But I don't stop.
I can't stop.
Because for the first time since I walked into this room, I feel like I'm actually doing something, like I'm making a difference, like I'm not just some broke, desperate massage therapist who took a sketchy Craigslist job because she couldn't afford rent.
I'm good at this.
I'm really fucking good at this.
I move to his left shoulder blade, the area where the calcification is worst, where the stone is darker, harder, more resistant. The golden networks beneath are glowing a deep, unstable orange, pulsing erratically, and I can feel the tension radiating from the joint, the way his entire upper back is locked up around this single point of failure.
I take a breath. Center myself. And then I drive my elbow into the calcified ridge with everything I have.
The mineral crackle is louder this time. Sharp. Immediate.
The crystalline tracery flares so bright I have to squint, the light pulsing beneath my elbow, spreading outward in waves, illuminating the dark stone surface like cracks in a dam about to burst.
And then—
He moves.
It's small. Barely perceptible. But I feel it—his shoulder blade shifts beneath my elbow, the rigid joint releasing just a fraction, and the calcified ridge softens, the stone texture giving way to something warmer, more pliable, and I can feel the heat spreading through his body, radiating outward from the point of contact.
I pull back slightly, assessing. The dark charcoal discoloration is fading. The luminous seams are glowing asteady, healthy gold now, no longer flickering with that unstable orange light. The muscle beneath the stone surface is still tense, still locked, but it's better. Significantly better.
I sit back on my heels, still straddling his lower back, and I stare at the landscape of slate-gray stone and leathery wings sprawled out beneath me, at the way the golden networks pulse steadily beneath his skin, at the way his massive frame is rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths.
I just cracked a gargoyle.
I just literally cracked a gargoyle.
And he didn't say a word.
I glance toward the padded cradle where his face is resting. I can't see his expression from this angle, but I can see the way his shoulders are rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths, the way the tension in his spine has eased slightly.
But his body is responding.
The crystalline tracery is glowing steadily now, pulsing with a soft, warm light that spreads across his shoulders and down his spine. The calcification along his shoulder blade is breaking up, the stone texture softening beneath my hands, warming, transforming. The extended wing is still tense, still locked, but the vibration in the bone spurs has lessened.
I did this.
I actually did this.
I climb off the table, my legs shaky from the effort, from the adrenaline, from the sheer intensity of the last thirty minutes. My tank top is soaked with sweat. My hands are slick with volcanic oil. My knuckles are sore, my forearms are burning, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to feel this tomorrow.
But I don't care.
Because I just earned five thousand dollars.
I walk over to the supply station and grab a towel, wiping the oil from my hands. My heart is still pounding. My brain is still trying to process what just happened.
I worked on a gargoyle.
I worked on a seven-foot-tall, four-hundred-pound gargoyle with wings and stone skin and glowing crystalline veins.
And I didn't run away.
I didn't panic.
