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Medical Center.
Outside the Operating Room.
"Adam, can we talk?"
The surgical director escorted the Right Hand of God inside, then sidled up to Adam.
"About the surgery? Sure," Adam grinned. "Anything else? Pass."
"…"
The director faltered, dropping his hands-on-hips stance. He lowered his voice. "Adam, I just want to tell you a story. Twenty-eight years ago, I was an intern—"
"Hold up," Adam cut in. "Director, you're about to say: a Black intern, busting his ass to become a surgeon, stuck in an era with no breaks, no one giving him a shot. Then Walter Tapley, selfless as hell, smashed through that invisible ceiling, gave you a chance, mentored you patiently. Without him, no you today. Right?"
"…Yeah," the director nodded.
"Great story—really hits you," Adam said with a smile. "We all want more chapters for those two heroes. But why tell me this now? To make me take it more seriously? Or pile on the pressure? If it's the second, bad move. If it's the first, haven't you already seen how much I care? Or do you want me so 'serious' I'm shaking in my boots?"
"I just thought—" The director paused, then sighed. "Fine. You're the lead surgeon. Your call."
"Thanks," Adam said, nodding with a grin. He turned to Shorty. "Melendez, go grab Dr. Burke. See if he's free to join the surgery."
"Yes, sir!" Shorty darted off.
The director couldn't help but smile.
That's what he'd really wanted to say.
Adam just shook his head inwardly. Keeping family out of the OR? Damn good rule. Even someone like the director couldn't help getting all worked up—overcaring to the point of absurdity. Imagine the average Joe.
---
Operating Room.
Dr. Burke showed up—backup to ease the director's nerves.
"Scalpel!"
Adam, in the lead spot, held out his hand.
"Careful, don't screw it up!" the director blurted from the first assistant spot, watching Adam's casual vibe.
"Dr. Burke!" Adam paused mid-motion, turning to Burke. "You're first assist. Dr. Webber, you're second."
"What?" The director blinked, stunned. "Walter wanted me as first assist!"
"I'm the lead," Adam said, locking eyes with him, tone firm. "My call's final. The patient picked me. Dr. Webber, step up—now. You don't want me slipping, do you?"
"Richard," Burke chimed in, already moving over. "You're too invested. It's throwing things off. Listen to Adam—none of us are as steady as he is."
The director glanced between Burke and Adam. Grumpy, sure, but he stepped aside.
"Dr. Webber, I'm cutting soon. Don't question a damn thing I do after this," Adam warned, scalpel in hand, staring him down. "If you can't handle that, say it now—I'll swap in Melendez."
"…" The director wrestled with it, then relented. "Let him take it." He stepped back, third in line, clutching his mentor's hand.
He got it. Caring too much was clouding him. Better to just be the disciple, the family. That's all his mentor had wanted anyway.
"Let's roll," Adam said, flashing a smile. He drew the scalpel across the Right Hand of God's chest—smooth as butter.
That easygoing flair made the director's mouth twitch uncontrollably.
"No wonder only Greg House, Ted Kingsberg, and me were willing to cut him open," Adam muttered, shaking his head. "This is worse than I thought."
Burke exhaled, tension melting away.
He couldn't do it. If he were lead, one look at that mess inside and he'd stop cold, sew it back up. The odds were too slim—he wouldn't dare. Maybe only wild legends like House or Kingsberg could shrug off that pressure. They'd danced with crazier, heavier stuff so much they were numb to it. And now, looks like Adam Duncan's joining the club. Was it killer composure or some shared mad-genius DNA? Burke's mind raced.
Adam ignored the director's inner turmoil and Burke's relief. Once the surgery started, he was all in—moves sharp but deliberate where it counted.
The director's mouth opened and shut silently, over and over, as the surgery hit the back half.
"New rupture—redo the bypass," Adam ordered. "Melendez, release the clamps on the aorta and major artery!"
"Dr. Burke, clear this spot."
"Left atrial thrombus—big rupture."
"Metzenbaum scissors!"
"…"
A predictable surprise hit, and Adam rattled off commands like clockwork.
The director clamped his lips shut, face grave. No interruptions now—one slip from Adam, and his mentor was toast. All he could do was pray Adam's hands were fast and dead-on to patch the leak.
Adam's focus was razor-sharp, steady as a rock, hands flying.
"Done! Repair's holding—no more leaking!" Adam stepped back, checked it, and dropped the news that lit the director up like a kid on Christmas.
"Freaking brilliant repair!" The old man's face bloomed into a grin.
"Guess God's not ready for His right hand to clock out early," Adam quipped. "Still got some hope for us humans."
Surgery wrapped clean.
Back in his office, the director collapsed into his chair, clutching his chest.
No kidding—the rollercoaster in there had nearly given him a heart attack!
---
Half an Hour Later.
Ward.
"Nice work," the Right Hand of God said, cracking his eyes open to see Shorty. "The Hand of Adam, miracle doc—lives up to the hype."
"Dr. Duncan's the best!" Shorty smiled. "He won't let you down!"
"You're one of his interns?" Tapley chuckled. "Seeing you's like seeing a young Webber."
"I'll let the director know," Shorty said with a grin, sidestepping the comparison.
The director was solid, sure, but not a legend—not his benchmark.
(Chapter End)