Chapter 16
Rico
Pain becomes background if you let it.
Not because it disappears, but because you decide it doesn’t get priority. You learn to sort it the same way you sort everything else—noise versus signal, distraction versus data. Right now, it’s data. Useful only in how it informs movement, limits, timing.
Everything is timing.
I’m on my feet when she walks in.
Not fully stable. Not without cost. But standing matters. It shifts the dynamic, even if only slightly. The room feels different from here—angles clearer, distances easier to judge, exits more obvious. Control returns in pieces, and this is one of them.
She stops in the doorway for half a second.
Assessment.
Then she’s moving again, already recalibrating whatever plan she walked in with.
“You’re not supposed to be standing,” she says, crossing the room with purpose, not urgency.
“I’m not supposed to be a lot of things,” I reply.
“That’s not an argument,” she says, stepping close enough to steady me without making it look like she’s doing it. “It’s a limitation.”
“Temporary,” I counter.
“Everything is,” she replies. “That doesn’t make it irrelevant.”
Her hand is at my back for a moment—firm, controlled—then gone as soon as I shift my weight correctly. She doesn’t linger. Doesn’t overcorrect. She adjusts and moves on.
Efficient.
I take a breath, slow and measured, letting the pain map the boundaries for me. “I need to know what you’ve set up,” I say.
“You’ll see it when you’re on the table,” she answers.
“Not good enough.”
Her eyes flick to mine, sharper now. “You don’t get to dictate surgical protocol.”
“I get to understand the system I’m about to be part of,” I reply. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
Then she exhales, shifting slightly as if deciding whether the time spent explaining is worth the cost.
“Fine,” she says. “You want the system? I’ll give you the system.”
I lean back against the edge of the bed, conserving energy while I listen.
“The dining room has been converted into an operating space,” she begins, her tone precise, structured.
“It’s been cleared, sanitized, and prepped with everything we could source on short notice.
Lighting is adequate. Not ideal, but workable.
Instruments are sterilized. I’ve set up zones—clean, semi-clean, and contaminated—to minimize cross-exposure. ”
I nod slightly.
“Blood?” I ask.
“Typed and ready,” she replies. “Cross-matched as best as possible given the constraints.”
“Monitoring?”
“Upgraded,” she says. “Not hospital-grade across the board, but reliable. I’ve tested everything myself.”
Of course she has.
“And staff?” I press.
Her jaw tightens slightly. “Limited. I’ll have assistance, but not a full team.”
“Which means you’re compensating,” I say.
“I’m always compensating,” she replies. “The difference is I know where.”
That earns a faint shift of approval from me.
“Drawing room?” I ask.
“Recovery,” she says. “Prepped and ready. You’ll be moved there post-op. I’ve arranged it so I can monitor you continuously without unnecessary transfer.”
“And your room?”
Her gaze sharpens again.
“Next door,” she says. “So I can get to you without delay.”
“Good,” I reply.
That wasn’t a suggestion. It was confirmation.
“You don’t get to approve my decisions,” she says.
“I just did,” I answer.
“You’re impossible,” she says.
“No,” I reply. “I’m thorough.”
She studies me for a second longer, something shifting behind her expression.
“You treat this like a system you can solve,” she says.
“It is,” I answer.
“No,” she counters, stepping closer again, her focus narrowing. “It’s a body. It’s variables you can’t predict. It’s responses you can’t control.”
“Everything has patterns,” I say. “Even chaos.”
“That’s not how medicine works.”
“That’s exactly how it works,” I reply. “You just call it something else.”
Her brow furrows slightly.
“Explain.”
I shift my weight carefully, ignoring the pull at my side as I meet her gaze.
“You build protocols,” I say. “You follow sequences. You anticipate complications based on probability. You adjust in real time based on response.”
“That’s practice,” she says.
“That’s pattern recognition,” I correct. “Same principle.”
Silence settles between us, but it’s not empty. It’s active—both of us working through the same concept from different angles.
“You rely on control,” she says.
“So do you,” I reply.
“I rely on knowledge.”
“Knowledge creates control.”
“It reduces uncertainty,” she corrects.
“Which is control,” I finish.
Another pause.
Then she exhales, slower this time, like she’s conceding the point without saying it.
“You use humor to deflect,” she says suddenly.
“Sometimes.”
“You’re doing it less.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Interesting.
“And what does that tell you?” I ask.
“That you’re paying attention,” she says. “More than you were before.”
I almost smile.
“That’s because I have something worth paying attention to,” I reply.
Her expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker there.
Quick.
Gone just as fast.
“This isn’t a conversation,” she says, stepping back, reestablishing distance. “It’s preparation.”
“Same thing,” I murmur.
“No,” she says firmly. “It’s not.”
I let that go.
For now.
“Timeline,” I say instead.
“Soon,” she replies. “As soon as final checks are complete.”
“How soon?”
“Hours,” she says. “Not days.”
Good. That aligns with what I need. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can stop thinking about the weakness in my own body and start focusing on the things that matter beyond this room.
I don't like being dependent on anyone, especially when I don't control the environment around me, but at least there is a plan now. A timeline. Something measurable.
“What happens after?” I ask.
She hesitates, and it's brief enough that most people probably wouldn't notice it. I do. I've learned to pay attention to hesitation because it usually means there is something someone hasn't decided how to say yet.
“Recovery,” she answers. “Monitoring. Making sure you don't crash.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I keep my gaze on her, watching the subtle change in her expression as she realizes what I'm actually asking. For a moment, she says nothing. Then she draws a slow breath, as though choosing each word before allowing it to leave her mouth.
“After you're stable,” she says carefully, “we reassess.”
We.
The word catches my attention more than it should.
“And you?” I ask.
Her eyes meet mine, steady and direct. “I leave.”
There isn't even a flicker of hesitation this time.
No uncertainty in the answer, no visible struggle over what she wants to say.
She has already decided. Or at least she wants me to believe she has.
But there is something beneath the certainty, something she isn't acknowledging, and I've become far too interested in the things she refuses to say.
“Maybe,” I tell her.
Her eyes narrow slightly. “That's not your decision.”
“No,” I agree.
It isn't.
But neither of us believes it's entirely hers, either.
The truth settles between us without being spoken.
In this world, decisions are rarely made by one person alone.
Circumstances make them. Loyalty makes them.
Threats make them. Sometimes survival makes them for you.
I don't know what will happen once I'm stable enough to leave this room, but I know one thing already: I don't like the idea of her simply walking away as though none of this happened.
I don't examine why.
Not yet.
The silence stretches between us again, heavier than before, carrying everything neither of us is willing to put into words. Eventually, she breaks it.
“You should sit,” she says, her voice shifting back into that clinical, controlled tone I recognize. “You've pushed enough for today.”
For a moment, I consider ignoring her simply because I don't like being told what to do. Then I decide against it. Conserving energy matters more than proving a point, and there is no advantage in wasting strength merely to satisfy my pride.
For now.
I lower myself back onto the bed, moving slowly and deliberately this time.
Every muscle protests the effort, but I refuse to give it more attention than necessary.
When I settle against the pillows, I look toward her and find her watching the entire movement, tracking every adjustment, every shift in my breathing, every indication that the effort has cost me more than I want her to know.
Always watching.
Always measuring.
Always trying to control whatever she can.
“You're ready,” she says after a moment.
It's not a question.
“For the surgery,” she clarifies.
I hold her gaze. “Yes.”
Not because I trust the situation. I don't. Not because the environment is ideal, because it isn't. And certainly not because I'm comfortable surrendering control to anyone else.
I'm ready because waiting changes nothing.
The system is in place. The variables have been reduced as far as they're going to go, and whatever happens next is already moving toward us whether I'm prepared to face it or not.
More importantly, the sooner this is done, the sooner I can move on to what actually matters.
Finding out who did this.
Finding out why.
And ending it.
Her gaze remains on me for one second longer than necessary before she turns away, already slipping back into preparation mode.
I watch her move around the room with that same deliberate efficiency, the same calm precision she brings to everything she touches, and I wonder briefly how long she can keep pretending that this is nothing more than a job.
“Then we don't waste time,” she says.
Agreed.
Because in both of our worlds, delay is the only real threat left. Every minute gives circumstances another opportunity to change, another variable a chance to move beyond our control, another person an opportunity to interfere.
And neither of us intends to lose to it.