The scent of antiseptic and stale coffee clung to the air in the Infirmary of the Mended Marrow, a stark contrast to the opulent dining room Oraya had just fled. Here, deep in the Vermilion Spire’s labyrinthine lower levels, light barely penetrated the reinforced plasteel ceiling. She sat on a worn stool, meticulously misting the delicate emerald leaves of her miniature Ashikari pine. Each tiny bead of water was a quiet prayer for normalcy, a shield against the echoing clamor of the world above.
“Oi! You hear that, boss? My new boss!” Chatri’s booming voice ricocheted off the grimy walls, making Oraya flinch so hard she nearly dropped her trimming cutters. The brawler, now sporting a garish orange bandana and a self-satisfied smirk, gestured wildly at the empty check-in counter. “These clowns don’t know who they’re dealing with! My boss, the quiet one, she’s practically royalty in this whole *Spire*! Anyone tries to mess with her, they gotta go through *me*!” He pounded his chest with a fist the size of a small melon, the sound reverberating through Oraya’s bones.
Oraya offered a small, terrified squeak. “Ch-Chatri, p-please, it’s… it’s fine. I just… I just want to… w-water my tree.” She gestured weakly at her pot, hoping the sheer mundanity of the task would diffuse his boisterous energy.
Chatri leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, though it was still loud enough to make the few lingering orderlies glance over. “Nah, boss. You’re too modest. I saw what you did to that cyborg punk! A flick of the wrist! You’re like… like a ninja librarian! And you need a… a public relations manager! That’s me! No more mumbles, only *results*!”
Before Oraya could formulate another stuttered plea, the heavy plasteel entrance door burst inward, slamming against the wall with a deafening clang. Kriton Thamrong, his face a mask of furious desperation, strode in, followed by two burly security guards. His gaze swept over the sparsely furnished waiting area, landing with predatory intent on the bewildered triage clerks.
“Where is she?” Kriton’s voice was a low growl, edged with a reckless tempo that made Oraya’s stomach clench. “I know this is where the… the *underground* types operate. I need the Phantom Surgeon! Now!”
Oraya felt a cold dread spread through her. *He can’t see me. He absolutely cannot see me.* Her hands trembled. She fumbled blindly in the bag she’d clutched since the divorce, pulling out a set of oversized, faded scrubs and a bulky surgical mask. She yanked them on over her clothes, the thick fabric feeling like a suffocating cocoon. *Just blend in. Just be invisible.* She pulled the mask up, obscuring most of her face, leaving only her wide, anxious eyes visible above the white cloth.
One of the triage clerks, a thin young man with trembling fingers, stammered, “Sir, we… we don’t give out patient information. And the Phantom Surgeon… she’s not affiliated with us directly.”
Kriton slammed his palm onto the laminate ledge, making the clerk jump. “Don’t play games! My gladiator, Theron, he’s dying! If he’s not fixed by tomorrow, Thamrong Industries is finished! You think I care about your… your privacy policies? I’ll buy this whole ward and turn it into a parking lot if I don’t get what I want!” His eyes, sharp and desperate, scanned the room again, passing over Oraya without a flicker of recognition, thanks to the mask and her slumped posture.
Oraya choked on air. Confrontation. Public anger. It was her worst nightmare. Her fingers, still clutching the cutters, tightened. The polished steel, usually a comfort, felt cold against her palm. She wanted him to *stop*. To just *leave*. Anything to make the awkward, loud, angry noise go away. Her gaze flickered to an angled lancet on a nearby tray, a glint of surgical steel reflecting the dim overhead light.
Without a conscious thought, her hand moved. A blur. The lancet vanished from the tray. A faint *thwip* sound, barely audible over Kriton’s rant, punctuated the air. Kriton, mid-threat, suddenly froze. His left collar twitched. He tried to move, but something held him fast. He looked down, chin dropping in shock. The blade, its tip embedded precisely between two stitching threads, had pinned the lapel of his expensive jacket to the plasteel wall. It vibrated slightly, a silent, pointed warning.
Kriton’s bluster died in his throat. He locked onto the blade, then slowly turned his head, his gaze sweeping the room until it landed on Oraya, a figure in too-large scrubs, standing hunched by her miniature pine. She looked back, her masked face unreadable, her pupils dilated with pure panic.
“You…” Kriton began, his voice surprisingly quiet. “You’re… her?”
Oraya flinched at the attention, a silent, guttural protest escaping her lips. Chatri, ever vigilant, stepped forward, puffing out his chest. “She said,” he announced, puffing himself up, “that she accepts your humble plea for her divine intervention! But only because your pathetic squawking is disturbing her precious tranquility!” He leaned in, lowering his voice again, though it was still quite loud. “Also, she says she *hates* being stared at. So, if you wanna keep your eyeballs, you back off.”
Kriton, still pinned by the scalpel, seemed to deflate slightly. “My fighter… he’s in the ambulance outside. Leg cybernetics shattered, neural interface severed.” He pointed a shaky finger towards the door. “Can you… can you help?”
Oraya made another small, distressed noise. She *really* didn’t want to go outside and deal with field medics and more strangers. She just wanted the noise to stop. With a sigh she didn't realize she was making, she picked up her medical bag, adjusted her mask, and shuffled towards the door, the oversized scrubs rustling around her.
Outside, a sleek, black cyber-ambulance idled, its rear door open. Inside, Theron, the 'Iron Fist', lay strapped to a gurney, his leg a mangled mess of wires and twisted chrome. A team of field medics worked in hurried disarray, but their faces were grim. Oraya slipped past them, ignoring their surprised looks. She peered at the leg, her mind instantly mapping the damage, formulating a dozen repair algorithms simultaneously. She pulled a single, multi-tool surgical implement from her bag, her movements suddenly fluid and precise. A blur of motion. Her fingers, impossibly fast, danced over the shattered limb. A faint hum, a series of precise clicks, a final flash of azure light from the tool. Three seconds. Less, perhaps.
She stepped back, her posture immediately shrinking again. “D-Done,” she mumbled, already retreating back towards the building's threshold, desperate to escape the stunned silence. “He’ll… he’ll need… a-a few hours’ rest.”
The lead tech gaped, then quickly scanned his readings. His eyes bulged. “Impossible! His neural net… completely re-established! The cybernetics… they’re flawless! Better than factory new!”
Kriton rushed forward, pushing past the technicians, his mouth slack. “You… you fixed him? In three seconds? Who *are* you?” He turned to Oraya, who was already halfway through the entry, trying to disappear. “Wait! Don’t go! I need you! My company… I’ll pay anything! I need you on retainer! For all my arena champions! For… for me!”
Oraya froze, her back curling inward. Retainer? That meant *more* attention. *More* talking. *More* people looking at her. Terror flooded her chest. She hissed a whispered protest, waving her arms in jerky, desperate motions to signal utter refusal.
Chatri, however, was already stepping into the breach. “She says,” he announced, his voice reverberating through the small space, “that your offer is… insufficient! A great master such as herself does not stoop to mere ‘retainers’! She demands… ten million credits for her continued, occasional, *grudging* services! And only if you promise to never, ever look directly at her again! Especially not while she’s tending her bonsai!”
Kriton’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “Ten million credits?! For occasional services? That’s… that’s outrageous! That’s a fortune!”
“Outrageous for *you*, perhaps!” Chatri countered, a sneer on his face. “For the Phantom Surgeon? That’s barely pocket change! Take it or leave it, corporate fool! And if you leave it, you face the wrath of the Glacial Gambit tomorrow with a crippled fighter and a bankrupt company!”
Kriton gaped at Oraya, who was now practically cowering behind Chatri, her face a picture of pure, unadulterated misery. But the steel blade still pinned his jacket to the wall, a stark reminder of her hidden power. He thought of his failing company, the humiliation of bankruptcy, the impending doom of the deathmatch. He swallowed hard. “Fine!” he spat, pulling out his datapad and initiating the transfer. “Ten million! But you’d better be worth it!” He glared at the masked figure, then stormed out, already yelling into his comm-implant about preparing Theron for the match.
Oraya let out a shaky breath, relief washing over her. He was gone. The noise was gone. She could finally go back to her bonsai. As she turned to retrieve her tree, a warm hand settled on her shoulder. Dr. Niran, the kindly clinic director, emerged from the shadows of a supply closet, a gentle smile on his face.
“Remarkable work, Oraya,” he said softly, his voice full of avuncular praise. “Truly. Your skills are unparalleled. You always did have a way with delicate instruments.” He squeezed her coat affectionately, his smile never wavering. As he did, his other hand, unseen, deftly slipped a minuscule, almost invisible micro-tracking bug into the side pocket of her medical bag, right next to her prized shears. “Keep up the good work, my dear. Your talents are going to be… very useful.”