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> "Do you want to live?" Henry asked.
> "Do you want to die?" the old man on the table shot back, struggling to sit up.
Henry swept the gold coins the Slavic man had laid on the table into his palm — but he only kept one, pushing the rest back toward their owner.
> "If you want me to help him," he said evenly, "get a few men to hold him down."
The Slavic man slipped the coins back into his pocket, nodded once, and gestured behind him. A few burly Russians stepped forward, each taking hold of one of the old man's limbs.
> "You bastards!" the old man roared. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Let me go or I'll put a bullet in every last one of you!"
The Slavic man gave a weary smile.
> "If you don't let him fix you, you won't get the chance."
Henry tore open the blood-soaked shirt around the bullet wound. It was near the lower left lung lobe, and the blood leaking out looked wrong — too dark, too thick, almost black.
And the old man was coughing violently. That coughing was exactly what had made the earlier medics give up; every time he convulsed, they lost control of the wound. The rough handling had only earned them shouted curses and spit-flecked threats.
Without hesitation, Henry pressed his palm hard against the man's chest.
The old man nearly sprang off the table from the pain, headbutting upward with enough force to knock Henry out — if not for the men restraining him.
Henry looked down at him calmly.
> "You've got lung cancer, don't you?"
> "You've got lung cancer! Your whole damn family's got lung cancer! Your—"
The old man's rant cut off in another vicious coughing fit, hacking so hard he nearly vomited up a lung.
Henry grinned.
> "Lucky you. I already promised to treat you. And hey — I've never done lung surgery before. Actually… I've never done any surgery before."
The old man's eyes bulged.
> "What the hell are you planning, you quack?!"
> "I'm helping you."
> "I didn't ask for your help! Get out — get out!"
> "Too late. I already agreed to save you. You think refusing me will stop a doctor with a scalpel? You'll need to check into a real hospital for that."
Henry's tone was light, almost cheerful. But his eyes were sharp and unblinking.
He took stock of his equipment — a small first-aid kit, nowhere near enough for real surgery. And there was the issue of anesthesia.
Major operations were supposed to use general anesthesia — so patients wouldn't thrash around or scream in agony while their insides were opened up. Too much anesthetic could kill; too little, and the patient might die from shock or movement.
Henry, of course, was no licensed surgeon. And this wasn't a sterile operating room — just a bloodstained lounge of the Los Angeles Continental Hotel.
So, he improvised.
He took a handful of sewing needles, sterilized them, and stuck them into precise points around the wound — makeshift acupuncture pins to disrupt nerve signals and dull sensation.
It wasn't perfect. He couldn't paralyze the whole body temporarily like a real anesthesiologist could. The Russians still had to pin the old man down.
He didn't need a huge field of vision, though — only a small workspace. With some creativity, he could approximate a minimally invasive surgery by modern standards, even if his tools were decades behind.
Of course, he didn't have a Da Vinci surgical robot, but he could still minimize the incision.
Inside Henry's head, a full surgical plan ran through his superhuman brain a thousand times in an instant — each step simulated, perfected, executed.
And before anyone could react, amid the old man's furious screaming—
Henry made the first cut.
The motion was clean, confident. He removed the embedded bullet as easily as he had from the others — sometimes not even needing to enlarge the wound. A quick twist with the forceps, and the slug dropped neatly into the metal tray.
If internal bleeding wasn't severe, Henry avoided widening the incision — faster healing, less trauma.
But the lung cancer… that was another matter.
Fortunately, the gangsters surrounding him were hardly medical experts. Most of them couldn't tell a scalpel from a steak knife. They had no idea what Henry was actually doing.
So, without an ounce of guilt, Henry worked. The rib cage, adhesions, bleeding — none of it fazed him. His superhuman reflexes and speed made even the old man's thrashing manageable.
The old man's voice, hoarse and furious, filled the room.
> "You quack! You goddamn butcher! I'll report you — have your license revoked! What kind of surgery is this?!"
Henry chuckled.
> "Oh, don't worry about that. You can't revoke a license I don't have."
> "What?! Then where the hell did you study medicine? From Gypsies? African witch doctors?"
> "Relax. I studied at the Los Angeles Public Library," Henry replied with a straight face. "Did postgraduate work in the New York Public Library, too. My knowledge is broad and cutting-edge — far beyond tribal medicine."
> "You… you never even went to medical school, and you're cutting me open?!"
> "You don't even have medical insurance," Henry shot back. "What good would a certified doctor do you? What's more important — getting treated, or seeing my diploma? Or do you think med school grads can't be quacks too? That's discrimination!"
> "This has nothing to do with discrimination, you crazy bastard! If I get off this table, I'll— I'll kill you myself!"
Even the Russians restraining him began to exchange uneasy glances.
They weren't sure if they should let him go — or if doing so would make things worse. After all, the man's chest was already wide open. It was far too late to stop.
> "Aaghhh!" the old man screamed, thrashing with wild strength.
More men piled on to hold him down.
Henry didn't care whether the cries were from pain or pure rage. His focus was absolute.
He worked steadily, heart pounding beside his hands, the charred black tissue of a diseased lung lobe glistening under dim light. The sight was… exhilarating.
With a precise motion, Henry clamped and removed the black, tumor-ridden chunk of lung, dropping it into the tray beside the bullet with a wet clink. Then he tied off vessels, closed the incision, and sealed the chest with practiced, if unorthodox, speed.
The old man had been cursing non-stop — until the final stitch was done. Then, as Henry pulled out the makeshift acupuncture needles, the man went limp, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
The room went silent.
The Russians slowly released their grip, staring at the unconscious man — and at Henry, whose hands were still steady and clean.
No one spoke. No one quite knew what they had just witnessed.
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