward despite the tremor in her legs. "If I hadn't cut him, he'd be paint on the walls right now."
Silas stepped into the room, the door clanging shut behind him. The sound echoed like a guillotine. He walked toward her, the distance closing until he was towering over her. He smelled of ozone and expensive tobacco, a sharp contrast to the rot of the cellar.
He didn't stop until he was inches away. Mira could feel the heat radiating off him, a strange, oppressive warmth.
"The law in the Bastion is simple," Silas whispered, leaning down so his breath brushed her ear. "We burn the singers. We don't save them. Every single one you 'save' is a ticking bomb in my city."
"He's a child," Mira hissed, refusing to back down. "Since when do you care about the law more than a kid's life?"
Silas reached out. His movement was so fast Mira didn't have time to flinch. His gloved hand gripped her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb pressed firmly against the smear of black ink on her cheek.
"I don't care about the child," he said, his eyes narrowing. "I care about the fact that you have a steady hand and a very rare set of skills. Skills that are currently wasted in a basement."
He let go of her chin, but he didn't move away. He stayed in her space, his presence suffocating.
"You're in debt to the city, Kade. Your license is gone. Your reputation is filth. You have nothing," Silas stated. It wasn't a question; it was a ledger of her failures.
"And you want something," Mira replied, her voice tight. "Why else would you come down here yourself?"
Silas glanced at the scalpel on the floor. A small, ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I have a problem that requires a very specific kind of cutting," he said.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of parchment—a contract. The wax seal was the Warden's crest.
"Sign this, and your debts vanish. Your license is restored. You get a lab, a staff, and all the supplies you can dream of."
Mira looked at the paper, then back at the man. "And the catch?"
"The catch is that you belong to me," Silas said. "Your knives, your time, your life. You work where I tell you, when I tell you. And if you try to run, I'll make sure you're the next one singing in this cellar."
"I don't work for monsters," Mira spat.
Silas didn't flinch. He stepped even closer, his chest nearly brushing hers. He reached down and picked up the scalpel from the floor, holding the blade between two fingers. He held it up, the edge glinting in the dim light.
"Then you're a very poor surgeon, Mira Kade. Because a real surgeon knows when the only option left is the one that tastes like poison."
He held the blade out to her, handle first.
"Sign the paper, or I'll have the guards drag you to the pyre with the rest of the singers. Your choice."
Mira stared at the contract, then at the cold, predatory look in Silas's eyes. She could feel the pressure of the room closing in, the smell of the ink still clinging to her skin.
She reached for the pen, but before she could touch the parchment, Silas leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper.
"One more thing," he murmured. "Don't ever look at my neck."