“Last chance to back out,” Cassian says, and there’s something careful in his voice that almost sounds like hope that Talon might actually take the exit.
Talon gives a weak smile that almost passes for bravado. “Pretty sure that ship sailed when we planned the crime.”
I meet his eyes. “If you wish to stop, you can. If I fail, you’ll die.”
He holds my gaze, and for a moment, the sarcasm drops away completely.
“I’ve got nothing left to lose. Just do the damn thing.”
He looks away quickly.
“I understand,” I say.
Then I draw up the sedative and Cassian comes closer to watch my movements like he’s memorizing everything.
“Deep breaths,” I instruct. “This will feel like falling asleep too quickly.”
“Alright,” Talon mutters.
The needle enters his vein. He blinks.
“Feels weird,” he mumbles.
“Let it happen.”
His lashes droop. The muscles in his face begin to slacken, smoothing him into something softer, looser, and more peaceful than anything I’ve come to associate with him. The monitor beeps steadily beside us, displaying every electrical whisper of his heart. I adjust the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and tighten the strap behind his head.
“Deep breaths if you can manage them,” I instruct, even though he’s already half gone. “I want as much oxygen in your system as possible before we proceed.”
Talon’s chest rises and falls shakily. The numbers on the screen shift. His heart rate drops slightly, blood pressure settles, and oxygen saturation climbs to a crisp, reassuring ninety-nine percent.
Preoxygenation buys time.
Not much.
But some.
Cassian is living proof of the window I cannot cross. Not if I want Talon’s mind undamaged, at least. Cassian’s body took the hit at the level of his retina first. His eye became the cost of his return. I need to time this right. Precisely right. Close enough to replicate the result without furthering the damage.
Talon’s eyes flutter closed.
“Check his eyelash reflex,” I tell Cassian. It comes out more automatically than anything, the kind of instruction I’d give a nurse or a resident. I don’t expect him to follow through with it. Most people outside the medical field wouldn’t know what I’m asking, let alone how to do it. Cassian lifts one large hand, though, and brushes his knuckles lightly against Talon’s lashes.
There is no attempt to open his eyes.
“He’s under,” Cassian says.
“Hm,” I agree.
I slip a gloved thumb beneath Talon’s lower lid, tilt his eye open, and move a penlight across the pupil. The reaction is sluggish but present. I repeat the test on the other eye. Same result. Almost. Not quite.
“He seems to have some pre-existing trauma,” I say quietly. “Likely from injuries or concussions.”
“He looks like the type to have taken hits.” Cassian’s voice is flat, unsurprised. “Why?”
I look more closely. The blood vessels in the right eye’s sclera are slightly more tortuous, and there’s micro-scarring. It’s faint, but visible under the light.
“This eye,” I say, pointing, “has seen more damage. The vessels are fragile. If anything fails first under ischemia, it will be this one.”
