"Corporate?"
Nod.
"Did you get hurt? Are you bleeding?"
He shakes his head. Slowly.
I step back and look at him properly.
No blood. No visible wounds.
Just stone.
His entire body is calcifying in real time. I can see it spreading. The gray density creeping up his neck, across his shoulders, down his torso.
His left arm is completely frozen. His fingers are locked in a rigid claw against his chest.
His wings are trembling with the effort of staying semi-extended, the membrane stretched so tightly I'm afraid it's going to tear.
And his veins.
Those crystalline amber veins that usually glow with steady warmth are flickering like they're about to go out completely.
My brain shifts into emergency mode.
This isn't a massage situation.
This is a medical crisis.
If the stone-lock reaches his chest cavity—if it locks around his heart, his lungs, his core—he's going to be permanently paralyzed inside his own body.
Forever.
The realization hits me like a freight train.
I don't have time to be gentle.
I don't have time to ask permission.
I don't have time for clinical boundaries.
"Lie down," I say, my voice sharp. "Now."
He doesn't argue. He shifts his weight, trying to maneuver his frame onto the table, but his locked arm and rigid wings make it nearly impossible.
I grab his right arm and help guide him down, positioning him on his back instead of face-down. His wings splay awkwardly beneath him, the rigid membrane pressing against the padded surface.
He grunts in pain.
"I know," I say. "I know it hurts. Just—stay with me."
I move to the supply station and grab the largest container of high-heat volcanic oil. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it.
Focus.
I set the container down on the table beside him and look at his chest.
He's still wearing his tailored button-up shirt. The fabric is stretched taut across his massive torso, the buttons straining against the calcified muscle beneath.
