Chapter 3 - SURGICAL PRECISION
The underground clinic was cleaner than most private hospitals in Manhattan. Stainless steel tables, surgical lamps, and racks of sterile instruments filled the room, lit by cool LED strips.
Dr. Aris Thorne, a grey-haired man with surgical scars across his own palms, was already preparing the local anesthetic when we entered.
"She’s too reactive for general anesthesia," Dr. Thorne said without looking up from his tray. "Her heart can't take the paralytics, Roman. If her blood pressure drops during the extraction, the chip’s internal thermal casing will rupture and corrupt the data."
"Then she stays awake," I said, stepping between the doctor and Luna. "And I hold her."
Thorne stopped his preparations, eyeing me through thick glasses. "Young lady, that is a ninety-pound Belgian Shepherd mix with a bite force capable of snapping a femur. If she panics while I'm within two inches of her shoulder blade, she will tear my face off."
"She won't panic if I'm managing her baseline," I said firmly. "Roman, sit on the table."
Roman blinked. "What?"
"Sit on the edge of the examination table," I commanded. "She views you as the pack leader, but she views me as her safety zone. If you sit at her head and let her rest her muzzle on your knee while I hold her torso, her heart rate will remain stable."
For three long seconds, no one moved. Viktor, standing by the door, looked as if he was about to draw his weapon at my tone with his boss.
Then Roman walked calmly to the table, sat down, and patted his right knee. "Come here, girl."
Luna didn't hesitate. She hopped onto the stainless steel platform, her heavy paws clicking against the metal, and buried her snout directly into Roman’s lap. Roman’s hand folded over her neck, his thumb caressing the soft fur behind her ears with a tenderness that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.
I moved in close, wrapping my arms around Luna’s chest, leaning my body over hers so she felt total, secure compression—the same technique used to ground working dogs during artillery fire.
"Now, Doctor," I murmured, keeping my cheek pressed against Luna’s neck, smelling the clean scent of her fur and the faint, underlying sharp tang of rain.
Dr. Thorne stepped forward with the local nerve block. As the needle pierced the skin, Luna flinched, her body tensing like a steel spring. A high, desperate whimper escaped her throat.
"I’ve got you," I whispered into her ear, my voice low, rhythmic, and unwavering. "Good girl, Luna. Good girl. Stay with me. Stay with Roman."
Roman looked down at me. His face was inches from mine, close enough that I could see the flecks of amber in his dark pupils and the faint line of a scar near his temple. His hand reached out and touched my forearm—a brief, steady pressure that communicated more gratitude than words ever could.
"She’s stable," Roman said to the doctor, his eyes never leaving mine. "Proceed."
With practiced, terrifying speed, Dr. Thorne made a precise half-inch incision behind the right shoulder blade. Luna let out a low groan, her paws gripping Roman’s thighs, but she didn't lunge. She didn't bite. She endured.
Ten seconds later, the faint clink of metal hitting a stainless steel tray echoed through the silent room.
"It’s out," Thorne announced, holding up a silver capsule the size of a rifle cartridge, glistening with biological serum and blood. "Casing intact. Data green."
Luna let out a long, shuddering breath and collapsed against my chest, her body entirely limp from the sudden release of tension. I buried my face in her fur, letting out a breath I felt like I had been holding for two days.
"You did it," Roman said softly.
I looked up at him, my hair falling out of its messy bun, my sweater stained with dog hair and a drop of blood. "Now keep your promise. Pay my mother's bills and let us go."
Before Roman could answer, every red light in the hallway began to flash silently. The heavy steel blast doors of the garage slammed shut with a deafening hydraulic boom.
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Viktor’s radio crackled to life with panicked static.
"Boss! Perimeter breached! Volkov’s team didn't track the car—they tracked the satellite signal from the comm card in her jacket! They're at the river gate!"
