The Suture of Pride
The needle slipped. Edmund Blackwell felt it before he saw it—a microscopic hesitation in his wrist, a fraction of a second where his hand betrayed him. The suture line on Thomas Crane's forearm was uneven, the stitches too wide apart, the entry points jagged. He set down the forceps and wiped his brow with the back of his glove. The gas lamp above their heads hissed and flickered, casting long...
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