Gael knelt beside Evelyn, his blade and cane pinning her sleeves to the wet ground. Her body was still—barely twitching—thanks to the numbing ethervein syringe he'd stabbed into her neck, but with three Myrmurs altering her physiology inside her, he wasn't actually sure if a single syringe was enough.

He assumed her tolerance would be a lot higher, thus requiring at least two or even three syringes for them to take effect, but unfortunately, he'd used all his spares on himself when she'd dragged him into the sky and dropped him hard onto the roof.

You only got yourself to blame for this part.

Maeve was next to him, kneeling as well with her umbrella held up. The swirling bioarcanic weapon was no joke whatsoever. The poisonous blood that scattered around them in a five-meter radius swirled like a dark storm, keeping the Myrmurs and the massive, rabid three-headed hounds at bay. But it wasn't just blood. Wind swirled around them as well, the gusts so fierce they kept the acid rain from falling on them, and thank the Saint for that. He wouldn't be able to do any surgery if acid were allowed to just plop right into the open wound.

"Hurry up, Doctor!" Maeve snapped next to him, gripping her umbrella with both hands as she struggled to hold it still. "This swirling mode eats through my blood reserves! I'll still need a bit of it left to deal with the actual Myrmurs after you deal with their hearts!"

Gael mumbled in response, not bothering to glance at her. His eyes were focused on Evelyn's half-paralyzed form. His hands were already moving, pulling two scalpels from inside his coat. His fingers were steady, calm—this wasn't the first time he'd done something like this, but it sure was nerve-wracking every single time.

Think, think.

What do I gotta do first?

Evelyn lay flat on her stomach, and the small, shallow rise and fall of her back was the only indication she was still breathing. He gripped his scalpel with a sure hand and made the first incision. The back of Evelyn's tattered tunic tore away easily, exposing her bare back. That's when he saw them: the three pulsing umbilical cords jutting out from the base of her spine, thick and grotesque, as if her body had been infested by roots.

He grimaced, his stomach tightening at the sight. Three Myrmurs all feeding off her at the same time. No wonder he couldn't tell her apart from a ghoul in the pipes.

… Still.

There ain't no other way.

He yanked off his flower glove, pulled out a small chunk of adhesive sap he always carried around with him as chewing gum, and swiftly applied a bit of it to the glove's little finger.

Then he pressed the little finger to the palm.

"Can't have you lot interrupting my work," he muttered under his breath.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the glove towards the nearest hound. The moment it hit the ground, the giant man-eating flower exploded with fury, its petals snapping open wide, ferocious and wild. It roared and drew the attention of the hounds surrounding them. They lunged at the flower in a frenzy, snapping and gnashing at its oversized petals, and Gael couldn't help but grin a little.

They'd all but forgotten about trying to break through Maeve's dome of spraying poisonous blood for now.

[Appraisal Complete]

[Bioarcanic Equipment Name: Robber Fly Man-Eating Flower Glove]

[Penetration: 5, Sturdiness: 5, Resilience, 8]

[Bioarcanic Effect: Hungry Flower]

[Brief Description: When the glyphs are completed, the chitin plates inhale air and expand, forcefully pushing against the man-eating flower and making it grow larger. The flower, now agitated because it is being stretched to painful degrees, becomes extremely aggressive]

It didn't matter if he lost that glove. There were other man-eating flowers in Miss Alba's pipes he could harvest to make better iterations of his glove. More importantly, he just needed the Gravepetal Maw to buy them time—time for Maeve to ease up on her swirling blood dome a little, and time for him to finish the surgery.

He sucked in a sharp breath, and with a flick of his wrist, the lantern at his waist flickered to life, casting a soft glow across Evelyn's pale, exposed back. The garden around them was a mess of wet mud and tangled plants, too, but he couldn't care about that now. The shitty lantern and his night vision lenses would have to do for visibility.

His scalpels danced over Evelyn's back as he made the first incision.

The skin had to be opened carefully. The spinal column was the last thing he wanted to damage. Too easy to go too deep and hit the vertebrae. If he hit her spine, he'd paralyze her for life.

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So, his first cut was deliberate. Shallow, but just deep enough to expose the first of the three alien umbilical cords. His scalpels skittered around her ribs, taking care not to cut too deep. The second incision was a little more aggressive. The cords were thick and veiny, like parasites embedded in her flesh, so he steadied the area around the cords with one scalpel while the other worked quickly, making a third, deeper cut to get around the thick tissue.

Slow and steady. Cut along the grain of the muscles. Don't go too fast. Stay shallow. Don't cut through the fascia—

The thought came easily. It always did. The fascia was the connective tissue in the back that held everything in place. He'd seen too many quack doctors too eager to cut through it whenever someone presented a back problem to them, not realizing how important it was for structural integrity. The fascia was the body's natural scaffolding. Cut through that too carelessly, and everything else would fall apart.

But I ain't no quack.

He moved with practiced ease, his knife sliding through her fascia like it was butter. The blood that seeped out was thick, pooling at the edges of the incision, but he wiped his hand on his already blood-soaked coat and pulled out a vial of clotting reagent. Overuse of the reagent would mess up her blood vessels for the rest of her life, but right now, he just emptied the entire vial of colorless liquid into the open wound and pressed on. He couldn't have her bleeding out now.

Next came the muscles. The large muscle groups that ran along her back, the ones that moved her arms and torso. Don't cut too deep. He eased his blade beneath the muscle fibers, his touch light, feeling for the lines where he could cut without seriously damaging the underlying tissue. The muscles needed to stay intact for movement later.

Just… gotta find the Myrmur hearts.

Where the fuck are—

"I'm sorry."

Somehow, Evelyn was conscious enough to cry. They were soft, broken sobs, her voice hitching with every breath. As expected, the girl was probably feeling all of the pain from getting her back cut open—he hadn't given her enough of the numbing ethervein syringe, after all—but he paid her no mind and kept on cutting.

It was pain or death. He wasn't getting paid enough to care about the pain part.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… please…"

Don't listen to her. Don't get distracted. Focus—

"I'll give you anythin'. My arms. My legs. Please, just... just don't hurt them," she cried. "Don't hurt my hounds. They didn't do anythin' wrong. They're… they're sweet, innocent angels. They're all I have left."

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his knife hovering just above her skin as she started bawling like the twelve, maybe thirteen-year-old child she actually was. She really was just a kid, scared out of her mind and clinging to the only thing she had left.

Her hounds.

His eyes flicked up. His hands kept moving on instinct, but his mind wandered for just a moment. In the distance, he saw the largest of the three-headed hounds—the first one that'd charged at him and Maeve. It was still snarling now, snapping at his man-eating flower that was also trying to snap back, but its middle head caught his attention.

For a moment, everything around him disappeared.

He was no longer in the muddy garden with Evelyn. No longer focused on the surgery. His mind slipped away to a time long buried: his time here as a boy, wandering the orphanage with leaves, bandages, and whatever else he could take from the staff to cover his eyes. He remembered his hound—the one the director had given him—always being by his side. They used to run through the halls, climb the roofs, and get into all sorts of trouble.

That three-headed hound…

That you, Elio?

…

He blinked.

He wasn't even sure why these particular memories were hitting him now. He'd made a pact with himself a long time ago to cut all ties with this place, but partnering up with the Exorcist had brought him nothing but trouble over and over again. She was like a bad-luck charm, and now she'd led him back here.

Where else would she take him?

Forwards or backwards?

… Who fucking knows?

He forced a grin onto his face. People did say the path to greatness was a thorny one, and he was the one who'd chosen this path. He was the one who said he wanted to be the greatest doctor in Bharncair. He knew very well what he was getting into partnering up with an Exorcist, so what was the point in moaning about… memories, of all things?

There were three monsters right in front of him.

He activated his Art to start replenishing Maeve's blood supply, and he immediately felt a bit light-headed as a result. No matter. He didn't have to stay conscious for much longer anyways. Evelyn's cries were still echoing, but now they felt distant, muted by the urgency of the surgery. He was close now. He could practically feel the pulsing hearts just beneath the final layer of muscle, and then—the tips of his scalpels brushed against the first of the three Myrmur hearts

Those sickly, pulsing, cancerous masses.

Dropping his scalpels, he reached into his coat for the three vials of symbiote elixir and emptied them into the open wound. With his other hand, he gripped the three little bulbs and ripped them out violently, perhaps a bit too violently. Evelyn certainly tried to arch her back, but he didn't let her.

He crushed the Myrmur hearts in his fist, and he cackled as blood poured down his wrist, splattering across the muddy ground.

Ha!

Immediately, the three Myrmur hounds outside the blood dome began screeching in agony. He couldn't give half a shit about them anymore, though. He slumped forward halfway onto Evelyn's back, weak, the rush of exhaustion and exhilaration hitting him all at once, but he couldn't stop just yet. The surgery wasn't finished.

He reached for a stitching needle and a spool of thread inside his coat, pushing the thread through the needle with slow, shaky hands. The open wound on Evelyn's back still needed to be closed. She wasn't stabilized until he could stitch her back up.

"Exorcist," he muttered. "You gotta pull your weight now."

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