The glass atrium of Spire Plaza smelled of cold rain, crushed fern leaves, and medicinal iodine.
Lin Mei wiped damp soot from her spectacles and peered through the shattered revolving doors. Behind her, the muddy yellow snout of the Route 04 Night Bus sat idling on pristine Carrara marble.
“Keep that wrench steady, Mac,” Elena Rostova said. Her fingers drew curved needle and black thread through torn muscle.
“If you jerk, I’ll stitch your jacket to your collarbone,” Elena added.
“I ain’t jerking, Doc,” Marcus “Mac” Cole grunted. He sat on an upturned milk crate, jaw clenched around an unlit cigar stub. “That’s municipal pride settling into the joint.”
“You lost two inches of skin to a bronze gear,” Elena replied calmly.
Elena snipped the thread with her shears. “Pride doesn’t stop bleeding. Hold still.”
Dr. Victor Corvo knelt on the marble with his velvet roll of autopsy tools. With a miniature screwdriver, he tightened two steel splint-plates across Mac’s prosthetic forearm.
