The workshop was filled with the smell of metal — cold, sharp, mixed with oil and burnt residue. Metal scraps lay scattered across the floor, alongside fragments of old mechanisms and dismantled machines. Everything here looked taken apart and reassembled countless times.
Tomas stood between Viktor and Ben, motionless, silent, as if he were just another piece of metal in the room.
Viktor broke the silence first.
"I'll leave you two to talk privately."
Tomas nodded.
"Thank you."
Ben gestured toward his worktable.
"Come here. Tell me exactly what you need from me."
The table was covered with drawings — knives, complex mechanisms. They both sat down.
Tomas was cold as ice. No emotion. No hesitation. Everything inside him had already been calculated, measured, decided.
"I need a knife," he said calmly. "But not just any knife."
Ben raised his eyes but didn't interrupt.
"Military-grade. Precise and sharp enough that a surgeon could perform an operation on a moving object — like using a scalpel."
Tomas spoke slowly, evenly.
"The blade must withstand heavy stress. Long-term, intensive cutting through different materials. It must be usable with one hand, suitable for both right and left hands. And," he paused briefly, "this must remain confidential."
Ben wrote everything down. For a moment, the only sound was the scratch of a pencil.
Then he looked up, directly into Tomas's eyes.
Bright green. Cold. But deep beneath them — tightly locked away — lived immense pain.
"Show me your palm."
Tomas extended his hand. Ben measured it carefully, studying it for a long moment.
"I understand what you want," Ben finally said. "But it will take time."
He leaned closer to the blueprints.
"The blade will be made from obsidian — volcanic glass. It allows atomic-level sharpness. But obsidian alone is too fragile; it chips easily."
He looked up again.
"So I'll use my own technology. I'll reinforce it with titanium glasssteel. This combination will make the knife," he allowed himself a brief, humorless smile, "the sharpest and most durable I've ever created."
"How long?" Tomas asked.
"Up to three months."
"I understand. The cost?"
Ben closed his notebook.
"This will be my way of repaying a debt to Viktor. But there's one condition. Just as you don't want anyone to know why you need such a knife… I don't want anyone to know who made it. Do you understand?"
Tomas nodded.
"I do."
Ben handed him a slip of paper.
"My number. If you need anything else, call."
At that moment, Tomas's phone began to vibrate.
The screen lit up.
Laura.
His heart stopped.
His finger, moving without conscious control, pressed answer.
"Hello… this is Laura," her voice was soft, uncertain. "I don't know if we know each other, but I found your number in my phone and I'd like to talk to you for a bit."
Tomas couldn't say a word.
His fist clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palm.
This is probably the last time I'll ever hear her voice.
He ended the call. Didn't say a single word. And immediately blocked the number.
His gaze darkened.
The air around him felt heavier, as if he had absorbed all the pain and darkness of the world into himself — and it could explode at any moment.
Ben noticed. And chose not to say anything.
Tomas stepped outside, where Viktor was waiting.
"So? Did everything work out?" Viktor asked.
"Yes," Tomas replied coldly. "It will take up to three months. If there's work, let me know. I'll have time."
Viktor nodded.
"Good. Get in. We're heading back to my place."
They returned to Viktor's house — large, imposing, built with thick walls meant to hide secrets.
As soon as they stepped out of the car, a man hurried up to Viktor and whispered something in his ear.
Viktor turned to Tomas.
"I've got your first job. Right now."
"Alright," Tomas said. "Lead the way."
On the second floor, inside one of the rooms, three bloodied men sat waiting.
Tomas stood in the doorway for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.
The room smelled of blood, iron-heavy and warm, mixed with antiseptic that had already failed to hide it. The three men sat where they had been left, slumped, breathing unevenly, their faces pale and slick with sweat. Pain hung in the air — raw, unspoken, familiar.
He didn't ask their names.
Names made things personal.
"Clean water. Sterile gauze. Needles. Thread. Local anesthetic. Alcohol. Forceps," Tomas said flatly. "And light."
Everything was brought within minutes.
He rolled up his sleeves.
The first man — gunshot wound to the shoulder — trembled as Tomas examined the entry point. The bullet had torn through muscle, narrowly missing the artery. Tomas pressed around the wound, methodical, ignoring the man's sharp inhale.
"You're lucky," Tomas said without looking at him. "Another centimeter and you'd be bleeding out."
He injected anesthetic with steady hands. Waited just long enough. Then cut.
The man groaned, gripping the edge of the chair.
Tomas worked with precision that came from repetition, not compassion. Forceps slid into flesh. He followed the path of destruction the bullet had made — torn fibers, shredded tissue — until metal clicked softly against steel.
He pulled the bullet free and dropped it into a metal tray.
No reaction. No satisfaction.
He flushed the wound thoroughly, watching blood and debris wash away, then stitched muscle and skin with tight, efficient movements. Each knot was clean. Final.
"Don't move that arm for two weeks," he said. "Or it opens again."
The second man had been shot in the leg.
This one was worse.
The bullet had lodged deep, close to bone. Infection had already begun to whisper its threat — heat, swelling, the smell just starting to change. Tomas frowned slightly.
He cut away fabric, cleaned the area, injected anesthetic.
The man clenched his teeth. Tears ran down his temples.
Tomas didn't look at his face.
He made the incision wider this time. There was no room for elegance here. He worked deeper, slower, fingers steady even as blood filled the cavity. He located the bullet by touch, guided by pressure and resistance.
When it came free, blood surged.
Tomas pressed hard, waited, then stitched layer by layer. Muscle. Tissue. Skin.
"You'll walk," he said quietly. "But you'll feel the weather change for the rest of your life."
The third man — the stab wound — was the most dangerous.
The blade had gone in low, just to the side. Close enough to organs to be unforgiving.
Tomas's expression hardened.
He cleaned the wound carefully, probing with gloved fingers. No organ perforation. Barely missed.
A familiar tightness settled in his chest.
Barely.
He stitched internally first, sealing what needed to be sealed, then closed the skin. His hands moved faster here — not rushed, but driven.
When he finished, he leaned back slightly, exhaling for the first time.
The room was silent except for breathing.
Three men alive.
Three men stitched together by hands that no longer cared why.
Tomas removed his gloves and dropped them into the trash.
"Painkillers. Antibiotics. No alcohol. If any of you reopen the wounds," he said, eyes cold, "you won't like the result."
He washed his hands slowly, watching the blood spiral down the drain.
For a moment, he stared at the red water.
It reminded him too much of other nights. Other failures.
He turned away.
The job was done.
Viktor returned with the money and smiled.
"Fifteen thousand. Five per man. But prices and situations can change."
He handed Tomas a set of car keys.
"So you can get here faster when work comes up."
Tomas took the money and the keys.
"Thank you. If you don't need me anymore, I'll head home."
"Alright. We'll be in touch."
Tomas returned home late. He lay down in the darkness, staring at nothing.
His thoughts were clear, stripped of illusion.
Three months.
Prepare physically.
Gather more information about NovaCure.
And leave no room for weakness.