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“I’m afraid your father’s self-reported diagnosis is correct. Stage four pancreatic cancer with metastasis to the liver and lymph nodes.” He adjusts his glasses. “He has very little time. Two weeks, perhaps three at most.”

I nod. No surprise. The monster of my childhood reduced to a withering corpse in my guest bedroom.

“Is he in pain?” I ask, not sure which answer I want.

“I’m afraid so.” He nods. “I’ve prescribed morphine for comfort, though it will make him increasingly incoherent as the dosage increases.” Malhotra studies my face. “Would you like me to arrange hospice care?”

“No.” The word snaps out like a gunshot. I pause, rein myself in. “My staff will handle it. No strangers in the house.”

Not with my mother here, finally free from the suffering that fucker inflicted upon her. Not with Bobik hidden upstairs, vulnerable and unprotected if strangers start wandering through my home. Not with everything balanced on a knife’s edge— my business, my family’s safety, the delicate web of alliances I’ve constructed. One wrong move, one misplaced trust, and it all comes crashing down. I’ve spent too many years building these walls to let them crumble now. Or ever.

Malhotra nods, understanding what I don’t say. He’s been Bobik’s doctor for years, one of the few outsiders who knows about my son. He snaps his bag shut.

“On a brighter note,” he says, his expression shifting abruptly, “I have some promising news.”

The change catches me off guard. “About?”

“Bobik.” A genuine smile breaks across his face. “I’ve been in contact with Vanguard Medical. The latest NeuroFusion Implant trials have been approved for pediatric applications.”

I straighten, instantly alert. Rage at my father forgotten, replaced by razor-sharp focus. “When?”

“They can begin evaluation next month.” Malhotra’s words quicken with excitement. “This technology is revolutionary, Aleksei. Nothing like our previous attempts.”

I lean against the wall, forcing my face to stay neutral despite the sudden jolt in my chest. “Govorí. Talk.”

Malhotra sets his bag down again, hands animating as he speaks. “NeuroFusion uses nanotechnology-based implants to repair damaged nerves in the spinal column. Unlike traditional approaches that try to bypass damaged areas, these implants create new neural pathways and stimulate natural healing.”

“And this works for Bobik’s injury?” I’ve heard promises before, watched my son endure surgeries that did fuck-all. I’m not putting him through that again without absolute certainty. I’ve already sat vigil beside his hospital bed once, and that was once too often.

“His case is exactly what this technology was designed for.” Malhotra’s confidence doesn’t waver. “The damage was traumatic, not degenerative. Clean injury at birth, interrupting otherwise healthy development.”

I process this, measuring each word against years of disappointments. “The previous surgeries—”

“Were stone tools compared to this,” he cuts in, unusual for him. “Those were mechanical— physical manipulation, crudenerve grafts with AI bundled on top. This is different, at the cellular level.”

He pulls out a tablet, brings up a diagram. “The implants are microscopic, inserted through minimal incisions. They integrate with existing neural networks, essentially teaching damaged nerves how to reconnect.”

Technical terms follow— neural plasticity, bioelectric signaling— but I catch the implications beneath the jargon.

“So, this isn’t just pain management or minor improvements,” I say, voice low. “You’re talking about actual restoration.”

“Exactly.” His eyes shine. “Combined with the AI rehabilitation program, we could see significant improvements… within months.”

“Significant meaning…?” I let the question hang, afraid to name what I want most.

Malhotra licks his lips as if preparing himself for the statement he’s about to make. “Meaning Bobik could regain substantial lower body function. Standing. Walking with assistance initially, then independently.” He pauses. “Running, eventually. Playing like any other child.”

Blyad.

Like any other child…

As Malhotra describes this technology, something dangerous creeps in— hope. Hope that my son might know a normal life after all. That the bright, curious boy trapped in that wheelchair might race through the gardens of Blackwood Manor. That the damage done by one drunk doctor might finally be undone.

But it’s hope that we’ve had before. Hope that almost led to his death. I’m not leaping at every new technology that comes our way.

“I’ll discuss it with him,” I tell him as I mull this over.

Malhotra looks apprehensive. “I… ah… I already did.”