Page 4 of Porcelain Vows

The steady beep of the monitors punctuates the silence. Each sound confirms he’s still alive, still fighting. But he looks so fucking small. Too small for all this medical equipment to invade his fragile body. The ventilator pushes air into his lungs with mechanical precision, a rhythmic whoosh that makes my chest tighten.

The sterile hospital air burns my nostrils.

I’ve spent my life surrounded by gore, death, dealt it with my own hands, yet nothing prepared me for this— watching my own son hover between worlds, unable to reach him.

This was supposed to fix him.

Give him a normal life.

I press my forehead against the cool glass. The experimental AI spinal treatment was his best chance— his only chance— to walk. Now it might cost him everything.

Footsteps approach from behind. The soft shuffle of expensive leather shoes against linoleum.

I don’t turn.

Dr. Malhotra’s reflection appears beside mine in the glass, his face drawn with exhaustion. His white coat rustles softly as he clutches his clipboard to his chest.

“Mr. Tarasov.” His voice carries that distinct Oxford polish. “I wish I had better news.”

Now I turn. Malhotra looks exhausted— dark circles under his eyes, his normally immaculate appearance rumpled from hours of emergency surgery. The dim hallway light catches on his wire-rimmed eyeglasses as he consults the clipboard in his hands.

“What the fuck happened, Malhotra?”

The doctor sighs, adjusting his glasses. “The neural interface triggered an autoimmune response we couldn’t have predicted. His body rejected the implant violently.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve induced a medical coma to reduce brain activity and inflammation, but…”

“But what?” The words scrape against my throat.

“His system has been severely compromised. We’re doing everything we can to save him.”

A muscle twitches in my jaw. In my world, failure has consequences. People pay with blood. But here, in this sterile prison of beeping machines and antiseptic, I am powerless.

The doctor’s face reveals more concern than his words, triggering a wave of cold fear in my gut.

“Will he—?” The question dies in my throat. I can’t bring myself to finish it.

“The next twenty-four hours are critical.” Malhotra’s voice softens. “His body has undergone significant trauma, but children are remarkably resilient.”

I nod once, jaw clenched so tight that the muscles in my throat ache. I picture Bobik as he was a week ago, his face alight with joy as we played badminton together. A game he played from a fucking wheelchair, and yet he did it with a smile.

My boy’s a warrior.

He’ll make it.

He’s going to make it.

“The surgical team is on standby if his condition changes. I’ve called in specialists from three countries to consult on his case.” The doctor hesitates. “I’m not giving up on him… on his case. I will never give up. I need you to know that.”

I give another wordless nod. What’s there to say right now?

His hand lands on my shoulder—a gesture that would normally warrant breaking fingers, but I barely register it. “Mr.Tarasov, perhaps you should rest. We’ll alert you immediately if—”

“No.” I bark the word out. The doctor visibly flinches but doesn’t back away. Most men would. But he’s the one person who holds my son’s life in his hands. I give him leeway.

“I’ll return shortly with the latest results,” he says quietly before walking away, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

As Malhotra leaves, I remain frozen, a storm of contradicting emotions raging inside me— rage at my own helplessness, fear I haven’t felt since childhood, and an overwhelming need to inflict violence on those responsible. Except no one is responsible, aside from fickle fucking Fate.

The beeping monitors become a torturous rhythm marking each moment my son fights for life.

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