Chapter Forty-Two
Aleksei
I can’t fucking sit still.
I’m pacing the sterile corridor outside the operating room. Seven steps in one direction, pivot, seven steps back. A pointless circuit that accomplishes nothing except burning the restless energy that threatens to consume me.
Pizdets!
What’s taking so fucking long?
My stomach twists into knots that would impress a sailor. My mouth tastes like metal. Every muscle in my body feels spring-loaded, primed for action, but there’s nothing to do. Nothing except wait.
Four hours into the surgery, with potentially four more to go.
Eight fucking hours while strangers cut into my son’s spine, implanting experimental technology that could— could — allow him to walk.
Or it might leave him exactly as before, with the added knowledge that this was our last chance.
If this fails, it’ll show that he’s not a candidate for this type of procedure, and he’ll be in a wheelchair forever.
Malhotra added that little nugget of information at our last meeting.
With the caveat that he was certain it would succeed.
I advised him that if it turned out he could do no more for my son, he would have no further use to me.
And we all knew what happened to people I had no use for.
This will work.
It will fucking work!
I glance at the three women seated in the waiting area.
Stella sits perfectly still, hands folded in her lap, a picture of composed support despite the pallor of her face.
My mother flanks her on one side, lips moving in silent prayer, occasionally crossing herself in the Orthodox tradition.
Diana occupies the chair on Stella’s other side, her foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the floor, scrolling mindlessly through her phone without really seeing it.
Three different responses to the same unbearable tension. None of them can pace like me. None of them feels the weight of this moment like I do. None of them—
Nyet .
That’s unfair. They all love Bobik. They’re all invested in this outcome. They’re just handling it differently.
Dr. Malhotra’s explanation of the procedure replays in my mind for the hundredth fucking time today.
The NeuroFusion implants are microscopic marvels of bioengineering, designed to bridge damaged neural pathways in Bobik’s spinal cord.
Unlike the previous surgery’s crude mechanical approach that introduced so-called “intelligent” nanobots to Bobik’s spinal column, these implants contain AI algorithms that adapt to his specific neural patterns, encouraging natural regeneration while creating artificial connections where needed.
“The procedure is delicate,” Malhotra had explained. “We’re essentially rewiring the communication system between his brain and lower body. The AI component is what makes this revolutionary— it learns and adapts to his specific neural architecture.”
I understood the technical aspects. I’d researched obsessively, read every available paper on the technology, consulted specialists globally. But understanding doesn’t ease the knot of fear that’s been my constant companion since we scheduled this operation.
My mind drifts to Bobik this morning, his small face solemn yet determined as the nurses prepared him for surgery.
“It’s okay if it doesn’t work, Papa,” he’d said, squeezing my hand with surprising strength. “I’m still me, either way.”
The memory tightens my throat. Almost eleven years old and already wiser than most adults I know. Already prepared for disappointment in a way no child should have to be.
“It will work,” I’d told him with a conviction I didn’t entirely feel. “But yes, you’re still you, either way. The best you.”
He’d smiled then, that smile that transforms his entire face and makes him look so much like his mother. “Maybe I’ll race you soon.”
“Maybe you will, malysh .”
The operating room doors swing open, and my fucking heart stops. But it’s just a nurse, heading in the opposite direction, not even looking our way. False alarm number twelve— or is it thirteen? I’ve lost count in the endless stretch of this day.
I glance at the clock. Four hours and seventeen minutes. The second hand seems to move through molasses, each tick requiring herculean effort.
Stella rises from her chair, approaching me with that quiet grace that still catches me off guard sometimes.
“You need to rest,” she says softly, taking my hand. Her fingers are cold against my overheated skin. “Just for a moment.”
“I can’t,” I reply, but I allow her to guide me to the chair she vacated. Diana immediately stands, murmuring something about coffee, and retreating down the corridor. My mother continues her prayers, the soft Russian phrases creating a soothing backdrop to my chaotic thoughts.
“ Gospodi pomilui. Gospodi pomilui. Gospodi pomilui. ” Lord have mercy. The ancient litany repeated in my mother’s trembling voice.
“He’s strong,” Stella whispers, her hand still holding mine. “Stronger than we give him credit for.”
The irony isn’t lost on me— the daughter of the man who caused my son’s condition now sits beside me, praying for its cure.
Bobik’s entire life in a wheelchair, the result of Stella’s drunk father and a pair of mishandled forceps during delivery.
Life has a twisted sense of humor, bringing us full circle to this moment.
Yet there’s no bitterness in the thought.
How could there be, when Stella has shown nothing but fierce love for my son since entering our lives?
When she fights for his happiness as determinedly as I do?
When our daughter— Bobik’s half-sister— sleeps peacefully at home with her nurse, unaware that her brother’s future hangs in the balance today?
We are bound by blood and choices— some good, some terrible— yet here we sit, unified by love for my boy.
Five hours pass.
Then six.
Time drags, each minute stretching into what feels like hours. The extended duration feeds my anxiety— is something wrong? Has there been a complication? Dr. Malhotra warned us the procedure would be lengthy, but as the seventh hour approaches, I can’t help but imagine the worst.
A second unsuccessful operation. The final extinguishing of hope. The conversation I’ll have to have with Bobik, explaining that sometimes even the most advanced medicine has limitations.
My mouth is desert-dry. My back aches from the uncomfortable chair I’ve finally surrendered to. Diana has returned with coffee that’s grown cold in our hands, untouched. My mother’s prayers have become almost trance-like, a continuous murmur that’s both comforting and maddening.
Come on.
Come ON!
In this sterile corridor, stripped of wealth and power, I am nothing but a father waiting to hear if his son will walk. All my resources, connections, influence— useless in the face of medical reality and biological chance. I’ve never felt more helpless, not even as a child facing my father’s rage.
“ Blyad ,” I mutter under my breath, scrubbing a hand over my face. “What’s taking so fucking long?”
No one answers. There is no answer.
Seven hours and twenty-two minutes after they wheeled my son into surgery, the operating room doors swing open. This time, it’s not a random nurse or technician. It’s Dr. Malhotra, still in surgical scrubs, his face mask pulled down to reveal an expression I struggle to read.
The world narrows to his face, to the lines around his eyes, to the set of his mouth. Everything else— the hospital sounds, my family’s presence, my own heartbeat— fades into background static.
My mother stops praying mid-sentence. Diana freezes in her renewed pacing. Stella’s hand grips my arm with bruising force.
Dr. Malhotra approaches, his steps measured, deliberate. The distance between us seems infinite, yet closes in an instant.
“Mr. Tarasov,” he says, and I search his tone for clues, finding none. “The surgery is complete.”