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‘As the lead surgeon, I have decided the best course of action is a hands-on, tactile-guided procedure instead of relying on automated neuro bots.’

Ki’Remi’s jaw ticked.

‘You do realize,’ he rasped in a warning growl, ‘that operating with this method necessitates real-time sensory feedback direct into your cerebral cortex. If one misfiring impulse in his brain registers in yours—’

‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ Issa cut in, her voice maddeningly steady, unbothered, as she adjusted the neural interface module attached to her temple.

Ki’Remi’s brow furrowed, irritation tightening his spine. ‘You’re linking yourself to a half-awake patient with active motor functions. The risk of sympathetic response is—’

‘Minimal,’ she countered, not even looking at him.

‘Arrogant,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘Realistic,’ she corrected, her fingers flying over the surgical console as she calibrated the depth of the neuro-link.

Ki’Remi exhaled, running a frustrated hand over the back of his neck.

She was relentless, but he had to hand it to her. She was good.

Still, he had to object.

It was his duty, even though he’d seen countless examples of how her energy transference and healing approach worked. Never had it harmed anyone. Yet.

‘Issa,’ his utterance like smoothed steel, ‘we have an entire fleet of high-precision automated assistants designed for this type of case. Why the hell are you trying to be the scalpel?’

Issa sighed through her nose, her eyes flashing with something sharp, something exasperated.

She finally turned to face him, her expression a mix of irritation and absolute conviction.

‘Because, Sable,’ she said, her tone quiet but cutting, ‘a machine cannot feel.’

He stared at her. ‘It doesn’t need to.’

She lifted a single brow. ‘Then why are we here at all?’

A silence stretched between them, heavy, fraught with the undeniable significance of their differing ideologies.

Ki’Remi clenched his jaw.

‘Fokk, why do you have to defy every clinical methodology?’ he grumbled.

‘I prefer to use instinct.’

Hell, he hated that she was forcing him to acknowledge the gaping chasm separating their approaches.

Logic vs. instinct. Precision vs. intuition. Mechanical vs. mortal touch.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it because his second in charge and the attending neuro-specialist cleared his throat from across the room.

‘I don’t know about you two,’ Trevayne muttered, eyeing them both with weary amusement. ‘But while you’re standing here having a domestic, we still have a patient with an exposed brain stem.’

Ki’Remi exhaled, long and slow, dragging a gloved hand down his face.

He had no right to hound her, given that he was simply supervising as Head Surgeon. He had to trust that she would eventually make the appropriate call.

Issa, ever the infuriating serene enigma, smiled at him.

‘Now, if you’re done trying to micromanage me, Commander,’ she murmured, already returning her focus to the patient, ‘let me work.’