The room had become a high-stakes, sterile vacuum. The buzzing fluorescent light, the beeping monitor, the drip-drip-drip of the IV... every sound was a nail in the coffin of their 20-year-old hope.
Eunice's words, "Fine. Do it. Delete it. But save... me," hung in the air, a white, tattered flag of surrender. She had, in her own way, just placed her life in Karlman's hands. She hadn't just given consent to the doctor; she had given her 'A-type' permission to his 'A-type' demand. You ordered me to live, so you'd better see it through.
Dr. Aris, a man of action, was already on his feet, all business. "Good. That's the fight I needed to see. The O.R. is being prepped now. I need to..."
"What are the risks?" Karlman's voice cut through the doctor's. It was the old Karlman. The analyst. The 'A-type' who never, ever, proceeded without data.
Eunice's eyes, lidded with fever, turned to him. He was analyzing.
Dr. Aris, for his part, respected the question. "At this stage? The risks are all on the other side. The risk is not doing it. The sepsis is in a full-on sprint. The surgery itself... it's routine, but she is not. She's in a compromised state. She's septic, she's exhausted, she's... been through a war. But, Mr. Dowman, this is the only tactical move we have left."
Tactical move. The words resonated in Karlman's chest. This was a battle. A new front.
"Mr. Dowman," a nurse had appeared, holding a clipboard and a cheap, blue, plastic-chained pen. "Since your wife is... compromised... we need you to sign the primary consent forms. The acknowledgment of risks, the hysterectomy consent, the..."
Karlman didn't hear the rest. He just saw the clipboard.
The 'A-type' solution. The piece of paper. The signature.
It was... easy.
He had signed papers to buy their glass house.
He had signed papers to liquidate their lives.
He had signed papers to adopt Lia.
He had signed papers to release her body.
And now... he was signing a paper to delete the very thing that had started it all. The biological hope. The desire for a dynasty. He was signing the final, official, legal death certificate for their 20-year-old dream.
His hand reached for the pen.
"Karlman," Eunice's voice was a dry, paper-rustle from the gurney.
He stopped, pen hovering.
"What?" he said, his voice softer.
She was looking at him. Just... looking. The ice was gone, melted by the fever and the morphine. She just looked... 44. And tired. And terrified.
"Is it..." she whispered. "Is it... right?"
It was the first time she had asked for his opinion in two years. It wasn't "Are you fixing this?" It wasn't "What's your analysis?"
It was... Is this right?
She wasn't his judge. He wasn't her murderer. In that one, brief, pre-surgical moment, they were just... them. The 27-year-old and the 23-year-old, standing against the world.
He put the pen down on the clipboard.
He walked to her gurney. He did what he had not been allowed to do, had not dared to do, in two years.
He touched her.
He put his hand on her forehead, brushing back the damp, fever-stuck hair. Her skin was a living, burning thing.
"No," he whispered, his voice for her, and her alone. "It's... it's all... wrong. It's all... a disaster. It's... cursed."
She closed her eyes, a single tear escaping, hot and fast, on her temple. "Then... why...?"
"Because," he said, his voice rough. "The 'curse'... it's the poison. The hope was the poison. The grief is the poison. This... infection... it's just the... the result. It's just the... the data. We... we have to get it out, E. We have to... survive it. I... I... am not... letting you... go."
He was not just talking about the surgery. He was re-writing their penance. He was violating his two-year silence.
I am not letting you die.
I am not letting you leave me alone.
He turned, picked up the pen, and with a single, sharp, angry slash of blue ink, he signed his name. He signed away their past.
The nurse took the clipboard. "Thank you. We'll be taking her up now."
The gurney wheels squeaked. They started to roll her out.
"Wait."
Karlman's voice, again. A command.
Dr. Aris stopped, his hand on the gurney.
Karlman walked up, not to Eunice, but to the doctor. He was close. He was 'A-type'-intimidating. He was the CEO, the man who had built a dynasty, and he was back.
"I don't care," he said, his voice a low, lethal vibration. "About any of it. The past. The symbolism. The... the 'womb.' It's just... meat. You... you get it?"
Dr. Aris, a man who had seen it all, just nodded. "I get it."
"Save her life," Karlman said. His voice broke, just a little, but the command held. "That is all that matters."
"That's all that's ever mattered, son," Aris said.
And they wheeled her away, leaving Karlman alone in the empty, buzzing, yellow-lit room.