Chapter 12 - The Iron Scalpel
The operating theater smelled of ozone, isopropyl alcohol, and sterile steel.
Dr. Chen stood over me, his surgical mask tied tight, his eyes crinkling with reassuring confidence. “We’ve got a long morning ahead, Fallon. We’re going to clean out the debris, install a titanium reinforcement bridge across the lateral plateau, and anchor the new tendon. It’s going to hurt when you wake up, but by autumn, you’ll be walking through hangar bays without a cane.”
“Put me back together, Doc,” I whispered.
The anesthesiologist pressed the clear mask over my mouth. *“Deep breath. Count down from ten.”*
*Ten... nine... eight...*
When I opened my eyes again, the afternoon sun was pouring through the windows of the recovery room.
My leg was no longer in a plaster cast; it was secured inside an advanced bionic cooling brace that hummed with a low, rhythmic vibration, pumping ice water continuously across the surgical incision to suppress the swelling. The sharp, tearing agony was gone, replaced by a solid, heavy numbness.
Beside my bed sat a massive vase of white peonies and eucalyptus—flowers that hadn’t come from a resort florist.
Attached was a small cream card:
*“To a speedy recovery and higher altitude. Thinking of you. — Alden.”*
I touched the card, a faint, genuine warmth spreading through my chest.
Vesper walked into the room ten minutes later, carrying a fresh cup of tea and a digital recording device.
“How’s the bionic woman?” she asked, setting the tea on my table.
“Alive,” I croaked. “Joint is secured. What happened at the arraignment?”
Vesper pulled up the official court transcript on her tablet. “Sutton pleaded not guilty. Her court-appointed public defender tried to argue for release on her own recognizance, claiming she was a non-violent public figure with deep community ties.”
“And the judge?”
“Judge Martinez laughed out loud,” Vesper said with obvious glee. “The judge watched the staircase video in chambers. She ruled that Sutton posed a clear danger to the victim and constituted an immediate flight risk due to her history of unrecorded international travel. Bail was maintained at seventy-five thousand dollars, cash only. Sutton was remanded to the Las Colinas Women’s Detention Facility.”
“And Althia?”
“Althia couldn't raise the cash,” Vesper continued. “She tried to borrow ten thousand dollars from your Aunt Claire. Aunt Claire told her that after watching what they did to you, she wouldn't lend Althia ten dollars for bus fare. Stellin is currently sitting in the county jail two miles away, facing three federal counts after the U.S. Attorney’s Office formally picked up the wire fraud component.”
I looked at the vase of peonies on my table. “They’re really going to prison, aren't they?”
“Stellin is looking at forty-eight months minimum,” Vesper said coldly. “The wire fraud alone carries a high guideline score because he targeted corporate financial accounts across state lines. Sutton’s battery charge carries three to five years, though she’ll likely be offered a plea deal for twenty-four months in a medium-security facility, followed by five years of strict probation and digital monitoring.”
“Digital monitoring?” I asked.
“The prosecutor is demanding that as a condition of any plea agreement, Sutton Vance be legally barred from operating any commercial social media accounts for seven years,” Vesper said.
I stared at her, the poetic justice hitting me with the force of a tidal wave.
For Sutton, losing her freedom was terrifying. But losing the camera—losing the ability to harvest dopamine and validation from strangers on the internet—was a fate worse than death.
May you like
“Serve the civil papers while she’s in her orange jumpsuit,” I said, looking out at the Chicago skyline. “Let her know that when she finally walks out of those gates, she won't have a single penny left to buy followers.”
***
