The morning before the surgery was draped in a cold, grey Dutch mist.
In the heart of the city, the great stone cathedral loomed like a silent giant.
For Don-Fran and Lola, the weight of the coming hours was too heavy to carry alone.
They sought the only sanctuary they knew.
Inside the church, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and centuries of prayer.
Don-Fran knelt, his back straight despite the trembling in his hands, while Lola stood beside him.
She lit a thick, white candle, the flame flickering as she placed it among the others—a small, bright plea for her brother's life. They stayed there for a long time, the silence of the nave absorbing their whispers to a God they hoped was listening.
Outside, leaning against the damp stone of the church's exterior wall, Faust stood alone.
The orange ember of a hand-rolled smoke glowed in the dim light. This was his ritual—two to four smokes before any great undertaking, whether it was a doctoral defense, or a surgery.
It cleared the clutter from his mind and steadied the rhythm within his chest.
The heavy oak doors creaked open, and Lola stepped out, squinting against the dull daylight.
She found him in a cloud of blue smoke.
"Why didn't you come in?" she asked, her voice softened by the sanctity she had just left. "Even a man of science could use a little favor from the Heavens today."
Faust took a long drag, staring at the cobblestones.
"Since I was a child, I've had an... uncomfortable relationship with these places. My parents took me to every Mass, every holiday, but I always felt like an intruder. An ominous weight in the pit of my stomach, as if the very stones were watching me, waiting for me to leave."
He flicked the ash away.
"Besides, Lola, I don't believe in God. I believe in anatomy, and I believe in the steady hand. Theology is for those who cannot see the mechanics of the machine."
Lola didn't argue.
Instead, she stepped close and quickly traced the sign of the cross over his chest with her thumb.
Faust let out a sharp, genuine laugh, the smoke curling around his lips. "Stop that," he teased, stepping back. "I'm not some demon you need to exorcise. I'm just a doctor who needs his lungs full of tobacco to think."
"Better safe than sorry, Faust," she replied with a small, sad smile. "If God won't help you, maybe the habit will."
The evening meal at Hendrik's house was a quiet affair.
Even Don-Fran's usual theatrical flair was muted.
They ate Marta's hearty stew in near silence, the clink of spoons against porcelain the only music.
Afterward, the house fell into a heavy sleep—except for Faust, who spent the night sharpening his Damascus steel blades until they could split a hair in the candlelight.
The next morning, the ritual repeated: a single hand-rolled smoke, a cup of coffee so black it looked like ink, and the steadying of his own pulse.
They walked to the University's anatomical theater at dawn.
The room was a marvel of the age—a circular wooden arena with tiered benches rising toward the ceiling, designed so that every student could see the "miracle" of the human body. The center was dominated by a heavy, slab-like table.
Hendrik had ensured the room was scrubbed with vinegar and spirits of wine, the air sharp and sterile.
Don-Fran and Lola stopped at the heavy double doors.
"We will be right here," Don-Fran said, gripping Faust's hand. His eyes were wet, but his voice was firm. "Save my son, Doctor."
Faust nodded and stepped inside, where Hendrik was already waiting, his face pale above his surgical apron.
Mateus was already on the table, stripped to the waist.
The black decay on his shoulder looked even more monstrous under the bright, focused skylights of the theater.
"You look like you're going to a funeral, Hendrik," Mateus joked, his voice shaking only slightly. "I thought this was supposed to be a demonstration of my sister's 'sculptor'."
"Hush, Mateus," Faust said, stepping into the light. He held up a small glass vial filled with a dark, syrupy liquid. "Drink this. It's a concentrated opium from the East. It will take you to a place where there is no pain and no stage."
Mateus took the vial, drinking it down with a grimace.
"Make sure... make sure I wake up in time for the next show," he muttered.
Slowly, his eyes drifted shut.
His breathing slowed, his body going slack against the wood.
The jokes were over.
The theater went silent.
Faust looked at Hendrik, who held a tray of gleaming instruments.
The younger man's hands were shaking.
Faust reached out, his own hands as still as the stone of the church he had refused to enter.
"The light is good," Faust whispered, picking up the primary scalpel. "God help us -- for art is long, and life so short."
The blade touched the blackened skin, and the world outside the theater ceased to exist.