The smell hit me first.
Hot iron mixed with antiseptic.
By the time I stepped inside the operating room, the surgical lights burned my eyes and the scene snapped into focus like a nightmare under a microscope.
The boy on the table was thrashing.
Not fully conscious—just aware enough to fight the restraints that held his wrists and ankles to the steel table. His chest rose and fell violently, lungs dragging in desperate breaths.
And the blood…
Too much of it.
It pooled beneath the surgical lamp, spreading across the stainless-steel surface before dripping slowly onto the tiled floor.
The Doctor stood over him, gloved hands already soaked crimson.
"You took your time," he snapped without looking up.
I stepped closer, instinctively scanning the room the way an old soldier checks a battlefield.
"Problem?" I asked.
"Major one," the Doctor replied sharply. "Your specimen woke up too early."
He pressed gauze deep into the open incision across the young man's abdomen.
The boy groaned weakly.
The Doctor cursed under his breath.
"The sedative dose should have lasted another twenty minutes," he muttered. "But your hunting methods must have pumped his adrenaline through the roof."
I ignored the jab.
"Tell me what to do."
That seemed to calm him slightly.
"Hold the rib spreader," he said, nodding toward the metal instrument beside the tray.
I picked it up immediately.
Cold steel.
Heavy.
Precise.
Years of training—even the kind that officially never happened—taught you how to follow instructions quickly in situations like this.
The Doctor slid the spreader between the opened ribs and gestured.
"Now pull."
I applied steady pressure.
The metal arms widened slowly, forcing the rib cage apart with a faint cracking sound.
The boy screamed.
A raw, animal sound that echoed through the operating room before dissolving into ragged breathing.
The Doctor didn't even flinch.
"Good," he said.
His scalpel moved again—quick, efficient strokes. Like a painter who had practiced the same brush movement a thousand times.
"Clamp."
I handed him the instrument.
"Forceps."
Another tool passed.
"Retractor."
Another.
The rhythm of surgery took over the room.
Cut.
Clamp.
Pull.
Slice.
Every movement calculated.
Every second valuable.
After a few minutes, the chaos began to settle into cold precision.
Blood flow slowed.
Breathing became weaker.
The Doctor leaned closer to the open chest cavity, his eyes shining with focus.
"There you are," he murmured.
He slipped two fingers inside the cavity.
The boy's body jerked once more.
Then weakened.
I knew what he had found.
The heart.
"Container," the Doctor ordered calmly.
I grabbed the sterile tray with the preservation box already filled with ice.
The Doctor worked quickly now.
"Timing matters," he muttered. "A damaged organ loses half its market value."
His scalpel sliced again.
The boy gave one final shudder.
Then his body went still.
The monitor emitted a flat tone.
The Doctor ignored it completely.
With one swift motion, he severed the last connecting vessels.
And lifted the heart free.
It was smaller than I expected.
Still twitching faintly.
A dark red muscle that had once powered an entire human life.
The Doctor dropped it into the preservation container.
Ice crackled softly as the organ settled inside.
"Perfect condition," he said with satisfaction.
He wiped his gloves against a cloth and glanced at me.
"Not bad work today."
I said nothing.
My eyes drifted toward the lifeless face of the boy.
Young.
Maybe nineteen.
Maybe twenty.
Fear had frozen his expression forever.
The Doctor noticed where I was looking.
"You're not developing a conscience now, are you?" he asked dryly.
I scoffed.
"Relax."
I tapped the steel table lightly.
"I'm just calculating profit margins."
That earned a thin smile.
"Good."
He turned back to the body and began marking additional incision points.
"Now let's harvest the rest before tissue degradation begins."
The next hour passed in mechanical silence.
Liver.
Kidneys.
Corneas.
Each organ carefully removed, rinsed, sealed, and placed into preservation containers.
The boy's body slowly transformed from a living human being into a hollow biological resource.
When the final container was sealed, the Doctor stretched his neck and removed his gloves.
"Congratulations," he said casually.
"Tonight's delivery alone will fetch close to sixty lakh."
Even I raised an eyebrow.
"Sixty?"
"International buyers," he said.
"Demand has increased."
He began writing notes on a small clipboard.
"Especially for young organs."
I leaned against the wall.
"Then maybe you should start paying your suppliers better."
The Doctor smirked.
"Greedy."
"Practical."
He finished his notes and shut the clipboard.
"You'll get your share tomorrow."
Then he pointed toward the second sack still lying on the floor.
"Now bring in the next one."
For a moment the room was silent.
I looked at the second burlap sack.
It hadn't moved once since we arrived.
No sound.
No breathing.
No struggling.
Something about that bothered me.
I walked toward it slowly.
The rough jute fabric scratched against my fingers as I untied the rope knot.
The Doctor watched impatiently.
"Hurry up," he said. "We're losing time."
I pulled the sack open.
And froze.
Inside…
The second boy's eyes were open.
Wide.
Unblinking.
But not scared.
Not unconscious either.
He was looking straight at me.
And smiling.
A slow.
Calm.
Knowing smile.
Like someone who had been waiting.
My instincts screamed.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Behind me, the Doctor spoke again.
"Well?"
I didn't answer.
Because at that exact moment…
The boy inside the sack whispered something so quietly that only I could hear it.
"Found you."
My blood ran cold.
Hook for Next Chapter:
Who is the mysterious second victim—and how does he already know the Supplier?
Author's Note — Kripa Shankar Sharma
Justice and crime sometimes walk the same road. This story explores the shadows where morality becomes a weapon and survival demands difficult choices.