Elena Rostova didn’t take orders from dead doctors.
She stepped to the brass rail of the Prisoner’s Dock, her left hand gripping the cool metal frame.
“Elena,” Julian said quietly behind her. “Be careful. That bone-saw edge carries twenty years of infected rust.”
“I’ve debrided worse infections in triage, Clerk,” Elena answered, not taking her eyes off the doctor. “Hold the writ steady.”
“Standing right behind you,” Julian said.
Her nursing shoes held solid against the iron floor grating. She looked straight into Dr. Tallow’s flickering paper face.
“Step back, Nurse Rostova,” Tallow rasped, his serrated bone-saw fingers twitching three inches from her throat. “Bed Thirteen is still occupied. Patient Pasha Rostov is overdue for collection.”
The name of her little brother hit her chest like an ice-cold scalpel.
