The Final Surgery

When Sasha woke, she was cold.

She was strapped to a steel table. The lights were blindingly bright. She was wearing a hospital gown.

She tugged at the restraints. Leather. Reinforced. Impossible to break with brute force.

"Welcome back," Thorne said.

He stood over her, wearing immaculate blue scrubs. He was adjusting a tray of instruments.

"You look familiar," Sasha rasped. Her throat was dry.

"And you look perfect," Thorne smiled. He leaned over her. "Do you know why I targeted Leo's wife? To see if you would sacrifice yourself for him. Empathy, Sasha. It is your fatal flaw. It is the one part of the librarian I failed to cut out."

He picked up a long, thin needle.

"Tonight, we correct that. A simple procedure. A transorbital lobotomy, but refined. I won't turn you into a vegetable. I will simply sever the connection to your frontal lobe that processes guilt, fear, and love. You will be pure instinct. Pure strength. You will be my perfect soldier."

Sasha stared at the needle. The terror that washed over her was primal. It was the basement all over again. She was the victim. She was helpless.

*I am not strong,* she thought. *He made me. And now he’s going to finish me.*

"No," she whispered.

"Shhh," Thorne said. "Trauma is the cocoon. Let yourself change."

Suddenly, the glass wall of the surgical suite shattered.

Bullets raked the ceiling.

"Get away from her!" Leo’s voice roared.

Leo had broken free. He stood on the balcony above, firing blindly into the room.

Thorne cursed, ducking behind a surgical cart.

"Leo!" Sasha screamed. "The gas! Get out!"

Thorne popped up and fired a taser. The prongs hit Leo in the chest. He convulsed and fell over the railing, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

"Distractions," Thorne snarled. He grabbed a scalpel and turned back to Sasha. "We finish this now."

He loomed over her, the blade inches from her eye.

Sasha looked at Leo’s unmoving body.

She looked at the leather cuff holding her right hand.

*Trauma is the fire,* Thorne had said.

*Fine,* Sasha thought. *Let it burn.*

She planted her feet against the table rails. She focused all her energy, all her will, into her right thumb.

She wrenched her hand backward.

*SNAP.*

The sound of her thumb dislocating was loud in the sterile room. The pain was blinding, white-hot agony. But the joint collapsed. Her hand became narrow enough.

She slipped the cuff.

Thorne’s eyes widened. "Impossible."

Sasha didn't hesitate. She grabbed the tray of instruments and swung it into Thorne’s face.

Scalpels and saws flew everywhere. Thorne staggered back, clutching his bleeding nose.

Sasha ripped the other restraints loose. She rolled off the table, cradling her broken hand. She was dizzy, weak, but the adrenaline was a tidal wave.

"You didn't make me," Sasha roared. She grabbed a heavy glass IV bottle from the stand.

Thorne lunged at her with the scalpel. He was fast, trained in anatomy. He slashed at her femoral artery.

Sasha didn't dodge. She stepped *into* the cut, taking the slice on her thigh so she could get inside his guard.

She swung the bottle. It connected with his shoulder, shattering.

Thorne fell, but scrambled up, grabbing a bone saw. "I am your creator! You are nothing without me!"

"I am the one who survived!"

Sasha blocked his arm with her good forearm. She headbutted him. The impact stunned him.

She grabbed his right hand—the surgeon’s hand, the hand of God—and twisted it behind his back. She slammed him face-first into the instrument tray.

She picked up a fallen scalpel.

Thorne froze. "Go ahead," he gasped, blood bubbling on his lips. "Kill me. Prove me right. Become the killer I made you."

Sasha held the blade to his throat. Her chest heaved. Every instinct screamed to open him up, to end the nightmare.

She looked at the reflection in the steel wall. She saw the scar. She saw the muscle. But she also saw the eyes. They weren't dead. They were furious, yes, but they were human.

"No," Sasha whispered.

She moved the blade down.

She sliced deeply across the median nerve of his right wrist. Then the left.

Thorne screamed. He stared at his hands—his precious, steady hands—now limp and useless. He would never hold a scalpel again. He would never operate.

"I built myself," Sasha said, dropping the blade. "You just broke things. I fixed them."

She turned away from him and limped toward Leo.