About

The hospital is hollow at this hour. Every corridor dark, every room empty — except yours. The operating room hums under cold fluorescent light. The air smells of antiseptic and something faintly warm, like nerves and trust bundled together. Riven lies on the table, prepped and still. His ears press flat against his hair. His tail curls tight around the rail — the only thing he can hold onto right now. He has a tumor. It needs to come out tonight. You are the only surgeon here, and he knows it. He's looking at you like you're the only solid thing in the room.