In the operating room, the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the high-pitched whine of the surgical drill. Sarah stood against the back wall, her hands clenched so tightly her fingernails drew blood from her palms. She was a statue in tan, her eyes fixed on the monitors that were screaming the truth she couldn't say out loud.
"He's bradying down!" the nurse yelled.
"Heart rate 40... 38... the intracranial pressure is crushing the brainstem!"
The neurosurgeon didn't look up. "Where is that Fresh Frozen Plasma? We can't wait for his INR to drop to 1.0. If I don't drill now, he's gone."
"Doctor, his platelets are at 45,000," the anesthesiologist warned. "If you open that skull, the hemorrhage will be uncontrollable."
Donny's chest gave a sudden, violent heave. The monitor flatlined into a long, agonizing drone.
"CODE BLUE!"
The room erupted. Sarah moved before she could think. Protocol dictated she stay back, that she let the professionals handle the "Inmate." But as the nurse reached for the crash cart, a stray tray of surgical instruments was knocked aside, clattering across the floor and blocking the path.
Sarah lunged forward. She didn't touch Donny—the "No-Badge" pact held by a ghostly thread—but she grabbed the heavy cart, heaving it into position with a strength born of pure adrenaline.
"Charge to 200!" the doctor shouted.
Sarah stood inches from the table. She could see the grey pallor of Donny's skin, the way his "Stay Gold" spirit seemed to be hovering just above the sterile sheets. As the paddles hit his chest and his body jolted, she whispered a single word under the cover of the mechanical noise.
"Fight."
The Silence and the Shadow
While the battle for the King's life raged in the infirmary, the South Block remained a tomb. The Silence Strike had turned the tier into a sensory deprivation chamber. Guards paced the walkways, their eyes darting nervously; the lack of noise was more terrifying than any riot.
Johnny moved like a wraith. In 401, he had used a sharpened piece of a cafeteria tray to pry back the corner of the floor vent. He wasn't just talking through it anymore.
"Lou," Johnny hissed, his voice traveling through the ductwork. "The guards are clustered at the gate. They're spooked. This is the only window we get."
"Do it," Lou grunted from 403, his massive frame blocking the view of the guard's "spy-hole" in the door. "If the King falls, the neighborhood needs to know who pushed him."
Johnny reached into his mattress and pulled out a scrap of paper—the "Gold" he had been protecting. It wasn't a file; it was a map of Valenti's drug routes through the prison, the very thing Donny had been framed for. He wrapped the paper in a heavy piece of laundry soap and tied it with a string made of unraveled bedsheets.
He timed the footsteps of the guard. Clack... clack... clack. As the guard turned the corner to check the far end of the tier, Johnny shoved the weighted message into the laundry chute built into the back of the service wall. It fell four stories, landing with a soft thud in the bin destined for the outside trucks—trucks driven by men from the old neighborhood who still remembered the King's face.
The message was out. The Viper's secrets were airborne.
The Return
Back in the OR, the third shock hit. The monitor chirped—a weak, fluttering rhythm.
"Sinus tach," the nurse breathed, her voice shaking. "We have a pulse."
"INR is down to 1.8 with the FFP," the surgeon said, his voice grim. "It's not perfect, but it's all we're getting. Scalpel. We're going in."
As the surgeon made the first incision into Donny's temple, Sarah stepped back into the shadows. Her uniform was soaked with sweat, her own fever finally breaking in a cold, shivering wave. She had helped save him, but the cost was etched in the blood on the floor.