Mati’s gaze snapped from Stasya’s pallid face to Olek. The information landed like a cold stone. His hands, still stained with the rich, golden broth from moments ago, clenched involuntarily. He’d seen enough corporate maneuvering in the war-torn sectors of Korya-Grad to recognize the stench of a deeper game, but this… this was a viper eating its own tail. Or, more likely, preparing to swallow it whole after it had served its purpose. He pushed the thought aside. Later. Right now, a life was fading on his worn leather couch. “She needs to eat.” He moved with a renewed, urgent focus, ignoring the lingering chill from Olek’s words. He retrieved the broth, now cooled to a perfect, palatable temperature, and a small, shallow ceramic spoon. The aroma of wild thyme and slow-cooked river fish filled the quiet space, a comforting counterpoint to the sharp tension. Stasya lay still, her breathing shallow, her eyelids fluttering occasionally. Mati knelt beside her. He dipped the ceramic rim into the broth, checking the level against the glaze. He brought it to her lips, gently touching the cool ceramic against their dry surface. No response. Her jaw remained slack. Mati pressed the spoon a little more firmly, a soft, encouraging touch. “Dr. Volos. You need this.” His voice was low, steady, the tone he used with wounded soldiers who had given up hope. He knew the resistance of a body fighting against itself, a mind willing to surrender. Slowly, her eyes cracked open. Not the resigned, distant gaze from before, but a sharp, unnerving glare. It held no recognition, only a raw, desperate anger. Her gaunt face, marked by fatigue and illness, tightened. She turned her head abruptly, splashing a small amount of broth onto the couch cushion. A faint tremor ran through her body. “No,” she whispered, her voice a ragged sigh. “Don’t.” Mati kept the spoon steady. “This isn’t a request, Doctor. Your body is failing.” He tried again, bringing the spoon to her lips. She clamped her mouth shut, a fragile, almost imperceptible line of defiance etched on her face. Her eyes, the color of a winter lake, fixed on him with a chilling intensity. They held a silent plea, a fierce command for him to leave her to her chosen end. Mati recognized it instantly: the look of a person who had decided to die, and saw any attempt to save them as an assault. “I understand you want to give up,” Mati said, his voice softer now, but firm. “I’ve seen it before. It’s a powerful current.” He set the spoon down for a moment, his gaze unwavering. “But I’m not letting you drown. Not on my watch.” He picked up the spoon again. “The first rule of medicine isn’t ‘do no harm’,” he stated, his voice a quiet pronouncement. “It’s ‘preserve life’. And right now, preserving your life means you eat.” Before she could react, before her weakened body could muster another protest, Mati gently but firmly gripped her chin. His thumb brushed her jawline, cool against her warm skin. He tilted her head slightly, parted her dry lips with the tip of the ceramic, and eased a measured draft between her teeth. Stasya choked, a dry, rasping sound. Her eyes flew open, wide with shock and a sudden, furious humiliation. Her body stiffened, a desperate twitch, as if she tried to recoil from the invasion. Her throat convulsed, forcing the liquid down. Mati kept his fingers steady beneath her chin until her windpipe settled. He released her, his hand lingering for a moment, a phantom warmth on her cold skin. He watched her, breathing hard, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid movements. Her gaze was a frozen fire, burning with a silent rage. It was a violation, he knew, but a necessary one. “One down,” Mati murmured, his voice calm, unflustered. He dipped the spoon again. “Many more to go.” As he prepared the next spoonful, his fingers brushed against the rough fabric of her worn physician’s coat. Beneath the lapel, he felt a hard, flat rectangle. A slim glass slate rested in an inner pocket, almost weightless against her ribs. He slipped it out. The screen flickered green under his thumb, revealing broken columns of molecular diagrams, neural maps, and cell-lysis charts beneath a header: *Neurotoxin: “Khorost-9”*. She had documented her own deterioration step by step. “What is that?” Olek asked, stepping closer to peer at the screen. “Her research,” Mati replied, setting the slate beside her hip on the cushion. He needed to focus on feeding her. This was the immediate battle. He brought another taste of the stock to her mouth. This time, Stasya didn't fight as violently. Her eyes still held that fierce, wounded dignity, but the energy to resist had faltered. She still refused to open her mouth willingly. Mati repeated the action, gently, clinically. She took the liquid in a rough gulp, coughing once against his sleeve as the salt warmed her tongue. “Good,” Mati whispered, a quiet encouragement. “Just a little more.” He was drawing a third measure when the reinforced door of 'The Last Morsel' shuddered against its frame. A sharp, metallic shriek followed, echoing through the sturdy walls. It was the sound of something cutting through hardened steel. Olek spun around, his hand dropping to the sidearm holstered at his hip. His face, usually so composed, was etched with alarm. “Retrieval team,” he barked, his voice tight. “They’re here. Minutes, Mati. We have minutes, maybe less.” The shriek intensified, a high-pitched whine that grated on the teeth. Then, a dull, rhythmic groaning began, deep and resonant, as the cafe’s formidable, triple-layered door started to buckle under the relentless assault of a plasma cutter.

The First Rule of Medicine