A searing pain blossomed in Mati’s side, spinning him around. His plasma pistol clattered on the polished floor. The corridor’s stark lights flickered, catching the crimson stain blooming on his tunic. He crumpled against the cold wall, a hand clamped over the wound, breath tearing in his throat. The enforcer advanced, carbine still raised. Stasya, despite the tremor in her own limbs, didn't hesitate. She launched herself at Vorlag, a wild, desperate cry tearing from her throat. It wasn't a calculated attack, but a raw, unthinking lunge, fueled by an instinct Mati hadn’t known she possessed. She slammed into the hulking man, elbow striking his chin. The surprise staggered him, his weapon momentarily dipping. “Olek! Now!” Mati gasped, pushing himself forward, ignoring the fire in his ribs. He couldn’t fight, but he could make himself a target. Vorlag snarled, pushing Stasya away with a brutal shove that sent her sprawling. As he re-aimed the carbine at Mati, a blur of motion appeared behind him. Olek, having circled wide during the brief distraction, swung a heavy, ornate display urn with practiced force. It connected with the back of Vorlag’s head, a sickening thud echoing through the hallway. The enforcer dropped, unconscious. “Mati!” Stasya scrambled to her feet, her face bloodless. She was at his side instantly, tearing away the fabric of his tunic. She drew in a sharp hiss at the sight of the wound, a ragged hole just above his hip. “It went through… clean exit wound, thank the stars. But it’s deep.” Her voice, usually so clipped, was laced with an unfamiliar dread. Olek was already dragging Vorlag’s body into a maintenance closet, kicking the door shut. “We need to move. Now. They’ll be here any second.” He returned, pulling Mati’s arm over his shoulder. “Can you walk?” Mati gritted his teeth as gray spots swam across his vision. “Don’t have a choice.” They moved through the labyrinthine service passages, Olek half-carrying Mati, Stasya pressing a crude compress of Mati’s torn shirt to his side. The sounds of Klavdiya’s gala, once a distant hum, had curdled into a frantic, angry buzz. Alarms began to wail, a dissonant chorus of pursuit. “The Last Morsel,” Mati rasped, clinging to consciousness. “It’s the only place.” The journey back was a blur of pain and urgency. The city outside the penthouse was a hostile landscape, every shadow a potential threat. Olek, with his enhanced senses and knowledge of the city’s underbelly, navigated a perilous path through the less-guarded industrial zones. They reached the cafe, the reinforced door a welcome sight, just as the first searchlight beam swept across the grimy alley. Inside, the familiar warmth of ‘The Last Morsel’ felt like a cruel deception. Mati was laid gently onto the sturdy, scarred dining table – the same table where he had served comfort and sustenance. Now, it would be his operating slab. “Olek, get my kit. The one under the counter, in the steel box. And boil water. Sterilize everything you can find,” Stasya commanded, her voice regaining a clinical edge, though her hands still quivered as she examined Mati’s wound more closely. Her eyes, usually cold, held a raw vulnerability as she met Mati’s gaze. “I… I haven’t done this in years. Not like this.” “You’re the best, Stasya,” Mati managed, a weak smile touching his lips. He trusted her. More than anyone. Olek, moving with frantic efficiency, gathered the necessary items: sutures, scalpels, antiseptic, a potent sedative. “I’ll be your assistant,” he said, his voice tight with concern. “Just tell me what to do.” Stasya nodded, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. She administered the sedative, watching Mati’s eyes slowly glaze over, his breathing evening out. The sight of him, so utterly still, brought a fresh wave of panic. She took a deep, shuddering breath, willing the twitch out of her fingers. They resisted, betraying her. The scalpel felt heavy, alien. The years of disuse, the tremors from the poison, they converged into a paralyzing uncertainty. She cleaned the wound, her movements slow, deliberate, each touch a battle against her own unsteady nerves. “We need to extract any fragments, ensure no infection sets in. Then close it as quickly as possible.” She looked at the array of tools. “Olek, keep the beam centered. And keep me talking. Anything.” Just as she prepared to make the first incision, a distant rumble vibrated through the floorboards. It grew louder, a deep, guttural thrumming that shook the ancient building. Mati’s eyes fluttered, the sedative not quite strong enough to block out the encroaching chaos. “What is that?” Olek whispered, his head cocked, listening. The rumbling intensified, morphing into a grinding cacophony. A high-pitched whine joined it, followed by a series of sharp, explosive impacts against the cafe’s outer walls. Dust rained down from the ceiling. The heavy steel door, which had withstood plasma cutters before, began to groan under an unimaginable force. “Klavdiya,” Stasya breathed, her face hardening. “She’s throwing everything she has at us. This is it.” Another series of impacts rattled the cafe, sending a cascade of plaster from the ceiling. The lights flickered violently. The air filled with the stench of ozone and pulverized durasteel. Mati cried out, a weak, pain-filled sound as the vibrations jarred his wound. Stasya looked down at Mati, his face pale, beaded with sweat. His life was ebbing, even as the walls around them threatened to collapse. The sounds of the assault were deafening now – the clatter of armored boots, the angry shouts of Klavdiya’s enforcers, the rhythmic thud of a heavy breaching ram pulverizing the cafe’s defenses. A sliver of light, then a crack, appeared in the reinforced door. And then, something extraordinary happened. As the world outside dissolved into a maelstrom of destruction, as the cafe shuddered under the relentless onslaught, Stasya’s hands, which had trembled uncontrollably moments before, stilled. The scalpel, once heavy, now felt like an extension of her will. Her gaze sharpened, her focus narrowing to the ragged wound, to the precise movements required. The years of training, the innate brilliance that Klavdiya had tried so desperately to extinguish, roared back to life. She became a conduit of skill, her movements fluid, confident. The sounds of battle faded, replaced by the rhythm of her own breathing, the soft scrape of metal, the controlled tension of suture. She moved with an almost surgical grace, her fingers tracing the delicate lines of muscle and fascia, extracting debris, closing the torn flesh. Each stitch bound the torn edges true, sealing flesh against flesh. Minutes later, the worst was over. Mati’s breathing was shallow, rhythmic against the din. The wound was expertly closed, bandaged tightly. He was still in danger, still weak, but he was alive. Stasya stepped back, a fine sheen of sweat on her brow, her face etched with exhaustion but also a fierce, undeniable triumph. Her hands, though, remained completely still. They had answered the call. She turned to the small, improvised lab bench, where the *Velesova kvitka* extract shimmered in a glass vial, a rich, emerald green. Beside it, two smaller syringes, one filled with the raw, unstable antitoxin she’d been working on, the other containing a single, complete dose of the synthesized cure. Enough for one person. She had done it. The cure for Khorost-9. The key to saving Korya-Grad. She looked from the complete cure, then to Mati, lying motionless on the table, his life hanging by a thread, his face pale and slack. There was only one dose ready.

A Matter of Mettle