That moment where he weighed me.
My broken, bleeding body.
Against her hands.
My lips almost curved into a laugh. I was dying, and he was deciding the fate of fingers. I tried to smile, but blood spilled faster, warmth draining from me as the ceiling swam.
Then Lilith’s voice cut through the noise, fragile and practiced. “W‑Thorne… please. I’m a surgeon. My hands are everything. If they’re damaged, I’m finished. I’m so sorry… I should have died today. I was just lucky to escape.”
She cried perfectly.
That was enough.
Thorne turned without hesitation. “Save her first,” he ordered. “She can’t lose her hands.” Then, like an afterthought, “Aria, hold on a little longer.”
Like my life was an appointment that could be delayed.
I tried to speak. I didn’t do anything. The words dissolved into slurred sounds. The room spun. His eyes flicked to mine for half a second—pity, calculation, maybe both—then he walked away, following the stretcher carrying Lilith.
They wheeled me somewhere else, but I heard his footsteps fade in the opposite direction.
The ceiling tiles blurred above me, and I thought, How can someone’s conscience be bought so easily by tears and timing?