Page 325 of Mercy Written in Blood

Not rage. That was what disturbed him now. The rage had ended before the killing did. At first, he had been lost inside memory. Haruki on concrete. Rain against the roof. Another man dyingcenturies earlier beneath trees. Then Ken had spoken. Haruki needs you. The world had returned. Renji had released the blood. He had believed that was the end of it.

Now, beneath the cold water, he remembered the moments before release more clearly. He had known which vessels to close. Which to rupture. Which attackers could survive. Which could not be permitted another movement. The knowledge had not been improvised. It had been waiting. His family had not taught Hemomancy as separate disciplines. Medicine and combat had been one art. Both concerned anatomy. Both required judgement. Both asked the same question. What must be altered for life to continue?

Renji shut off the water. His hands no longer trembled. That frightened him more than when they had.

The bullet beneath Haruki's clavicle had torn the subclavian vein. It had missed the artery by less than the width of a fingernail. The chest wound had damaged the upper lobe of the right lung and filled the pleural cavity with blood. The abdominal bullet had crossed the liver, clipped the stomach and stopped near the posterior abdominal wall. The third projectile had entered beneath the lower ribs, fragmented against bone and opened the spleen. Three wounds. Six damaged structures. One human body already depleted by the time surgery began.

Renji stood at the scrub sink outside Theatre Three. Dr Sakamoto emerged from behind the doors — cardiothoracic consultant, human, forty-eight years old, brilliant when rested, arrogant when frightened. He stopped when he saw Renji.

"You cannot operate."

Renji continued scrubbing.

"I can."

"You inhaled silver nitrate less than an hour ago."

"My oxygen saturation is ninety-seven."

"That is not the only concern."

"No."

Sakamoto lowered his voice.

"The police said there were bodies."

"The police are not here."

"The men outside are not police."

"No."

"I heard what happened."

Renji rinsed the soap from his fingers.

"What did you hear?"

"That people died without visible wounds."

"Some had visible wounds."

Sakamoto stared at him. Renji dried his hands, the movement remaining precise — each finger separately, palm, back of hand, wrist. He had done it thousands of times.

Sakamoto looked towards the theatre doors.

"He is unstable."

"I know."

"We have the vascular injury controlled temporarily. The lung is manageable. The abdominal bleeding is not."

"Then why are you outside?"

"Because you are his partner."

The word struck differently now. Not investigator. Not Family liaison. Partner. Something publicly visible. Something others had seen before Renji had permitted himself to name it.