The air in the sub-basement theater smelled of copper, chemical sterilization, and heavy ozone. From behind the reinforced observation glass, I watched Dr. Luke's hands move with mechanical, unblinking precision. The steady, rhythmic bounce of the vitals monitor was the only indicator that Miller's soul hadn't slipped away entirely.
"The neuro-shock from the gas is stabilizing, Sovereign," Dr. Luke's voice crackled through the intercom, his green surgical gown spotted with dark, arterial crimson.
"The left globe is entirely gone—the kinetic round crushed the bone structure beneath it. I've completed the removal and cleared the chemical tracers from his bloodstream. He will live. But he won't be waking up tonight."
"Keep him under maximum security," I said, my voice flat and devoid of any weight. "The man who took my wife wants us to know he was here. Miller is the only one who looked into his face and lived. I need him conscious, Luke. Soon."
