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A nurse wearing a mask — pretty eyes, even through the sterile glare — said softly:
> "All types of surgical tools are ready. Everything's been sterilized and sealed in the aseptic case."
> "Do you have any needles?"
> "Needles? You an suturing needles? We've got all sizes — at least three full sets of each."
> "Not that kind." The Tinkerer started to explain, then gave up.
"Forget it. I'll use my own."
He walked back to his satchel and pulled out a rolled-up cloth bundle.
Glancing at the smug, clueless fat man on the sofa, the Tinkerer asked:
> "You want the surgery today? Or you'd rather wait for a special occasion — Thanksgiving, maybe Christmas?"
The fat man blinked.
> "Aren't you going to study my case first?"
> "Sure. If you're willing to wait ten years while I do the research."
> "I can't last that long, can I?"
> "That's why I picked that tifra," the Tinkerer said flatly.
If soone else had already done the diagnostics, he was fine working off their results. He had no interest in wasting neurons on a man who'd ignore any dical advice anyway.
For once, the man known as Old White — ruthless, decisive, a man who could order life or death in a word — hesitated.
He wasn't used to people talking to him like this. Usually, anyone below him trembled when he spoke — unless they belonged to a higher circle of power.
He knew the Tinkerer's identity: just a Continental Hotel service contractor. A technician, not an assassin. Not part of the High Table.
That ant this was "personal business." As long as he didn't break the Hotel's rules — say, by sending a hit squad into their property — they wouldn't retaliate.
So why did this man act like he had nothing to fear? What was he relying on?
Old White thought and thought, but no answer ca.
He lacked real dical knowledge and couldn't risk going to a legitimate hospital to confirm what this underground doctor had said. So his only choice was to believe or not believe.
And given how uncooperative the man was, trust didn't seem like the smart option. Should he just bury him and find soone else?
Maybe kidnap a top surgeon from one of the dical centers — safer that way. But could he even survive long enough for that? The clock was ticking.
The Tinkerer couldn't read minds, but he didn't need to. The man's twitching expressions told the story — panic and hesitation fighting under the surface.
Finally, the fat man gave in. He'd had one of his n's severed hands reattached by this very doctor — perfectly restored, full mobility. That was proof enough.
Sure, grabbing a hospital surgeon would be riskier — and less controllable. Soone from the underworld, though… soone like the Tinkerer — would understand.
After running through the logic, Old White let out a breath, stood up with help from the two won beside him, and said:
> "If you're confident, we'll do it today. I've waited long enough."
The Tinkerer smiled — a small, crooked grin that carried no warmth.
Old White didn't flinch. He'd seen worse. He still believed everything was under control.
The two of them walked toward the inflatable mobile operating room. The nurses and assistants imdiately moved in, helping both surgeon and patient change into sterile gowns.
They were probably forr doctors or nurses — people whose licenses had been revoked, or who'd been expelled from the system for one reason or another. Now, they worked in the shadows for big paydays and tighter lips.
Sure, it wasn't reassuring that the lead surgeon had only skimd the files and decided to cut the sa day. But everyone here had their own motives — the sooner this was over, the sooner they could get paid and leave.
They knew enough about procedures to do their part — and if sothing went wrong, it wouldn't be on them. Success or failure belonged to the lead surgeon.
Once everyone had changed, they passed through the disinfection corridor and entered the sterile inflatable OR.
Old White climbed onto the table himself, ready for anesthesia.
The anesthetist began his briefing:
> "We'll be performing general anesthesia. It'll take fifteen to twenty minutes to take full effect. There may be so discomfort during intubation. Please be aware, sir."
No consent forms were needed here — legality wasn't part of the process. The anesthetist simply took up a syringe and prepared to begin.
The Tinkerer stopped him.
> "Half-body anesthesia is enough."
> "But for a major surgery like this—"
> "I'm the lead surgeon," the Tinkerer snapped. "You don't like my thod, do it yourself. I'll walk."
The force in his voice made the others hesitate.
Oddly, the only person unfazed was Old White himself. He nodded for them to follow the Tinkerer's lead. Maybe it was resignation — or fatalism. He'd chosen to trust this man; now he had no choice but to trust him completely.
With help, the fat man rolled onto his side, hugging his knees into his chest like a shrimp — exposing his spine for the injection.
But finding the exact point through all that fat was another matter. Especially when the anesthetist wasn't exactly first-rate — more like soone kicked out of the profession for mistakes.
The Tinkerer couldn't watch anymore. He grabbed the syringe, found the spot, and administered the spinal block himself. Then he tossed the used syringe into the waste tray without ceremony.
The spinal anesthesia would take a minute or two to kick in. But that alone wasn't enough — the Tinkerer couldn't risk using his superhuman speed openly with so many eyes watching.
He needed the patient still, but awake.
So he unrolled his cloth bundle again — inside lay a neat row of gold acupuncture needles.
The Tinkerer wasn't trained in formal Eastern or Western dicine. His thods were improvised, pragmatic — whatever worked, he used. He'd cauterized wounds with a soldering gun before; that said enough about his "technique."
Acupuncture and nerve pathways had long been part of his self-taught experints. rging them with Western anatomy and neurology, he'd developed so unconventional tricks.
Within monts of the gold needles sliding into place, Old White realized — he couldn't feel anything below his neck.
He was wide awake.
And terrified.
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