Chapter 1192 Lamb's Cry (Thirteen) (Patreon)

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In the dimly lit corridor, only the signage at the entrance of the operating room emitted a faint, cold light. This special operating room within the hospital was set apart, with a frosted glass panel in the center of the door.

When the light from inside the room shone through the frosted glass and onto the floor of the corridor, it was as if a pool of water had been left on the ground. Looking through the glass, only blurred images could be seen.

Through the glass, one could see the upper body of a naked man, who appeared to be lying on the operating table. One of his arms hung down, and the bright light shone on his smooth and taut back muscles, creating an atmosphere reminiscent of the famous painting "The Death of Marat".

Blood dripped down his arm, forming a small puddle on the floor. The smooth ceramic tile floor reflected his pale complexion, and sweat from the deep-set eyes under his brow line ran down his thin, bony jaw, dripping to the ground.

The instruments emitted a faint hum, and in the hazy, blurred glow, the doctor, his hands covered in blood, gently removed his mask and placed the surgical tool on the tray beside him, turning to look at the monitor.

"His vital signs are approaching the limit, the surgery can no longer continue," the doctor said.

"Dr. Fitzgibbon, I hope you understand that he is not an ordinary person and will not die during this surgery. You must complete Ms. Waller's instructions, this is your job," said a nurse, who stood out from the others in her stature.

Turning his head to look at her, Dr. Fitzgibbon replied seriously, "Although I'm known as the 'Death Doctor', I'm not the one who specializes in killing patients. My success rate is very high, so you'd better take my opinion seriously. The surgery has reached this point, and the effects you've requested have been achieved. Continuing further would be meaningless."

The nurse standing next to him, who was somewhat overly strong, glanced down at the man lying on the operating table. His bare upper body had an extremely long and deep incision from the back of his head to his tailbone, exposing almost his entire spine.

At this time, the exposed bone surface had an abnormal glint, and Dr. Fitzgibbon, after glancing at the nurse's expression, seemed to recall something, clicking his tongue with some hesitation and making an effort to suppress his dissatisfaction.

He picked up another syringe from the metal tray, tugging at the edge of his glove with his other hand, and shook his head ruefully, saying, "Alright, I know Ms. Waller and this Professor Schiller have some personal grudge, and she hopes the surgery will go as she wishes. But it's best if the process isn't too smooth. In that case, let's double the dose."

With that, he held the syringe like a knife and directly injected the sharp needle into the gap between Schiller's exposed vertebrae.

Instantly, Schiller convulsed violently, as if he had been electrocuted. A silver metallic glow spread along the surface of the bones, and more blood spurted out as he thrashed uncontrollably.

The nurse, who was quite strong, stepped forward and pressed down on Schiller's neck with her gloved hand, pinning him firmly to the operating table, preventing him from struggling.

Until the silver glow had completely seeped into the bones, Schiller lay there, like a dying fish, exhaling a breath and remaining motionless.

His entire body was drenched in sweat, mingling with the blood that dripped from his arm.

Dr. Fitzgibbon then brought three more syringes, injecting them into Schiller's cervical vertebrae, lumbar vertebrae, and coccyx, one after another. After multiple injections, Schiller's entire spine had completely changed color, the dull hue spreading from the spine to the ribs and scapulae.

Schiller lay on the operating table, his face pale and his expression vacant, but after placing the injection syringes down, Dr. Fitzgibbon took a step back, glancing at Schiller one last time before turning and leaving the operating room.

Amanda Waller was waiting outside the operating room door. Seeing Dr. Fitzgibbon come out, she raised an eyebrow, her expression speaking volumes. Dr. Fitzgibbon glanced at the semi-transparent glass in the center of the door and said, "You should know that there is no scholar in this world who has delved deeper into the research of nano implants than I. The micro-bombs you want to use are child's play to me. The nano-controller implanted in this Professor Schiller is the masterpiece of my life's work."

Seeing Amanda's expression slightly soften, Dr. Fitzgibbon cleared his throat and said, "Humans are vertebrates, and no one can deny the importance of the spine to human beings. The close connection and precise, ingenious cooperation between this bone system is the masterpiece of God. When you hold a vertebra in your hand, it's like grasping the scepter of life."

"Dr. Fitzgibbon, I'm not here to listen to you recite poetry," Amanda said, turning her head to look at the gray-haired doctor. "I just want to know what kind of effects the so-called human bone nano-controller you developed, using more than half the research budget for micro-bombs, can achieve."

"No, no, no, this is not a bone controller!" Dr. Fitzgibbon shook his head lightly. "It's more of a neural controller. You should know what the human nervous system is, right? The reason some paralyzed patients can't walk is not because of a problem with their bones, but their nerves."

"What kind of results can the nano-controller achieve in terms of nerve damage?" Dr. Fitzgibbon tried to explain his experimental results in simple and understandable terms.

"So, you're saying that if I want, this Professor can be like a car accident victim, never able to stand up again?" Amanda asked with interest.

"That's just the simplest, most superficial application. If you want, you can completely immobilize him, or inflict unimaginable pain through the human nervous system, or even artificially induce withdrawal symptoms... The capabilities of this thing depend on how much suffering you want to inflict, and your imagination," Dr. Fitzgibbon shrugged.

"I'm not a sadist," Amanda said, then turned her head to look through the blurred glass at Schiller, who still lay motionless on the operating table, and asked, "Are you sure he was conscious during the surgery?"

"Of course. But to be honest, it's not really that painful, apart from the process of cutting through the skin and muscles to find the spine. The pain may not even be as severe as a violent electric shock. The trembling and convulsions are just nerve reflexes, not actual pain transmission."

"Pain is not the greatest torment," Amanda said with a cold smile. "For this group of ruthless and heartless serial killers, the humiliation of going from butcher to lamb, of being reduced to a mere object, is what will truly torment them the most."

Amanda pushed open the door of the operating room, and the other nurses had already left the operating room. Only Amanda, standing in front of the operating table, and Schiller, lying on the operating table with his eyes half-closed, remained.

Schiller's wound on his back had been sutured, but because the wound was too deep and the area too large, the sutures used were very thick, and the scars were very obvious, like a zipper installed on his back.

Schiller's face was half-pressed against the surface of the operating table, with one side exposed. His lips were colorless, and his eye contact was still very scattered, with only his eyelashes occasionally fluttering.

"Look at you, Professor," Amanda said, looking at Schiller with a slight cold smile. "You didn't scream, didn't call out, and didn't even say a word."

"Is it because you feel that if you cry out, you would be no different from those lambs who once cried out in agony because of your abuse?"

Amanda pursed her lips, exhaled slightly, and looked up at the empty air, saying, "You cruel, indifferent, and heartless killers, you think you are a different species from ordinary humans, and you treat them like pigs and dogs, thinking you can slaughter or abuse them at will."

"Therefore, what I love to do the most is to shatter your arrogance, to let you know that you are no different from the meat on the cutting board, that you are not the rulers or controllers, but also weak and helpless lambs."

Schiller blinked his eyes lightly and said in an extremely hoarse voice, "Amanda, do you know? If you write this into a paper, I would even be willing to give you a middle-upper score."

"Because you have stated your motivation, proposed a method, firmly implemented it, obtained certain data, and reached a conclusion. The process of argumentation is very complete... much better than some people."

Amanda leaned forward, supporting her body on the edge of the operating table, and looked at Schiller's profile, saying, "That's how you are. The precious lives of ordinary people are nothing more than data in your eyes. Those articles composed of codes that appear in the newspapers are all behind cruel cases of bloodshed, and you only treat them as jokes for entertainment."

"Amanda, why are you also feeling pain?" Schiller asked intermittently.

"Because I once had hope for you, and so did my family," Amanda said, straightening her body and looking at Schiller's pale profile. "My parents thought my younger brother would have a good teacher, but he killed them. I thought I had met a good Professor, but you are a ruthless serial killer like them."

"You are determined and hardworking, but there is only one problem," Schiller said, closing his eyes as if he was tired, his hoarse voice like a gust of wind blowing through a desolate canyon.

"You have no talent, no genius, you are just an ordinary person."

"Shouldn't I be grateful for that?" Amanda's tone shook violently. "At least I'm a mentally healthy ordinary person, not you damned lunatics!"

"If you don't understand us, you'll never be able to deal with us," Schiller's Adam's apple trembled, and his voice gradually weakened. "You'll soon find that you're up against a true genius... and you'll come back to me."

Amanda stared at Schiller with cold eyes, but the readings and sounds of the nearby instruments told her that Schiller's vital signs were not optimistic. If she took some violent measures now, this Professor would not have the opportunity to make a contribution.

So, after staring at Schiller for dozens of seconds, Amanda turned and walked out of the operating room. But before she could even walk out of the corridor, she saw Davis quickly approaching the corner.

"Good news, Amanda," Davis said, raising his voice and looking at Amanda. "The Wayne Group has contacted us on their own. They are very interested in our project, and Bruce Wayne may be able to help us get through the difficult times!"

"Who?!"

"Bruce Wayne!"

[Read at www.patreon.com/shanefreak, and thanks for the invaluable support!]

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Next Chapter>>Chapter 1193 Lamb's Cry (Part Fourteen)