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Beside me, Stella’s intake of breath is sharp. Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with surprising strength.

“The AI integration is proceeding as expected,” Malhotra continues. “Neural activity readings show promising initial response in the damaged areas. The implants are already beginning to map his specific neural architecture.”

“And what does that mean?” I ask, struggling to maintain composure. “In terms of results?”

“It means we have reason for cautious optimism.” His precise, measured tone suggests he’s choosing each word carefully. “The next seventy-two hours are critical for monitoring integration and preventing rejection. After that, we’ll begin a carefully structured rehabilitation program designed to work with the AI learning algorithms.”

“Chances?” The single word is all I can manage.

Malhotra’s expression remains measured. “Based on what we’re seeing, there’s approximately a sixty-five percent chance Bobik will gain significant lower body function. Walking with assistance is a reasonable expectation within six months. Independent mobility— potentially even running— within the next year.”

Sixty-five percent. Better odds than I expected, yet still leaving significant room for failure. I swallow hard, forcing my next question past the tightness in my throat.

“And the other thirty-five percent?”

“Ranges from minimal improvement to no change in his current condition.” Malhotra holds my gaze steadily. “I need to emphasize that we’re in uncharted territory, Mr. Tarasov. Bobik is the first pediatric patient to receive this specific configuration of implants. The AI component makes predictions challenging— each patient’s neural system will interact with the technology differently.”

“So we need to be patient,” Stella says softly.

Malhotra nods. “Exactly. The implants will continue learning and adapting to Bobik’s specific neural patterns. This isn’t a traditional surgery with immediate results— it’s the beginning of a process.”

Something warm and wet forms at the corners of my eyes. I blink rapidly, but it’s too late— tears spill down my cheeks in silent tracks. Fuck. In the space of a few months, I’ve shed what feels like a gallon of motherfucking tears.

Stella’s hand tightens around mine, and I realize she’s crying too, silent tears matching my own. In this sterile hospital corridor, stripped of pretense and power, we’re simply parents clinging to hope for their child.

“When can we see him?” I ask, not bothering to wipe the moisture from my face.

“He’s being moved to recovery now. You can visit briefly, though he’ll remain sedated for at least twelve hours to minimize movement during the initial integration phase.”

I nod, unable to form words.

Stella speaks for both of us. “Thank you, Doctor. For everything.”

“I’ll check in again this evening,” Malhotra says. “The nursing staff has my direct number if there are any concerns before then.”

He walks away, leaving us in a bubble of cautious hope. I take a deep breath, steadying myself before turning to Stella.

“Sixty-five percent,” I say quietly.

“Better than zero,” she responds, a small smile forming through her tears.

My mother and Diana approach from the waiting area, questions in their eyes. I give them the abbreviated version— successful surgery, cautious optimism, waiting game. More tears, more embraces. I arrange for them to return to Blackwood Manor while Stella and I stay with Bobik.

The recovery room is dimly lit, the soft beeping of monitors creating a rhythmic backdrop to our vigil. Bobik looks impossibly small in the hospital bed, his dark hair stark against the white pillow. A thin tube delivers oxygen through his nose, and various wires connect him to monitoring equipment. A specialized brace stabilizes his spine, visible above the light blanket covering him.

I approach carefully, as if my presence might somehow disturb the delicate technology now integrated with his nervous system. My hand hovers over his before gently covering it.

“We’re here,sinok,” I whisper in Russian. “Papaand Stella are here.”

His face remains peaceful, untroubled by the momentous procedure his body has just undergone or the technology now working within him. I don’t make promises about running or walking— those words will wait until we have certainty. Instead, I simply maintain contact, my thumb tracing small circles on the back of his hand.

Stella stands on the opposite side of the bed, her expression tender as she adjusts Bobik’s blanket.

“He looks so peaceful,” she observes quietly.

“Da,”I agree, struck by the contrast between the major medical intervention and the serene appearance of my sleeping son. “Like nothing happened at all.”

We stay until the nurses gently suggest we get some rest, promising to call immediately if anything changes. With reluctance, I leave my son in their capable hands, knowing the next days and weeks will bring their own challenges. Yet somehow, I have the feeling that Stella will stay by my side through it all, just as she has in the days leading up to this moment. We haven’t addressed the elephant in the room yet: our relationship, and all that it brings with it. But it’s time we dealt with that now.