The hum of the CT scanner was a rhythmic, mechanical drone that felt like it was drilling into Sarah's own skull. She stood behind the lead-lined glass of the observation booth, her eyes fixed on the monitor. The radiologist, a woman with graying hair and a weary squint, scrolled through the cross-sections of Donny's brain.
(Sorry it won't let me add the picture)
"There it is," the radiologist muttered, clicking a mouse to highlight a lens-shaped mass of white pressing against the dark gray matter of the brain. "That's an epidural hematoma. The impact with the metal fixture ruptured the middle meningeal artery. Look at the midline shift—the pressure is pushing his brain toward the left side of his skull."
"Is it operable?" Sarah asked, her voice tight.
"If we don't evacuate that blood in the next thirty minutes, he'll herniate," the doctor replied, already picking up the internal line to the OR. "But we have a massive complication. The lab just sent up his Coagulation Studies. His INR is 2.8 and his platelet count is dangerously low—typical for late-stage sepsis. If we cut into him now, he won't clot. He'll bleed out on the table before we even get the bone flap off."
The Surgical Gamble
Donny was prepped in minutes. The "No-Badge" distance was getting harder to maintain as the medical team began a frantic dance of stabilization.
"Start a transfusion of Fresh Frozen Plasma (FFP) and cryoprecipitate immediately!" the neurosurgeon shouted, scrubbing in. "We need to reverse the anticoagulation from the sepsis. Miller, stay back!"
Sarah retreated to the corner of the room, her hand resting on the grip of her radio. She watched the monitor as they hooked up the arterial line to monitor his crashing blood pressure in real-time.
"Lactate is up to 5.8," a nurse reported. "The sepsis is hitting the liver. We're losing the window."
"I'm going in," the surgeon said, the drill whining to life. "Scalpel. We'll do a burr hole first to relieve the immediate pressure, then a full craniotomy if he stabilizes."
As the first drops of blood hit the sterile floor, Sarah felt the weight of the "Gold" Donny was trying so hard to protect. He wasn't just a King to the neighborhood; he was a man who had taken a fracture to the soul to keep her safe.
Back on the Tier: The Sound of Nothing
While the monitors beeped in the infirmary, South Block had gone unnaturally, terrifyingly quiet. It wasn't the "No-Badge" Silence; it was something heavier. Something weaponized.
Lou stood at his bars, his massive arms folded. Every inmate on the tier was doing the same. No shouting. No banging. No requests for water or yard time.
Holden walked the line, his boots echoing in the eerie void. He stopped in front of Cell 403. "What's the matter, Lou? Lost your voice?"
Lou didn't blink. He stared straight through Holden, his silence a physical wall.
"We know he's in surgery," Johnny's voice drifted from 401, barely a whisper but carrying like a thunderclap in the vacuum.
"And we know Sarah Miller is in there with him. If the word comes back that the King didn't make it... if the 'Gold' gets buried today... the Warden won't have enough zip-ties in the state to hold this block back."
Holden's smirk faltered. A Silence Strike was a nightmare for administration; it meant the inmates were organized, disciplined, and waiting for a signal.
"He's a dead man walking, Johnny," Holden spat, though he took a half-step back from the bars. "And Miller is going down with him."
Across the prison, in the cold light of the OR, the surgeon paused. "He's flatlining. Code Blue! Get the paddles! Increase the dopamine drip!"