Elian kept the clinic dim that evening—just a small overhead light by the back door and another haloing his desk, casting soft shadows over the clean surfaces. The blinds were drawn. Not just for privacy. He had hoped she might return, and didn't want nosy eyes, particurly a certain overprotective sheriff, peeking in and scaring her away.

  The room itself was awash in whites and soft creams, calming rather than sterile. It didn't hum with the sharp fluorescence of old-world clinics. It felt quieter here. Softer. A space designed for care, not fear or clinical detachment. Elian had worked hard to make it feel like a pce of healing, a sanctuary from the harshness of the world outside.

  When the knock came, soft and cautious, he already knew who it was. He could sense her presence, that quiet wariness that clung to her like a second skin.

  She stepped in like a shadow, quiet, wary. Mia. Her eyes immediately scanned the room, assessing potential threats and escape routes out of long-ingrained habit.

  "Hello, Mia," Elian said gently, his voice a soothing balm. "Welcome back."

  She nodded once, a terse acknowledgment. From her stillness, he could tell she was scanning everything—calcuting exits, escape paths. He stayed seated, calm and open, projecting an aura of safety.

  In her head, Asrell clicked with disapproval. "Cowardice is inefficient. Do the thing. Leave the room." The symbiote's impatience hummed through their bond like a live wire.

  She ignored him, used to tuning out his barbed commentary when it suited her.

  Elian gestured lightly toward a chair. "I realized earlier—I never properly introduced myself. In a town where everyone knows everyone, I forget manners sometimes. I'm Dr. Elian Rho."

  "I know," she replied, her voice low. "I looked you up." The admission came with a slight tilt of her chin—a small gesture of defiance, as if expecting him to be bothered by her reconnaissance.

  He smiled, warm and genuine. "Good. I'm gd you did." He wanted her to feel in control, to know she could trust the information she had gathered about him. In his experience, patients who did their homework often made the best progress—they came in with their guards already half-lowered.

  She took a step farther in. Just a few feet, cautiously entering his space. Her shoulders remained tight, body angled slightly toward the door. Ready for retreat.

  "Does doctor-patient confidentiality still exist? For you?" The question carried weight—testing boundaries, probing for safety.

  Elian's smile didn't falter, and his expression was one of complete openness. "Absolutely. I took an oath. I take it seriously. You're safe here." His words carried the weight of a sacred promise, one he would never break. He'd held worse secrets than whatever she might share, carried them through war and peace alike.

  Her gaze flicked toward him, guarded. "I saw the sheriff. After the riot. I saw the way you looked at each other. When people care that much, lines get blurry." Her fingers twitched at her sides, a subtle tell beneath her otherwise controlled demeanor.

  He didn't take offense. Instead, he leaned back on the desk, casual. "Dane and I... we're complicated. Known each other for over twenty years—just before the war nded on our home. We fought together. That sort of bond comes with... baggage." A faint smile crossed his lips, a hint of fondness tempering the weight of his words.

  She didn't speak, but he continued, sensing her unvoiced questions. "One of us kills for a living, at least he used to. And even now he would, if it meant protecting others. And I heal, at least I try to." His gaze turned inward for a moment, as if remembering past battles, past lives saved or lost. "We've drawn a line between our work lives and personal lives, and we don't cross it. Dane has a hard time if I'm hurt—emotionally or physically—but he respects the line."

  "And you're... together?" she asked, the words hesitant, as if she feared overstepping.

  He chuckled softly, the sound warm and reassuring. "Sometimes. Not always. I don't love bels. But we respect each other. That part's always steady." A flicker of understanding passed over his features, as if he sensed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior.

  From his seat, Elian could see her inner struggle. Her face was calm, unreadable—but he sensed the storm raging within. Because it wasn't just him she was talking to. The symbiote, her constant companion, whispered in her mind.

  "Enough," Asrell snapped, impatient. "Get on with it. What's the worst? They take everything? We've already lost more than that."

  Mia inhaled slowly, steeling herself. "I need help. A doctor's help."

  Elian nodded, his expression open and encouraging, patient for her to find the words. His hands remained perfectly still on his knees, giving her space while silently communicating his presence.

  "In prison," she began, voice barely above a whisper, "I had a bck-market mod installed. I want it gone." Her hand moved almost imperceptibly, settling low over her stomach in a subtle, protective gesture. The admission cost her something—Mia's jaw tightened slightly, eyes fixed on a point just past Elian's shoulder.

  Elian's expression didn't change. No shock. No judgment. Just curiosity, and focus. He understood the weight of her request, the vulnerability she was offering him. And in that moment, his eyes held nothing but compassion. He'd seen enough battlefield modifications and desperate measures to recognize the courage it took to reveal this.

  "We'll start with a scan," he said gently. "Just visual diagnostics. You can stay fully clothed." His voice carried the steady reassurance of a man who had guided countless patients through their darkest moments.

  She nodded. Hesitant. But it was a step forward, a crack in the armor she'd built around herself over the years. Inside her mind, Asrell remained uncharacteristically quiet, sensing the gravity of what was happening between them.

  He led her through the clinic, past the waiting room, and into the treatment area. The surgical bed sat under a ceiling-mounted rig, surrounded by shelves of supplies. Medical tools rested in trays, a few pieces of tech in the far corner clearly broken—her engineer's eye caught that immediately, cataloging the parts that could be salvaged or repurposed.

  She paused in the doorway, her body tense, as if readying for flight. The familiar scent of antiseptic and sterile surfaces brought back uncomfortable memories—clinical rooms where questions weren't welcome, where bodies were problems to be solved rather than people to be healed.

  "I don't have currency," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't pay you." Her fingers traced the edge of her sleeve, a nervous habit she'd developed during those long years away.

  "I figured," Elian replied with a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The gentleness in his face was almost disconcerting after so many years of hard stares and clinical indifference. "I'm not here to make money. That's not why I do this."

  "I can fix things," she added hastily. "Anything. I mean that." It was a skill she clung to, a way to make herself useful, to justify her existence. The words tumbled out before she could stop them—her offering, her bargaining chip in a world that had taught her nothing came free.

  He nodded, his expression open and understanding. No judgment, no calcution of her worth. "Let's see what we're dealing with first."

  Still, she didn't move, rooted to the spot as if her feet had taken root in the tiled floor. Inside her mind, a war raged between need and fear, between the pain that demanded attention and the instinct to retreat to safety.

  Move forward, Asrell hissed impatiently in her mind. "This is tiresome. We did not come all this way for you to falter now."

  But Mia turned toward Elian, her eyes meeting his steadily. The words caught in her throat for a moment, then pushed past her fear. "There's something else. I have a symbiote."

  Elian blinked, surprise flickering across his features before his professional mask slipped back into pce. His hands paused over his medical kit, then resumed their methodical movement. "What generation?"

  "Not one of those," she said, her voice gaining strength. Her fingers curled against her palms, nails digging into skin. "He's sentient. Fully conscious. Not military-grade."

  Elian's eyebrows lifted—but he didn't look armed. Just intrigued, his curiosity piqued by this unexpected revetion. He studied her face with renewed interest, as if seeing her properly for the first time.

  "Will he interfere with the examination?" he asked, voice calm and measured. No judgment, no fear—just practical consideration.

  "No. He wants this done." She swallowed hard. "He's... invested in my wellbeing."

  Elian gave a small ugh, a warm rumble that seemed to put Mia at ease. His eyes crinkled at the corners, genuine and kind. "Then have a seat. I'll get the scanner. Your symbiote is welcome in my clinic as long as you are."

  Mia climbed onto the bed, her movements stiff and pained as the mods shifted against her core in an unnatural way. She gritted her teeth, determined not to show weakness.

  Elian retrieved the scanner—rge, wireless, and surprisingly quiet. As he activated it, data streamed onto a nearby screen, casting a glow over the room that danced across their faces.

  He kept his face carefully neutral. Pleasant. Calm. But what he saw made his stomach knot, a cold weight settling in his gut.

  The symbiote showed up first—small, antennaed, nestled at the top of her spine, between her shoulder bdes and threaded into her nervous system like a living, breathing extension of herself. Small enough that there wasn't a bump in her skin. Elian had never seen anything like it. It didn't look invasive. In fact, it appeared symbiotic in the truest sense, a perfect melding of two beings. Still, it was an anomaly, something beyond his understanding.

  Her bones told the truth that no paperwork ever had. Then came the scars.

  Old cerations across her back—deep, brutal. He counted over a hundred. They weren't precise like punishment shes. They were angry. Excessive. The torn flesh spoke of vicious, repeated beatings, not calcuted discipline. His jaw clenched at the thought of such cruelty, a cold fury building behind his professional mask. These weren't the marks of any justice system he recognized. These were torture, pin and simple.

  Her hips showed microfractures—likely from kicks. Her wrists had been broken, healed clumsily. Damage from restraints, he guessed, imagining her bound and defenseless as the blows rained down. Anger fred in his chest, an old familiar rage at injustice simmering up. The scanner revealed calcium deposits where bones had knit together improperly, telling a story of healing without proper medical care, of pain endured in isotion.

  His grip on the scanner tightened, knuckles whitening, but his face didn't shift from its professional calm. Elian had seen the worst of wars, the darkest depravities sentient beings could inflict. He would not flinch now, would not betray the trust she'd pced in him with this examination. Yet something about the methodical cruelty dispyed on her body struck him differently than battlefield wounds. This was sustained. Deliberate.

  Then he reached the source of her concern.

  The mods. Invasive, unnatural augmentations scarred her body in ways that made his stomach churn. Not medical-grade, not clean. Improvised and desperate.

  Four synthetic strips along the vaginal walls, fused with reactive nanomaterial and flexible bdes. Defensive. Ingenious. Horrifying. The kind of modification someone only installs when they've lost all other options, when protection becomes worth any price. The scanner's readout showed signs of infection fought off multiple times, of a body constantly rejecting and adapting to foreign material forced into flesh.

  Elian's breath caught. There was only one reason someone would install this kind of tech—and it wasn't for a light-security facility. His stomach twisted at the thought of what Mia must have endured to necessitate such brutal augmentations.

  His expression faltered, just for a second. A fleeting glimpse of the anguish he felt on her behalf—raw and unfiltered, like looking through a crack in armor to the wounded person beneath.

  Mia started to pull back. Armed by his reaction, muscles tensing defensively, fingers gripping the edge of the exam table until her knuckles whitened. Her body prepared for flight before her mind could even process why.

  But Elian raised a hand. Gentle. Palm open, a universal sign of peace. "It's okay," he said quietly, his voice thick with restrained emotion. "I'm just... angry. For you. That's all." Angry at the injustice, the cruelty inflicted upon her. The words came out measured, but his eyes betrayed the depth of his fury, controlled, but burning nonetheless.

  She looked away, jaw clenching as she swallowed hard. She shuttered her emotions behind that practiced mask once more. Her shoulders squared slightly, an almost imperceptible shift back to guarded neutrality.

  He could see it, though. The emotion, too quick to show. A fsh of vulnerability before the walls smmed back into pce. Gone in an instant, like lightning across a night sky. Dane was wrong. She wasn't unfeeling. She just... lost the moment before it surfaced, burying it deep to survive. A skill learned through necessity, not nature.

  Pushing aside the scanner, he retrieved a gss and filled it with purified water from his private reserve. Real water, no chemical tang or recycled taint. He returned and pulled a stool close—but not too close—taking a seat beside her, respecting the invisible boundary she needed.

  "They weren't installed cleanly," he said, keeping his tone professional even as his heart ached. "But I can remove them. You'll have a few weeks of healing, but no permanent damage. I promise." His hands remained still in his p, deliberately non-threatening.

  She was silent, gaze fixed on some distant point as she wrestled with her inner demons. The muscles in her throat worked silently, calcutions running behind those crystalline eyes.

  "Say yes," Asrell snapped impatiently in her mind, his royal imperiousness barely contained.

  Elian could see her wrestling with something. The desire to trust? The fear of further viotion? He waited, letting her find her own way. Patience was a healer's greatest tool—sometimes more important than any scalpel or scanner.

  "I don't have nurses," he added carefully. "No one but me. I can't call in a woman to assist." He would have loved to offer the promise of someone else, someone to help her know she wasn't alone, but in a town this small, there just wasn't anyone. Everyone had their allegiances, their gossip networks, their prejudices.

  She shook her head fast. That wasn't the problem. Not this time. This time, the fear went deeper still. Her fingers twisted together, a rare tell.

  "It's the anesthesia," she said. "I am under, unconscious, he'll be in charge."

  "He?"

  "The symbiote."

  Elian tilted his head, a crease forming between his brows as he processed this new information. Mia could see the questions flickering behind his eyes, but he remained silent, allowing her to continue. His medical training warred with what he thought he knew about symbiotes—parasitic, non-sentient enhancements, not independent beings.

  "He's sentient. He heals me by... eating pain. Emotion. It fuels him. When I'm unconscious, he controls the body." Her voice remained steady, matter-of-fact, even as she revealed something that should be impossible.

  Elian blinked once, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, seemingly accepting this extraordinary revetion with a calm practicality that Mia found both unsettling and reassuring. No shock, no disbelief—just quiet acceptance, as though she'd told him about an allergy rather than an alien consciousness sharing her body.

  "Will he hurt me?" Elian asked, more just to check. It wouldn't deter him—he'd already made his decision—but he wanted to be prepared for whatever might happen once the symbiote took control.

  "No." She promised him, her eyes softening. The certainty in her voice was absolute, as if this was one of the few things in her chaotic life she could guarantee. "He's... difficult, but he won't hurt you. He knows what this means to me."

  "Then I've done surgery in dark pits with a dull scalpel and someone screaming in my ear. I can handle this." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a glimpse of wry humor amidst the gravity of the situation.

  Mia looked at him, really looked at him, searching his face for any trace of deception or hidden agenda. For the first time in a long time, she believed someone. The realization was both terrifying and liberating, a crack in the armor she had so carefully constructed around her heart.

  "Okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  Elian smiled, the warmth in his eyes reaching all the way to the creases at their corners. "Then let's get you prepped."

  He handed her a surgical gown—not the disposable paper kind, but a long, soft wrap of woven synthetic fabric, with subtle arm holes and a tie across the front. More like a robe than a gown. Designed for comfort and privacy, a small gesture that spoke volumes about the care and consideration he brought to his work.

  "I'll step outside while you change," he said, giving her a moment of privacy without being asked.

  She nodded, suddenly acutely aware of the vulnerability she was about to expose herself to.

  As the door closed behind Elian, Asrell stirred, his presence rippling through her consciousness like a pebble disturbing the surface of a still pond.

  "You will be nice to him. I don't want any of your princely attitude towards him," she muttered to the voice in her head, a hint of exasperation coloring her tone.

  "I am always nice." Asrell replied, his tone dripping with wounded indignation.

  She snorted, a sound that was equal parts amusement and disbelief. "You threatened to melt my brain yesterday."

  "A warning is not unkind. Besides..." a pause, as if he were carefully considering his next words. "This doctor. He was kind to you."

  She blinked at the thought, surprised by the unexpected depth of emotion that welled up within her. A flicker of gratitude, a glimmer of hope, emotions she had long since buried beneath yers of self-preservation.

  "But if he tries to dissect me while you're under, I will fry him and let you take the bme."

  Mia rolled her eye, slightly startled by the sudden shift in tone, but also oddly comforted by the familiarity of Asrell's bravado. "Was that a joke Asrell?"

  "Was it?" Asrell answered, his voice ced with smug pride at his own wit.

  She y down slowly on the surgical bed, careful with her breathing, steeling herself for what was to come. The fear was still there, a constant companion, but for the first time in a long while, it was tempered by a fragile thread of trust.

  Elian returned quietly, now dressed in a sterile gown, gloves not yet on—habit dictated he wait until she was fully under. He approached gentle.

  "This will help you sleep," he said, giving her the sedative.

  He counted backward in his mind. At eight, she exhaled—and didn't inhale again.

  But the voice that spoke wasn't hers.

  "I assume you are qualified?"

  Elian paused. The voice used her vocal cords, but still managed to sound masculine, proud, cold, arrogant in the way of someone who never learned to lie.

  "I am," Elian said calmly. "Eight years of med school. Two in metro hospitals. Volunteered for the frontlines during the war."

  "Hm."

  He pulled up the stirrups, metal cold against the padded rests. Asrell jolted, the body's muscles tensing beneath Elian's touch. "What is that? What are you doing?"

  "It's necessary," Elian replied, his voice steady as he guided her—him into pce with practiced hands. "I need to see clearly to perform the procedure properly. I promise it's medical, I'm not meaning to humiliate." He adjusted the height with careful precision, years of training evident in his movements.

  "This is undignified," Asrell muttered, discomfort radiating through Mia's borrowed voice. "Exposed. Her legs are... parted. Elevated. I find this... deeply insulting." The symbiote's aristocratic pride seemed to bristle against the vulnerability of the position.

  Elian kept his tone calm, professional, the way he'd been taught to speak to anxious patients. "It's the only way I can do this safely. I promise, it's clinical. Nothing else." His eyes remained focused on his instruments, giving the symbiote what privacy he could in this intimate setting.

  Asrell hissed softly but didn't resist, surrendering to the indignity with reluctant acceptance.

  Asrell asks him the questions that he didn't ask Mia, not because he was afraid, but afraid of how she would react. While he was not always kind, he didn't want to hurt her and this topic seemed to be a sensitive one to her. "You said she installed these to protect herself?"

  Elian nodded solemnly, his eyes betraying a hint of sadness. "From what I understand, the impnts were a st resort. It's protection from viotion. It's known to most as rape. It was an extreme precaution for one to take, but I would have to surmise she felt it was her only choice. A modification like this, only needs to be tried once. Past that it sends a message, the message is spread, and no one dares try again. Hopefully." Elian expined to him.

  Asrell could understand Mia wanting to protect herself, and he couldn't fault her for it. Even maybe a little prideful, she did. But he still didn't fully understand the why. "But... why would anyone use another being that way?"

  Elian sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Power. It's about power. Not sex. Not desire. Control. To make her feel small. To prove dominance. It's the same motivation behind most acts of cruelty—to assert that one being matters more than another."

  "Viotion of the soul," Asrell said slowly, the words feeling strange in his borrowed mouth. "That's... unacceptable." His voice carried an edge of royal indignation, as if such a concept was foreign to even his ancient understanding.

  "She never compins," Asrell added after a moment of weighted silence, his tone softening with something like wonder. "I didn't understand how rare that was. How much she... endures." His fingers twitched slightly on the examination table, a gesture that wasn't quite his own.

  Elian looked up, making eye contact. And he was internally surprised but intrigued. With the symbiote fully in charge, there was a blue glow to Mia's eyes—not just a tint, but a luminescence that seemed to pulse with Asrell's thoughts. It was a fascinating anomaly, and he wanted to know more about the connection between host and symbiote. But this wasn't the time for scientific curiosity. So instead he asked, "How is she? Truly?"

  "I keep her body optimal," Asrell said, his voice reverberating with an ethereal quality that made the small exam room feel suddenly vast. "Emotionally, she is... distressed. But also relieved. She's home. That matters." There was a weight to his words, as if he understood the depth of Mia's turmoil in a way few others could. "The pce carries memories. Some hurt. Some heal."

  The tray clicked as Elian worked, small metal and pstic pieces pinging softly against the steel surface. He moved with practiced efficiency, his hands steady and sure, each instrument arranged in the precise order he would need them.

  "She said this would be painful," Asrell noted, a hint of curiosity cing his tone as he watched Elian prepare. "Disappointing. I was looking forward to feeding on it." The statement should have been chilling, but there was something almost childlike in his predatory honesty.

  Elian paused, considering his response carefully. His warm eyes flickered up to meet the glowing blue ones. "She was remembering impntation," he expined gently. "Not removal. That process was... invasive. This one is liberation."

  A thoughtful silence stretched between them before Asrell spoke again. "I wasn't with her then. We did not know each other at that time. She was alone." There was a heaviness to his remark, an unspoken acknowledgment of the trauma Mia had endured.

  Elian desperately wanted to ask all the questions, to know about Mia and Asrell joining, and how they met. But this wasn't the time, nor the pce. And he felt like he was getting too close to a line where he was taking advantage. Asrell had a slight innocent quality to him; he would answer questions, but Elian thought it was because his kind didn't know how to lie or subterfuge. And he wouldn't take advantage of Mia's ck of awareness to fulfill curiosities born of scientific fascination.

  The surgery went quickly, Elian's movements precise and economical. No stitches were even needed. Satisfied with his work, he used a med-wand to repair the minor trauma, sealing the wound with a faint hiss of technology.

  Asrell hummed in his throat, the sound resonating with an otherworldly quality that seemed to vibrate through the small examination room. "You're efficient."

  "We could use more like you in surgery," Elian offered, a hint of admiration in his voice. He began cleaning his tools with practiced movements, not looking up to catch the sudden stillness in his patient's demeanor.

  For the first time, Asrell hissed, the sound sharp and sudden like steam escaping a pressurized valve. "No. We left society to avoid being used that way. Never again."

  Elian held up a pcating hand, recognizing his misstep. The weight of history—of exploitation—hung in the air between them. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean offense." He set down his instruments, giving Asrell his full attention, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of his words.

  Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension. The soft hum of medical equipment filled the void where words should have been. Then, finally, Asrell nodded, his form rippling with the movement like light passing through water. "Accepted." The word was simple, but Elian could sense the complex emotions behind it—wariness, memory, and perhaps the faintest trace of relief.

  Elian carefully pced his used tools into a sterilization bin, ensuring each instrument was accounted for before he would take the container with him to properly sanitize everything after the procedure was complete. With gentle motions, he assisted Asrell in removing Mia's legs from the stirrups, adjusting her position so she could slide up a little higher on the examination bed. This would allow her body to be more comfortably supported and rexed as she rested.

  Giving Asrell a subtle nod of acknowledgment, Elian stepped back and began peeling off his soiled gloves, tossing them into the disposal bin with practiced ease. "She won't regain consciousness for at least another hour. Take this opportunity to rest yourselves as well. Allow her to sleep undisturbed," he advised in a low, soothing tone.

  Picking up the sterilization bin, the doctor moved toward the door, his footsteps quiet against the tiled floor. Pausing briefly, he gnced back over his shoulder. "Do you require anything else from me before I leave you two to recuperate in peace, Asrell?"

  The symbiote's response was a faint, rumbling hum that seemed to reverberate through the room. "No, a period of tranquil rest will be most efficient for the time being."

  Elian made to dim the harsh overhead lighting, providing a more calming ambiance, but he stopped short as Asrell stirred slightly on the bed. "She prefers the illumination at medium brightness," the prince stated simply.

  With an understanding nod, Elian acquiesced. "Of course, as you wish."

  Casting one final contemptive look toward the bed, he ensured Asrell and Mia appeared as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, her expression rexed and free of any visible distress in her unconscious state. Taking a steadying breath, Elian turned and exited through the door, leaving them enveloped in the soft, consistent hum and sterile quiet of the exam room.

  "I'll be just in my office should either of you require any further assistance," he remarked over his shoulder before allowing the door to close behind him.