19. Mercy and Monsters
Mercy and Monsters
Roman
Blood changes the sound of a room.
The clinic had been loud minutes ago—voices, movement, the small chaos of people trying to survive another day.
Now everything funnels into one sound.
Vera’s voice.
“Stay with me,” she whispers to the boy, her hands pressing against his ribs. “Stay with me.”
Her fingers are red to the wrists.
The boy isn’t responding.
I kneel beside her.
“Car,” I say.
She doesn’t look up.
“We can’t move him too fast—”
“We don’t have a choice.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
Fear flashes there, sharp and real.
Not for herself.
For him.
“Pressure stays here,” she says quickly, guiding my hand over the wound. “Firm, not crushing.”
I obey.
Her hands move again—grabbing gauze, wrapping quickly.
“Viktor!” I call.
The door slams open immediately.
“Clear the street,” I order. “We’re moving now.”
“Already done.”
Good.
I lift the boy carefully.
He’s lighter than he should be.
Too small for the amount of blood soaking through the makeshift bandage.
Vera walks beside me, one hand holding pressure against the wound while we move.
Her voice is steady even though it trembles underneath.
“Stay with us,” she murmurs to him. “You’re okay. We’ve got you.”
The SUV door is already open.
We slide inside.
“Petrova,” I say.
The driver doesn’t ask.
The engine roars to life.
Dr. Anya Petrova’s clinic sits three floors above a discreet medical office building that asks no questions.
By the time we arrive, her team is already waiting.
She sees the blood and swears immediately.
“Inside,” she snaps.
Vera moves with her automatically, helping transfer the boy to the surgical table.
“Entry wound here,” Vera says quickly, voice tight but controlled. “Possible internal bleeding.”
Anya nods.
“You stay,” she says to Vera. “You assist.”
Vera doesn’t hesitate.
Gloves.
Mask.
Hands steady despite the tremor running through her shoulders.
I step back and watch as they work.
Anya’s hands are fast.
Efficient.
But it’s Vera’s voice that anchors the room.
“Pulse weak.”
“Pressure dropping.”
“Clamp.”
She doesn’t break.
Even when blood spreads across the surgical drape.
Even when the monitor beeps sharply.
She keeps moving.
Keeps fighting.
Because that’s what she does.
She rebuilds the world with gauze.
Two hours later the bleeding is controlled.
The boy is alive.
Barely.
Anya removes her gloves and exhales sharply.
“He’ll live if infection doesn’t take him,” she says.
Vera leans heavily against the counter.
For the first time since the shooting, her composure cracks.
Not dramatically.
Just a quiet collapse inward.
Her shoulders sag.
Her eyes close.
I step closer.
“You saved him,” I say.
She shakes her head weakly.
“He shouldn’t have needed saving.”
True.
But the world doesn’t run on fairness.
Outside the surgical room, Viktor waits.
“Family located,” he says quietly.
“Compensation,” I reply immediately.
“Already prepared.”
“Long-term.”
His brow lifts slightly.
“How long?”
“Forever.”
The boy’s parents will never worry about rent again.
Or food.
Or school.
No speeches.
No charity events.
Just quiet action.
Viktor nods once.
“Done.”
Anya catches me in the hallway as Vera washes blood from her arms.
“You,” she says sharply.
I stop.
“What.”
She folds her arms.
“You are going to slow this down.”
“No.”
Her eyes flash.
“I’m not asking.”
“You don’t control my war.”
“I control whether your wife collapses under it.”
The word wife lands heavier than expected.
“She’s strong,” I say.
“Yes,” Anya replies. “And stress eventually breaks strong bodies too.”
“She understands the stakes.”
“That doesn’t make her immune.”
She leans slightly closer.
“Her cortisol levels are probably through the roof. Adrenaline spikes. Sleep deprivation.”
“She’ll adapt.”
“No,” Anya says sharply. “Her body will demand payment.”
For a moment neither of us speaks.
“Explain,” I say.
“She’s already pushing past what most people tolerate,” Anya continues. “Exposure to violence, stress hormones, emotional strain.”
I don’t like the direction of this.
“What’s the risk?”
Her voice lowers.
“Miscarriage.”
The word cuts through the hallway like a knife.
I stare at her.
“She’s not pregnant.”
“Not that we know,” Anya replies.
My chest tightens.
“Why bring that up.”
“Because if she is,” Anya says bluntly, “this level of threat could kill her.”