Marcus's workstation sat empty.

Rex brewed tea in the silence, Satie's Gymnopédies playing where Marcus's muttered complaints used to fill the space. The confrontation had been brief—Rex laid out the facts about the Burnside modification, Marcus made no excuses, and the next day he was gone. No dramatic exit, no threats. Just the click of the door and the weight of empty air.

Three weeks now. The workshop felt bigger. Colder.

The bell chimed.

A young woman stood in the tea house's amber light, early twenties, holding her face with both hands. Even from across the room, Rex could see something was wrong—the left side of her face sagged slightly, the skin tone mismatched, a faint tremor in her jaw.

She stepped forward, and the light caught the full extent of it. The left side of her face was collapsing, synthetic skin peeling at the edges, the bone structure beneath visibly misaligned. Infection had set in around her cheekbone, the flesh angry and swollen.

"Please," she said, her voice tight with pain. "They said you're the best. I need help."

Rex gestured to the low table. "Sit."

She moved carefully, as if any jarring motion might cause her face to fall apart completely. Rex poured tea—a bitter oolong, medicinal—and set a cup before her. Ravel's Pavane for a Dead Princess played softly from hidden speakers.

"Tell me what happened," Rex said.

"I got a facial reconstruction. Three weeksk ago. The modder said it would make me beautiful, help me get work in the Upper Sprawl clubs." Her voice cracked. "It looked perfect at first. But last week it started... changing. The skin's peeling. My jaw hurts constantly. I can barely eat."

Rex pulled a hand-held scanner from his coat. "May I?"

She nodded, lowering her hands. Up close, the damage was worse. The synthetic skin was bonded incorrectly, already separating from the dermal layer beneath. The bone grafts were visibly misaligned—cheap material, poor anchoring. Nerve threading was sloppy, crossing and tangling in ways that would cause chronic pain.

His cybernetic eye scrolled data as the scanner swept her face. Then he saw it—the signature embedded in the modification code. A specific pattern of shortcuts, a particular style of corner-cutting he recognized immediately.

Rex's jaw tightened. He set the scanner down carefully. "Who did this work?"

"Some guy named Marcus. He works out of a Burnside facility on Level-7 now. He said he used to work for you. That he'd learned from the best but could do it cheaper. I couldn't afford Chrome Lotus prices, so I—" Her voice broke. "I'm sorry. I should have come here first."

Rex was quiet for a long moment, staring at the scan results. Every shortcut Marcus had taken was visible—designed to look good initially but built to fail within weeks. The bone anchors were embedded too shallow, the synthetic skin used bargain-grade polymers, the nerve grafting rushed and imprecise.

This wasn't incompetence. This was deliberate.

"Can you help me?" the woman asked, tears streaming down the good side of her face.

Rex met her eyes. "What's your name?"

"Lydia. Lydia Chen."

"Lydia, I can fix this. But you need to understand—it won't be cheap or easy. I'll have to remove everything Marcus installed and start over. New bone grafts, new skin, complete neural rethreading. Two surgeries, maybe three. Eight thousand credits."

Her face crumpled. "I don't have that. I spent everything on the first surgery. I barely have five hundred left."

Rex should refuse. This wasn't his mess, wasn't his responsibility. The smart business decision was to turn her away.

But then he looked at her face again—at Marcus's sloppy, profit-driven butchery—and felt something cold settle in his chest.

"You'll pay what you can," he said quietly. "When you can."

"I can't ask you to—"

"You're not asking. I'm telling you." Rex stood, moving toward the beaded curtain. "Come back tomorrow morning. I'll need time to grow the replacement tissue. Bring whatever credits you have."

"Thank you," she whispered.

After she left, Rex stood alone in his workshop, pulling up the scan data on his main display. Every corner Marcus had cut glowed on the screen like an accusation. The bone anchors embedded wrong, the synthetic skin bonded with adhesive instead of nanite integration, the nerve pathways threaded with brutal efficiency.

It would have taken Marcus maybe two hours to do this work. It would take Rex at least twelve to undo it.

He began running calculations for the bone graft specifications, his hands dancing across the interface. The bio-tanks hummed to life, preparing to grow Lydia's new facial structure from her own DNA.

The work would be slow. Careful. Everything Marcus wasn't.

The next morning, Lydia returned. She looked worse—barely slept, the infection spreading, her left eye now swollen half-shut. She carried a small credit chip in trembling hands.

"Five hundred and twenty credits," she said. "It's all I have."

Rex took it without comment. "Strip to your undergarments and lie on the slab."

She obeyed, and Rex guided her through the beaded curtain into the cold sterility of the workshop. The surgical slab gleamed beneath its circular halo. The bio-tank beside it held her new facial structure—perfectly sculpted bone grafts, pristine synthetic skin, a complete reconstruction waiting.

Lydia climbed onto the slab, gripping its edges.

"This will hurt," Rex warned, activating the surgical bot. The spider-like apparatus unfolded from the ceiling, its multiple arms clicking into position. "I'm removing everything Marcus installed. Then rebuilding from scratch."

She nodded, lips pressed thin.

Rex administered the sedation—enough to dull the pain but keep her conscious. The injection hissed against her neck.

"Beginning removal," he said quietly.

The bot's lasers hummed, scoring careful lines around the failing synthetic skin. Rex's hands moved with absolute precision, steady on the interface controls. The skin came off in sheets, peeling away to reveal the bone structure beneath.

Blood welled where infection had eaten through tissue. Rex cauterized as he went, the surgical bot working in concert with his commands. Lydia gasped, her body rigid, but the sedation kept her from screaming.

"Extracting bone grafts," Rex murmured.

This was the dangerous part. The anchors Marcus had used were embedded incorrectly, wrapped around nerve clusters they should have avoided. Rex's thumbs and forefingers split, giving him seven fingers per hand, the extra digits matte black carbon with exposed silver actuators. They moved independently—three on his left hand manipulating the holographic display, four on his right guiding micro-surgical tools the bot couldn't manage.

The first bone graft came free with a sickening crack. Lydia's breathing quickened, but she held still. The second anchor was worse—embedded too deep, tangled with facial nerves. Rex worked in silence, sweat beading on his temple, his split fingers dancing between physical tools and virtual controls.

The third anchor had calcified incorrectly, fused to her maxilla. Marcus had used substandard materials that degraded and bonded wrong. Rex cut carefully, preserving bone.

By hour four, all of Marcus's work was out. Rex cleaned the wounds with antiseptic and began reconstruction.

The new bone grafts aligned perfectly. Rex's seven fingers manipulated them into position, the bot securing them with proper medical-grade anchors. These would hold for decades, would integrate with her natural bone, would never fail the way Marcus's had.

"Injecting nanites," Rex said.

The silver fluid spread through the connection points, microscopic machines weaving synthetic and organic tissue at the cellular level. Lydia arched slightly, a moan escaping her lips as the nanites worked. On the display, integration percentages climbed.

Rex's split fingers moved constantly, guiding the nanite distribution, ensuring perfect fusion. His cybernetic eye tracked every microscopic change, adjusting in real-time.

"Neural rethreading," he announced.

This was the most delicate work—connecting the new facial structure to her existing nerves. Thread by thread, nerve by nerve, he rebuilt her face's ability to feel, to move, to express.

Hour six. The bone structure was complete. Rex applied the new synthetic skin—real bio-synthetic tissue grown from her DNA, not Marcus's cheap polymer substitute. It bonded seamlessly, nanites ensuring perfect integration.

Hour eight. Rex sealed the final connections and stepped back. His split fingers recombined with soft clicks—seven becoming five. Sweat soaked through his shirt.

Lydia's new face was perfect. Symmetrical, natural, beautiful in a way her original mod never could have been.

"Integration at ninety-seven percent," Rex said quietly. "Neural adaptation... complete."

He deactivated the surgical bot. Lydia lay on the slab, breathing steadily, her new face still slightly swollen but whole.

"You can sit up."

She moved slowly, carefully. Rex handed her the cracked mirror. She stared at her reflection—both sides of her face matched now, the infection gone, the pain already fading.

"I'm..." She touched her new face with trembling fingers. "I'm beautiful."

"You're healed," Rex corrected. "The beauty was already there."

Tears streamed down both cheeks now—proof the nerve threading was perfect. "Why didn't Marcus do it like this the first time?"

Rex's expression was unreadable. "Because he doesn't care what happens after you leave. I do. Come back in two weeks. I need to check the integration."

"Thank you," she whispered.

After she left, Rex stood alone in the workshop. The surgical slab gleamed, sterilized and empty. Eight hours of work. Five hundred credits. A loss by any measure.

But that wasn't the point.

He brewed fresh tea and returned to his workbench. The silence pressed against him like a physical weight. Just Rex and his principles and the endless parade of the desperate.

The bell chimed again. "Wire" Frank Costello stepped through the doorway, his augmented left arm—three extra fingers grafted onto his forearm—flexing nervously.

"Frank. Need something?"

"Word's spreading. Marcus set up big in a Burnside facility on Level-7. Five modders working under him, undercutting everyone." Frank paused. "He's been offering 'introductory rates,' says he learned from you but doesn't charge 'Chrome Lotus’ prices."

Rex was quiet.

"When the work fails—and it's failing—they're coming here. You're cleaning up his messes for pocket change." Frank's expression was grim. "You can't save them all. Eventually, you'll run out of goodwill."

"What would you have me do?"

"Compete. Drop your prices. Get aggressive."

"I don't work that way."

"Then you'll lose." Frank straightened. "I respect what you do. But this is the UnderSprawl. Ethics don't pay rent."

After Frank left, Rex sat with cold tea and the weight of empty principles. He could lower his prices. He could rush his work. He could compete on Marcus's terms. Or he could do what he'd always done—build things that lasted, even if no one could afford them.

The bell chimed a third time. A man entered, mid-thirties, nervous. His right arm hung at an odd angle, cybernetic fingers twitching sporadically.

"You Rex? I need help. Got a cybernetic installed last month, but it's not working right. Keeps moving on its own."

"Who did the work?" Rex already knew the answer.

"Guy named Marcus. Said he used to work here."

By the time the man left, appointment scheduled for two days' time, the sun had set. Not that the UnderSprawl noticed. Neon bled through the perpetual twilight, and the condensation dripped steadily.

Rex returned to his workshop. The bio-tanks hummed, already preparing tissue for the man's arm repair. More losses.

But the canvas was never clean. And now someone was actively poisoning it, creating victims faster than Rex could save them.

He poured fresh tea and sat at his workbench. Outside, the UnderSprawl breathed its toxic fog. Somewhere, Marcus was installing his next cheap mod, building his empire of failures. Somewhere, Lydia Chen was touching her new face in wonder, believing again.

And here, in a narrow shop wedged between a noodle bar and a defunct drone repair, Rex prepared for the next client, the next canvas, the next ghost asking to be made whole.

And he'd do what he always did.

Try.

The music had cycled back to the beginning. Satie's Gymnopédies played on—sparse, melancholic, the sound of loneliness and precision.

Another night. Another soul, more or less saved.