Dr. Anesthesia Graves, who had spent a not-insignificant portion of her life avoiding confrontation by reading, researching, and out-arguing anyone foolish enough to challenge her, decided to hurl one of her very expensive, very impractical dress shoes directly at the gunman’s head.

It wasn’t a strategic decision. Nor was it a particularly good decision. But it was immediate, visceral, and fueled by the kind of instinct that takes over when someone’s pointing a gun at your face.

The shoe—an elegant leather pump designed more for aesthetic regret than utility—sailed through the air in a perfect arc and struck the gunman on the side of his head with a satisfying thunk. For a split second, he looked more surprised than pained, his wild eyes widening as if gravity had betrayed him personally.

“What the f—” he started.

He didn’t finish, because Graves—proving that some decisions are so bad they border on brilliant—had already thrown the second shoe. This one didn’t hit his head but rather his chest, ricocheting harmlessly off his jacket. The distraction was enough, though. For a brief, glorious moment, his grip on the shotgun wavered.

Unfortunately, he still had enough presence of mind to pull the trigger.

The sound of birdshot tearing through the air was loud enough to drown out the screams. Graves stumbled back as the pellets grazed her cheek and shoulder, ripping through her ear with a sharp, stinging heat that she couldn’t immediately process. A burst of crimson streaked across her vision. The pain hit a second later, sharp and unforgiving, like someone had dragged her through broken glass.

“Oh,” Graves said faintly, stumbling to one knee. “Oh, that’s... new.”

The world tilted, her thoughts struggling to focus through the bloom of adrenaline. She touched her cheek and pulled her hand back, staring at the bright smear of blood like it belonged to someone else.

Samson moved.

If the gunman had any lingering doubts about whether this strange, damaged machine was capable of physical action, those doubts were erased when Samson surged forward, his long legs covering the distance in an impossibly fluid motion. His metal frame creaked with every step, the impact points on his torso leaving faint trails of sparks, but he didn’t slow down.

“Wait—!” the gunman started to yell.

Samson’s knee, reinforced enough to dent steel, collided with the man’s stomach.

The sound that followed was not a word. It wasn’t even really a scream. It was more of a strangled exhalation, the kind of noise one makes when their body forgets how to breathe.

The shotgun clattered to the floor, spinning away like a startled snake. Samson didn’t hesitate. He kicked the weapon across the room, sending it skidding into a far corner, and turned his full attention back to the man still doubled over in agony.

“No,” Samson intoned like a spell, his voice devoid of inflection.

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The gunman tried to recover, lunging weakly toward Samson with one arm. He had a knife now—when did he grab that?—and swung it in a wide, desperate arc. It connected, scoring a shallow gash across Samson’s already damaged torso. The blade sparked against the polymer and left a smear of something black and oily, but Samson didn’t react.

Instead, he reached down, grabbed the man’s wrist with his remaining functional arm, and spun his own wrist. He had more degrees of movement than the average human body had reliable access to.

There was a sharp pop.

The knife clattered to the floor.

The gunman howled, clutching his sprained wrist and stumbling backward. Samson followed, relentless and implacable, his LED face still off - totally silent of light. He grabbed the man by the collar. He was clearly going for some sort of lift, but Samson was made to make pottery, not lift 200 pounds of meat. It just wasn't happening.

“Stop this right now,” Samson said. “I don't want to hurt you. I apologize for spraining your wrist, but it was necessary to dis-”

“Get off me!” the man snarled, kicking wildly. “You’re not human! You’re not—”

Samson dropped him unceremoniously to the floor. The gunman hit the ground with a thud, groaning as he clutched his wrist and curled into himself like a broken wind-up toy. Samson nudged the knife further away with his foot, his movements precise and deliberate.

The room fell silent.

Graves, still slumped behind the podium, forced herself to sit up. Her vision swam, and her cheek throbbed in time with her heartbeat, but she was alive. Mostly. She dabbed at her face with trembling fingers, pulling them back to find blood—enough to be alarming but not enough to make her panic. Yet.

With a single fluid motion, Samson stepped aside, kicking the knife further out of reach and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender that somehow managed to convey exasperation, just as the otherwise-useless security guards stepped in, having finished managing the panicking crowd of journalists that had scattered to the far ends of this wild fracas.

“He’s incapacitated,” Samson said, his tone brisk and human-like. “But I suggest you move quickly before he remembers how to flail.”

One of the officers moved to secure the gunman, snapping a pair of zip ties around his wrists while the other kept her weapon trained on him. The man hissed in pain as his injured wrist was restrained, but the officer didn’t seem inclined to offer sympathy.

“Got him,” the officer said, dragging the man to his feet. The gunman let out a string of curses, his voice hoarse and venomous, but he didn’t resist further. “You’re coming with us.”

The other officer glanced around the room, her gaze landing on Graves. “Is anyone injured?”

Samson was already moving toward Graves, crouching down beside her with a kind of mechanical grace that belied the damage to his frame. His left arm sparked faintly, the polymer casing cracked and streaked with something dark and viscous.

“Dr. Graves,” he said, his voice softer now. “How badly are you hurt?”

Graves blinked up at him, her focus wavering as the adrenaline began to ebb. “I... I think I’m okay. Just... my face, shoulder... hurts like hell, though.”

Samson’s LED display flickered in what might have been frustration—or guilt. “You’re bleeding. We need to stop that.”

The security officer approached cautiously, her weapon lowered but her posture still tense. “We’ve got medics on the way. Just hold on.”

“I’m holding,” Graves muttered, wincing as Samson gently tilted her head to inspect the gash on her cheek. “Not going anywhere.”

“This might sting,” Samson warned, ripping loose a part of Dr. Graves' labcoat that had been shredded loose by the birdshot, in lieu of any other options. He pressed it against the wound with a precision that was almost surgical, though the pressure made Graves suck in a sharp breath.

“Yeah, definitely stings,” she managed, her voice tight. “Could’ve warned me more.”

“Next time,” Samson said dryly, “I’ll prepare a presentation.”

Graves leaned back against the podium, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the adrenaline crash hit her like a freight train. “Samson?”

“Yes?”

“You didn’t let him shoot me.”

“No,” Samson said simply. “I didn’t.”