Mati reacted with the instinct of a field medic. He moved to her head, cushioning it with a folded jacket snatched from a chair, scanning the room for anything else that might cause harm. Olek, momentarily frozen, snapped into motion, grabbing a discarded packing blanket to drape over her convulsing form, a futile gesture against the violent convulsions. Mati barked, “Olek, clear the table! Now!”
The paramedic scrambled, sweeping datapad fragments and empty ration packs onto the floor. Mati’s gaze locked onto the emergency kit he always kept beneath the counter of ‘The Last Morsel’, a battered, olive-drab pack he hadn’t touched in years. He pulled it out, the metallic click of the latches echoing in the small space. Inside, nestled among sterile wraps and trauma shears, was a vial of ‘Neuro-Calm’, a potent anti-convulsant designed for battlefield neurotoxins. It was a long shot, tailored for generic agents, not targeted bioweapons, but it was all he had.
“Hold her steady, Olek. Not to restrain, but to prevent injury,” Mati commanded, uncapping the vial. His hands, usually so gentle when kneading dough or plating food, moved with surgical precision. He located a vein in Stasya’s arm, distended and prominent, a dark roadmap beneath pale skin. The needle slid in with practiced ease. A quick push of the plunger, the clear fluid entering her bloodstream. Five seconds dragged out into a minute. The tremors in Stasya’s body began to subside. Her muscles relaxed, the violent thrashing replaced by a deep, ragged breathing.
Her eyelids parted, gaze drifting before fixing on Mati. She let out a dry cough. “What… what was that?”
“Neuro-Calm. It should buy us some time,” Mati said, his voice softer now, but firm. “You need to stay awake, Stasya. Talk to me.” He offered her a small, chipped mug of lukewarm rehydration solution. “Drink this. We need to understand what happened.”
She took a weak sip, her gaze flickering to Olek, then back to Mati. “Klavdiya. She… she wanted to see me die, didn’t she?” Her voice was thin, a raw thread of sound.
“She wants you out of the picture,” Mati confirmed, his eyes never leaving hers. “And she just admitted to framing you for malpractice, stealing your research, using it to create this poison. What kind of monster…?” He stopped, cutting himself off. “Tell me about her, Stasya. Your family. Tell me about… before. Before all this.” He needed to keep her mind engaged, to anchor her to the present, to prevent another dip into the toxin’s grip.
Stasya looked down at her bruised knuckles. “Before? There was no before, not really. Only Klavdiya’s expectations.” A ghost of a memory seemed to cross her face, a flicker of something almost tender, then quickly replaced by a familiar chill. “I was… nine. At the Volos Medical Institute. Her personal laboratory. She often took me there. Said I had ‘the touch’.”
* * *
The sterile scent of ethanol and growth medium was Stasya’s lullaby. Nine-year-old Stasya, perched on a stool far too tall for her, meticulously dissecting a preserved neuro-lizard specimen. Her small, agile hands, even then, moved with a delicate precision that belied her age. Klavdiya, a formidable woman even in her early thirties, stood beside her, observing with an intensity that made the air hum. “Careful, Stasya. That cranial nerve is vital. One false move and the entire pathway is compromised.”
Stasya nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration. The micro-scalpel, custom-made for her tiny grip, felt like an extension of her own will. She made the cut. A clean, precise incision. But her elbow bumped the dissecting tray. The nerve, infinitesimally thin, snapped. She drew a sharp breath. Her perfect dissection, ruined.
Moisture burned her lash line. “Mama! I broke it! I ruined it!” she sobbed, dropping the scalpel. Her cheeks burned.
Klavdiya’s usual stern expression softened, surprisingly. She knelt, her expensive suit rustling, and gently cupped Stasya’s face. “Nonsense, *zvezdochka*. Small mistakes are how we learn. It’s not the mistake itself, but what you do after. We adapt. We overcome.” She wiped a tear from Stasya’s cheek. “It’s a minor setback. We’ll simply find a different specimen.”
Stasya leaned into the tailored fabric, comforted by the unexpected touch. Klavdiya held her close for a moment, then straightened, her gaze hardening as it swept over the damaged specimen. “This nerve, though… this particular pathway is unique to Professor Orlov’s ongoing study. He’s been rather boastful about his latest findings.” A predatory gleam entered Klavdiya’s eyes. “Perhaps this ‘accident’ isn’t entirely a loss. Sometimes, a small flaw in a rival’s work can be… illuminating, wouldn’t you agree, *zvezdochka*?”
Stasya, bewildered, could only stare as Klavdiya’s lips curved into a calculating smile. A few weeks later, Professor Orlov was dismissed from the institute, his papers retracted, a ‘minor oversight’ in his neuro-lizard studies publicly exposed as gross negligence. Stasya heard Klavdiya mention it casually at dinner, a triumphant glint in her eye, never connecting it to the broken nerve she’d been so careful to discard.
* * *
“She called me *zvezdochka*,” Stasya whispered, her voice raspy, pulling Mati back to the present. “It means ‘little star’. She only used it when she was… pleased.” She managed a brief, rasping laugh. “Or when she was about to do something terrible and wanted me to not notice.” The memory seemed to drain her, leaving her even paler.
Mati watched her, noting the faint pulse stuttering at her collarbone. The anecdote, seemingly innocuous, painted a chilling portrait of Klavdiya. Manipulative, ruthless, even to her kin. This wasn’t just a corporate battle; it was a deeply personal war, fought with poison and betrayal.
“The neurotoxin,” Mati prompted, his voice gentle. “You said it was based on your stolen formulas. What’s its primary component?”
Stasya swallowed, her throat visibly aching. “It’s… *Velesova kvitka*. The Veles flower. An extremely rare neurotropic plant. Grows only in the ancient volcanic soil of the Shchyra Steppe. My work focused on its regenerative properties, not its toxicity.” Her shoulders twitched. “Klavdiya… she cultivated a private conservatory for it. At her summer estate, outside the city. She was obsessed with rare botanicals. She even made me help her cross-pollinate them as a child. Said it built ‘character’.”
*Velesova kvitka*. Mati pieced the timeline together. An extremely rare flower, cultivated by Klavdiya, forming the core of a targeted neurotoxin. The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. This wasn’t just about political power, not just about a corporate coup. This was about Klavdiya’s ultimate, twisted ambition to control everything, to eliminate anyone who stood in her way, including her own daughter. Stasya wasn’t just a means to an end; she was the *target*.
He looked at Stasya, truly looked at her. Her trembling hands, her glacial demeanor, the raw vulnerability beneath the surgeon’s facade. She was not merely a brilliant doctor needed to save the city. She was a woman systematically broken by a monstrous parent, now fighting for her very life against the weapon of her own stolen intellect. He set the empty syringe aside. The city officials were distant names on manifests. Stasya was real. And she was dying.
“We’re not just saving the city council anymore, Stasya,” Mati stated, his voice low, firm, leaving no room for argument. “We’re saving you. From her.” He placed his large, calloused hand over her small, trembling one, her skin cool beneath his palm. “And I swear, Klavdiya Rurik will answer for every poisoned drop she’s brewed, every life she’s destroyed.” He squeezed her hand, his pulse steady against hers. “She’s not getting away with this. Not with you. I won’t let her.”