The Divine Nerve: Healing And Ecstasy

Surgical Strike

The door of The Gilded Cage closed behind Silas.

Inside the shop, however, Mr. Finch did not return to work. He stood behind the velvet window curtain, his eyes narrowing as he watched Silas’s retreating back. His hand gripped the receiver of an old rotary phone so tight his knuckles turned white.

"Yeah, it’s me," Finch whispered into the mouthpiece. "A fat sheep just walked out. A kid. He’s carrying a check for ten grand. No, don't kill him. Just break his legs and take the check. We split it fifty-fifty."

Finch hung up with a sly, predatory smile. "That’s a business lesson for you, kid. There’s no such thing as a free lunch in Silver City."

Silas didn't know he was being hunted. He walked briskly down the wet pavement, his mind fixated on the ten thousand dollars in his pocket. It was freedom. It was a fresh start for a better life.

He took a shortcut through a narrow alley between two red-brick warehouses to get to the main road. It was a rookie mistake.

The streetlights in the alley flickered, dying breaths of electricity that cast long, eerie shadows against the graffiti-stained walls.

Suddenly, three figures stepped out from behind a large dumpster, blocking the path ahead.

Silas stopped dead. He glanced over his shoulder. The exit behind him was already swallowed by shadows. He was surrounded.

"Where’s the fire, Rich Boy?"

The man who spoke was huge, wearing a leather jacket emblazoned with a coiled snake on the sleeve, the Viper Gang. He twirled a butterfly knife in his hand, the blade flashing under the dim light.

"We heard you just robbed our good friend, Mr. Finch," the thug said, stepping forward. "Hand over the check. Consider it a... road tax."

Silas’s heart hammered against his ribs. Cold sweat soaked his back. All his life, Silas had avoided conflict. He was a nurse, a healer, not a fighter.

"I... I don't want any trouble," Silas said, his voice trembling slightly. He took a step back, but his back hit the rough brick wall.

"Too late for that," the thug grinned, his teeth yellow. "Grab him, boys."

The other two thugs moved in, cracking their knuckles.

Panic seized Silas. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the first blow.

“Open your eyes, you fool!”

Victor’s voice exploded in his head like a whip crack. There was no laziness or boredom this time. His tone was sharp, cold, and filled with military authority.

“You carry the legacy of 'The Divine Nerve'. If you let these trash heaps touch you, I will haunt the rest of your life with nightmares.”

Silas snapped his eyes open. "B-But I can't fight!"

“You don't need to fight,” Victor said calmly. “You only need to dissect. What is the difference between cutting flesh on an operating table and cutting flesh in this alley? It is all just anatomy.”

The first thug lunged, throwing a heavy right hook aimed at Silas’s jaw.

“Time slows.”

For Silas, the world seemed to freeze. Adrenaline from the Divine Nerve flooded his brain, ramping his visual perception up to superhuman levels.

He didn't see a threatening fist. He saw muscle structure, bone density, and most importantly, nerves.

“Watch his right elbow,” Victor guided. “The Ulnar Nerve is exposed. Strike there. Forty-five-degree angle. Use the knuckle of your index finger.”

Silas’s body moved before his brain could process the command. He ducked slightly, dodging the fist by a single inch. Then, his right hand pecked forward like a snake strike.

TRAKK.

His knuckle slammed into the notch of the thug's elbow with surgical precision.

"ARGHHH!"

The thug shrieked. His arm instantly went limp, dangling like rubber. The pain from the ulnar nerve, the funny bone, being hit that hard sent a paralyzing electric shock all the way up to his shoulder.

The second thug, shocked to see his friend go down, tried to kick Silas in the stomach.

“Peroneal Nerve. Side of the knee,” Victor whispered.

Silas didn't retreat. He stepped into the range of the kick, then stomped the heel of his boot into the outer side of the attacker’s knee.

CRACK!

It wasn't the sound of a broken bone, but the sickening pop of a joint being forced against its natural direction.

"My leg!" The second thug collapsed, clutching his knee which had gone completely numb. He rolled on the wet asphalt, howling in agony.

Only the gang leader remained. His face, previously arrogant, was now deathly pale. He held his knife with a trembling hand.

"What... what are you?" he hissed.

Silas stood tall. He looked at his own hands. There was no pain. Only a terrifying, cold calm. He felt like a predator playing with its food.

“Finish him,” Victor commanded. “Do not use strength. Use fear. Press the Brachial Plexus in his neck.”

The gang leader screamed and lunged blindly with his knife.

Silas swatted the man’s wrist aside with the back of his hand, sending the knife spinning into a puddle. In one fluid motion, Silas grabbed the man by the throat.

His thumb pressed into the soft spot between the neck and the shoulder.

"Sleep," Silas whispered.

He pressed the point.

The gang leader’s eyes rolled back into his head. The blood flow to his brain was momentarily disrupted, combined with a neural shock that shut down his motor signals. His massive body crumpled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.

Silence.

Only the sound of Silas’s breathing and the low groans of the injured thug echoed in the alley.

Three against one. Over in ten seconds.

“Decent efficiency for a novice,” Victor commented dryly. “Now, take their 'consultation f*e'. You need cash for tonight.”

Silas, still buzzing with adrenaline, crouched down. He reached into the leader’s pocket and pulled out a thick leather wallet. There was about $400 inside.

"Consider it a stupidity tax," Silas muttered.

He stood up, straightening his slightly rumpled collar, and walked out of the alley. He didn't run. He walked with his back straight. His confidence had shifted. He was no longer Silas the nurse who could be trampled on.

He hailed a taxi on the main road.

"To The Rust District," Silas told the driver.

The ride home felt short. Silas spent the time staring at the city lights passing by the window, thinking about his next move. He had a $10,000 check. He had cash he could use tomorrow for fun things.

But tonight, he just wanted a hot shower, a pizza, and sleep in his own bed.

The taxi pulled up in front of the dingy red-brick apartment building in The Rust District.

"Keep the change," Silas said, handing the driver a $50 bill.

He stepped out of the taxi, feeling like a king returning to his castle. However, the smile vanished from his face the moment he saw the sidewalk in front of the building entrance.

There was a pile of stuff there.

Used medical scrubs. Anatomy books with torn covers. A thin foam mattress that was yellowed with age. A dented cooking pot.

It was all his.

His belongings were scattered on the wet, muddy sidewalk, splashed by passing cars.

"Hey! You can't do this!"

Silas ran toward the entrance. There, blocking the door, stood a large woman with high-teased hair and a cigarette dangling from her red lips.

Mrs. Higgins. The Landlady.

Behind her stood two muscular men, hired bouncers.

"Ah, look who came home," Mrs. Higgins smirked, blowing smoke into Silas’s face. "The Hospital Rat."

"Why are my things outside?" Silas demanded, his fists clenching.

"Why? Because you’re three months behind on rent, Honey," Mrs. Higgins said casually. "And I heard you just got fired. No job, no room. I’ve already rented your place to someone with actual cash."

"But... the law forbids eviction at night!" Silas protested.

"The law?" Mrs. Higgins laughed, the fat on her neck jiggling. "In this district, I am the law. Now, take your trash and leave before I have my boys break your bones."

Silas stared at his soaked belongings. He had just defeated three armed thugs. He had a ten-thousand-dollar check in his pocket. But seeing his "home" destroyed like this, the cold stabbed at his heart all over again.