The pulse beneath Stasya’s hand was a faint, frantic rhythm against Mati’s steady one. The tremor had subsided, leaving a phantom ache in her small frame. Her eyes, still wide with the residual fear of the seizure and the memory of her mother’s betrayal, fixed on Mati’s face. He watched her, a deep current of protective fury thrumming beneath his calm exterior. Olek, having paced the small medical bay like a caged warg, finally stopped. The small bay went quiet as they weighed their options. “The *Velesova kvitka* component,” Olek began, his voice raspy, “it’s a rare bio-extract. Klavdiya cultivated it, yes, but its properties are… difficult to replicate. For a temporary antitoxin, we’d need a pure sample, refined. Not something you just order from a market stall.” Stasya pulled her hand from Mati’s, flexing her fingers, testing their steadiness. “The crude form, yes. But refined? That requires specific enzymatic catalysts. Proprietary to Klavdiya’s research division.” Her voice was still thin, raspy, but the familiar sharp edge of a scientist was returning. Mati pushed a glass of nutrient-rich water into her hand. “Then we find those catalysts. Or we find someone who already has them.” He met Olek’s gaze. “You know the underbelly, the places where things ‘fall off the back of a truck,’ as they say. Someone must be dealing in bio-components for the underground clinics, the ones Klavdiya’s corporation tries to stamp out.” Olek rubbed the back of his neck, his jaw tight. “There’s a name. Arkady Volkov. Used to be a bio-chemist, brilliant mind, worked for Klavdiya’s pre-cursor firm, ‘PharmaCore.’ He developed advanced enzyme filtration systems. Then Klavdiya took over, consolidated, and he vanished from the legitimate registers. Last I heard, he ran a black-trade drug ring out of the Kladovka district. Deals in high-end, contraband bio-synthetics.” “PharmaCore,” Stasya murmured. “I remember him. He was a protégé of my father. Klavdiya ruined him after the merger. Claimed he embezzled research funds, locked him out of the patent registry.” A bitter smile touched her lips. “He knows what it’s like to be erased by her.” Mati nodded. “Good. That gives us leverage. He’ll understand the enemy.” “Or hate you for association,” Olek countered. “He’s got a reputation for being… volatile. And paranoid. We can’t just walk in there. He’ll need assurance.” Mati considered this. “I’ll go. My face isn’t known in that circle. You two stay here.” “No,” Stasya said, her voice firmer now. “I’m going. I know his work. I can speak his language. And if he was truly ruined by my mother, seeing me might provoke a reaction, good or bad, that you can’t replicate.” She looked at Mati, her gaze unwavering. “Besides, I’m the doctor. This is my cure.” Olek threw his hands up. “This is insane. Klavdiya’s already sending retrieval teams after you. What makes you think she hasn’t put out a wider net? A city-wide alert? We can’t risk it.” “We risk more by waiting,” Mati said, stepping between them. He looked at Stasya. “Alright. But we go together. Olek, you find the safest route, and you wait outside, a quick getaway vehicle primed. Stasya and I go in. We get what we need, and we get out.” Olek sighed, running a hand through his short, sandy hair. “Fine. But if this goes sideways, I’m leaving you both to the bio-hazard cleanup crew.” He pulled out a comm-pad, fingers flying across the holographic interface. “Give me an hour. I’ll pinpoint his current location and set up a rendezvous point that isn’t under constant surveillance.” An hour later, they were navigating the labyrinthine alleys of the Kladovka district, a sprawling maze of rusted gantries and corroded durasteel buildings that hummed with illicit commerce. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of chemical waste and the pungent aroma of illegal synth-spice. Olek’s battered cargo-van, nondescript and blending seamlessly with the surrounding grime, idled in a shadowy cul-de-sac. He remained inside, monitoring their comms, ready for extraction. Mati and Stasya moved through the crowded bazaar stalls, past vendors hawking glowing fungal produce and chipped datachips. Stasya, bundled in a heavy, oversized coat Mati had found for her, kept her head down, her face obscured by a scarf. Her usually pristine hands were tucked deep into her pockets. Mati walked a step ahead, his broad shoulders a shield against the jostling crowds, his senses alert to every shift in the street’s rhythm. They found the chemist's operation tucked away in a converted refrigeration warehouse, its corrugated metal walls scarred with graffiti. The interior was dimly lit, smelling faintly of antiseptic and a sharper, more acrid chemical. The man himself was gaunt and intense, his lab coat stained and rumpled. He peered at them over a workbench laden with exotic bioreactors and blinking analysis arrays. “What do you want?” His voice was a gravelly rasp. He recognized Stasya immediately, his brow twitching with sudden suspicion. “Volos. I thought you were… retired. Permanently.” “Arkady,” Stasya said, her voice low. “We need the concentrated enzymatic catalyst for the *Velesova kvitka* neurotoxin antidote.” His eyes narrowed, shifting between Stasya and Mati. “The neurotoxin, you say? The one poisoning the city’s fat cats? Interesting. Very interesting.” He leaned against his workbench, a sneer twisting his lips. “I heard about that. A masterful stroke. Though the official channels are blaming a certain disgraced surgeon.” He gestured vaguely at Stasya. “Claiming she’s gone rogue, a bioterrorist seeking revenge. There’s a city-wide price on her head, you know. Massive. Enough to set up ten new labs.” Framed as a terrorist with a target on her back. This wasn’t just about hiding anymore; it was about survival against the entire city’s infrastructure. He saw Stasya flinch, a tremor running through her. The glacial facade cracked, revealing the raw wound of injustice. “Klavdiya’s doing,” Mati stated, his voice tight. “She set Stasya up, stole her research, poisoned the council, and now she’s trying to eliminate her own daughter.” He barked a harsh laugh. “Sounds exactly like Klavdiya. The woman has no scruples. But why should I help you? She ruined me. Why shouldn’t I collect that payout? It would be a poetic revenge.” He picked up a delicate glass pipette, his hand shaking slightly, revealing a deep, festering cut across his palm, red and inflamed. “Besides, I’m not sure I even have what you need. My operations are… smaller scale now.” Stasya’s eyes fixed on his injured hand, the surgeon’s instinct overriding her fear. The cut was poorly treated, already showing signs of infection. Without a word, she reached into Mati’s medic bag, pulling out a sterile swab and a small vial of topical antiseptic. Her movements were precise, economical, the same focused intensity she brought to explaining complex biochemistry. “That wound is festering, Arkady,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion, pure clinical assessment. “You’ll lose the dexterity in your hand if you don’t treat it properly. And if you lose that, you lose your ability to work.” Carefully, almost reverently, she cleaned the wound, a stark contrast to the grimy surroundings. Her touch was feather-light, yet incredibly firm, methodical. She then applied a thin, clear hydrogel, sealing the cut. It was a simple act, executed with the clean precision of a seasoned trauma surgeon. Arkady watched her, his rigid shoulders dropping as his scowl softened into grudging respect. He remembered those hands, those precise movements, from years past when she was an early resident outshining her peers. The same hands that had held his father’s during a delicate neuro-reconstruction years ago. He slowly lowered the pipette. “Alright, Volos,” he said, his voice softer, less guarded. “I still have a small supply. From a batch I siphoned off just before Klavdiya’s purge. It’s highly potent. Enough for a single, temporary dose.” He retrieved a sealed, insulated canister from a hidden compartment beneath his workbench. “But know this. Klavdiya’s reach is long. And she never forgets a betrayal. This bounty… it’s just the beginning. She’s moving fast.” Mati took the canister, his gaze meeting Stasya’s, a silent promise passing between them. As they turned to leave, Mati felt the familiar buzz of his comm-pad in his pocket. He pulled it out, ready to signal Olek. But it wasn’t Olek’s icon that flashed on the screen. It was a city-wide alert, bold red text against a stark black background. [WANTED: OLEK YAREMA - ACCOMPLICE TO TERRORISM.]

The Price of a Cure