He looked.
Westane grabbed his kit. Sealed bag, chemical neutralizer, portable incinerator. Routine meant someone had died where they shouldn’t have. Not in a medbay. Not in a cryo-pod. Somewhere messy. Somewhere private .
Westane knelt. Routine . Bag. Neutralizer. Burn.
Westane’s hand trembled. He looked at his own forearm. Under the skin, faint silver threads glistened. He’d always thought it was scar tissue.
He stood up. Bag still closed. Incinerator cold.
Westane wiped his palm on his jumpsuit and pressed it to the reader. The screen blinked green.
The notification pinged again.
”In the event of biological integration, no separation between employee and employer shall be recognized.”
© 2026. Jaypee Brothers Medical Publishers (P) Ltd. | All Rights Reserved.
