Stephen Strange's world revolved around precision, perfection, and the applause he deserved. This morning was no different. He had just emerged from the operating room after completing a nine-hour neurosurgical procedure that other surgeons called "impossible." As he peeled off his surgical gloves, his team looked at him with the admiration he was accustomed to.
"Incredible, Dr. Strange," a resident said, eyes sparkling. "I've never seen anything like it."
Stephen merely offered a faint smile. "That's why I'm the one doing it," he replied, his tone light but his message clear.
As he walked down the sterile hospital corridors, he felt at the peak of his world. He was a god within this temple of medicine. However, there was one small discordant note in his symphony of perfection that day. He pulled out his phone and checked his message history. His last two messages to Christine Palmer, sent yesterday and this morning, had only been read, with no reply.
A faint frown appeared on his forehead. That was odd. Christine usually always replied, even if only with a brief answer.
His ego quickly dismissed the possibility of a problem. She must be exhausted, Stephen thought, putting his phone back in his pocket. This hospital would collapse without her. Without us. He had always seen them as a unit, two brilliant minds propping up the entire institution on their shoulders, though his shoulders were clearly far stronger.
He knew what Christine needed. A reminder of the world beyond the chaotic ER. Their world. Passing a bulletin board, his eyes caught a poster for the annual neurosurgery department charity gala. Perfect. An elegant evening, filled with the brightest minds in their field. It was a stage fit for him, and for the woman who stood by his side.
With a grand plan forming in his mind, he walked with purposeful strides. He wouldn't call. This was an invitation that had to be delivered in person, an honor he would bestow upon her. He was absolutely certain Christine would accept immediately.
He found Christine in the rather crowded nurses' break area. Several residents and nurses were there, grabbing coffee or filling out reports. This is better, he thought. A small audience would make this moment feel more grand.
He approached with his confident gait, the charming smile he had perfected over the years fixed on his face. "Christine, darling. Just the person I was looking for," he said, his voice carrying across the small room.
Christine looked up from the tablet she was reading, slightly startled. "Stephen."
"Clear your schedule for Saturday night," Stephen continued, giving her no time to speak. "The neurosurgery gala. You're coming with me." It wasn't a question; it was an announcement.
Christine smiled politely, the smile Stephen knew as her professional shield. "Stephen, that's a very kind offer, but I can't. I already have plans."
Stephen chuckled softly, a dismissive laugh. He couldn't process the words. "Plans? What plans could be more important than this? Just cancel them. This is for our department."
But Christine shook her head. Her smile remained, but her eyes were now firm. "I can't. I'm having dinner with Thomas."
The name felt alien. Thomas? Who was Thomas? Stephen tried searching his encyclopedic memory, scanning the list of all important doctors, researchers, and donors he knew. Nothing. The name meant nothing.
For the first time, Stephen felt an awkward silence. He could feel the stares of the residents in the corner, who were now frantically pretending not to listen. He had just been rejected. In public.
He, Stephen Strange, was rejected.
For a fraction of a second that felt like an hour, Stephen Strange just stood there, his smile frozen on his face. He could feel the glances from the corner of the room, curiosity mixed with pity. He, who was accustomed to being the center of admiration, was now the center of an embarrassing gossip.
He managed to control the muscles in his face, forcing a stiff nod. "I see. Very well," he said, his voice cold and sharp, losing all its false warmth. "Perhaps another time."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and walked away, his back straight, every step heavy with the effort to appear unaffected.
As his private elevator door closed and he was alone, the mask shattered. He slammed his fist into the steel wall of the elevator, an explosion of suppressed rage. The sharp pain in his knuckles was nothing compared to the sting of his wounded ego.
A paramedic? he thought, his breath ragged with anger. She rejected me, Stephen Strange, for dinner with a paramedic? A man whose job is to drive ambulances and push stretchers?
Disbelief quickly morphed into pure fury. This wasn't just a rejection; it was an unimaginable insult. It was a disruption in the natural order of the universe. Christine Palmer, the brilliant woman who should be by his side, chose to spend her time with someone who would never even begin to understand their world.
The elevator arrived at his office. He stepped out and walked directly to the large window overlooking the entire city. He stared at the towering skyscrapers, symbols of ambition and power. His world.
The hot anger slowly cooled, turning into something darker and more focused. A cold determination. He didn't know who this "Thomas" was, but he would find out. And he would make sure Christine realized her mistake.
We'll see, he thought, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the city below. How long this will last.