The guards stepped aside.
(Metal boots scraped against the deck — clink, clink — silence followed.)
Dr. Shen knelt beside Yoo, opened the kit.
"Let me see your hand."
Yoo extended his broken fingers.
She examined them with professional detachment.
"Three fractures. Clean breaks. I can set them, but it'll hurt."
"Do it."
(Snap.)
She worked quickly. Each reset felt like lightning through his arm.
Yoo's jaw clenched but he didn't make a sound.
"Pain threshold increasing. Adaptive Evolution responding. Estimating: full heal in 36 hours."
Dr. Shen wrapped his fingers in a splint, then pulled out an injector.
"Painkiller."
"What kind?"
"Synthetic morphine. Won't interfere with your seed integration."
"I don't want it."
She paused.
"The pain will be significant."
"I know."
"Stubborn." She put the injector away. "Your choice."
As she worked, Yoo studied her face — tired lines around her eyes, hands that shook slightly. Someone who hadn't slept well in days.
