"Better than expected, but still bad."
The "better than expected" part was that Sasha was still breathing. The "bad" part was that she was about to stop.
Karl couldn't see any external injuries on Sasha. Not a single one.
For soone who had fallen from a height, that was almost impossible. Yet, as he looked at the unconscious girl, an image suddenly flashed through his mind—a world-famous photograph.
"The Most Beautiful Suicide."
In 1947, a woman nad Evelyn jumped from the 86th floor of the Empire State Building—a fall of 320 ters—due to depression. When her body landed on a parked car below, there wasn't a single visible wound. Her eyes were closed, her face was serene, her feet gently crossed, and one hand still clutching the necklace on her chest. She looked as if she were rely asleep.
A passing photography student, Robert Wiles, was so struck by the eerie stillness of the scene that he instinctively raised his cara and captured the mont. That photo was later published by Ti magazine under the title "The Most Beautiful Fallen Angel", making it known worldwide.
But as Karl recalled that image, he didn't feel the sa lancholic beauty others saw in it.
What he felt was regret.
The regret of a life about to slip away.
Just like Robert Wiles later abandoned photography, regretting the mont he had captured, Karl knew that death should not be admired as sothing beautiful—it should be fought against.
Why does beauty always remind people of death, instead of life?
"I'm not Robert Wiles, and you're not Evelyn. Thank your luck for that."
Right now, the only thing Karl was grateful for was that he had just reviewed the trauma team's ergency procedures today—and that he had a Rejuve-Kit on hand.
The Rejuve-Kit 3, one of the best pneumatic injectors available on the market. It was expensive as hell, so Karl only carried four doses on him.
Under normal circumstances, injecting Rejuve-Kit without a full diagnosis was dangerous. Rapid regeneration could cause bones or organs to heal incorrectly. But in an ergency? None of that mattered.
If sothing healed wrong, a hospital or a ripperdoc could break and reset it later. Worst case scenario? Just swap out the damaged organ. It's 2075—replacing body parts isn't a big deal anymore.
Karl raised the injector and jamd the first dose into Sasha's chest.
Detailed checks could wait. Most injuries weren't imdiately fatal, but if a major artery had ruptured, she'd bleed out in seconds.
As soon as the injection hit, Sasha's body twitched—a sign of life returning.
Now for a quick assessnt.
Karl's gaze scanned her body as his cyber-enhanced mind processed the damage in real-ti.
Rib fractures—one puncturing the lung.Left hurus shattered.Pelvic bone—completely crushed.
Any of these could be life-threatening. The rib puncturing the lung was already borderline dieval torture—like the Norse "Blood Eagle."
But the worst injury? Her head.
Acute subdural hematoma.
Even with imdiate treatnt, the survival rate was only 20% to 50%. If too much blood accumulated—50 to 100 milliliters—death was guaranteed.
Right now, the hematoma in Sasha's brain had reached critical levels—it had to be drained imdiately.
"Lucky you. I just happen to know how to fix this."
Performing a craniotomy to treat acute subdural hematoma was a first for Carl. In fact, this was his first ti treating anyone at all. Jumping straight into such a high-difficulty procedure made him miss Oliver.
If Oliver were here, Carl would only need to assist him—no need for all this effort.
There was no ti to waste. He had to start imdiately. Concerns like postoperative infections were sothing to worry about later, assuming Sasha survived this.
Carl extended a segnt of monomolecular wire and, without hesitation, used it as a scalpel.
He first shaved off all the hair from the area above the bleeding site, then made a full-thickness incision through the skin down to the skull. A retractor would have been useful here, but lacking one, he used his cybernetic fingers instead.
Any proper doctor witnessing this would have a blood pressure spike, but Carl's movents were smooth and instinctive. Blood splattered onto his face, yet he didn't even blink, maintaining a calm, focused state as he recalled each surgical step.
What ca next?
He needed to drill into the skull.
Got it.
Monomolecular.
After cutting a rhomboid hole, Carl was careful not to charge the monomolecular wire, avoiding any heat damage to the brain tissue beneath. The last thing he wanted was to save Sasha, only to hand Mann a brain-dead netrunner.
He wasn't sure if Sasha could hear him, but as he cut into the skull, he murmured in a low voice, reassuring the unconscious woman.
"Don't worry. You'll be fine."
Carl wasn't even sure whether those words were ant more for Sasha or for himself, but his hands remained steady, showing no hesitation.
With the skull removed, it was ti to deal with the dura mater.
He located the hematoma caused by the bleeding. The blood was draining slowly, but to speed up the treatnt, he needed a drainage tube.
Shit. No drainage tube.
A drainage tube works based on the principle of siphoning, using pressure differentials to draw out accumulated fluids. Finding a substitute wouldn't be too difficult.
Carl's eyes scanned the equipnt in the vehicle until he spotted a bottle with a straw sticking out of it near the car door.
'If Oliver knew what I was doing, he'd kill for this surgical blasphemy.'
Carl felt like he was desecrating the art of dicine.
He grabbed the straw, shaking out any remaining liquid. The only silver lining was that the liquid dripping out was water—pure water. Carl could recognize it from experience.
He hadn't paid much attention to this car before, but judging by the fact that its owner could afford to drink pure water—and even leave a half-finished bottle lying around—they must be pretty well-off.
Carefully, he inserted the tip of the straw into the hematoma, ensuring it didn't touch any surrounding tissue. Then, using his thumb, he sealed the open end of the straw.
Then, he let go.
This was sothing anyone with a straw and a drink could try—simply insert the tip of the straw into the liquid, press a thumb firmly over the top, then release. The pressure difference would cause the liquid at the tip to be drawn up and expelled from the open end.
Just like how a toilet flush works.
As Carl watched the blood flow out from the end of the straw, staining his palm red, he exhaled deeply.
Then, he repeated the sa words he had already spoken to the unconscious Sasha.
"Don't worry. You'll be fine."
Under Carl's watchful eyes, the Rejuvenate-3 implant worked rapidly, repairing Sasha's body—pulling her back from Death's grasp.
PS: The most beautiful suicide must be the inspiration behind Sasha's fall—the resemblance is uncanny. As for the surgical details, dical professionals, please don't hold it against . Let's just say cyberware did its magic. Apologies.
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