The ophthalmology suite at Blissville Hospital was a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of the neurosurgical theater, its walls lined with sleek, high-tech equipment and charts of Snellen letters glowing softly under diffused lighting.
Devon was in the center of the room, His dark eyes, sharp as the scalpels he wielded, were softened today, exuding a warmth tailored for the VIP patient seated before him, a tech mogul named Victor Grayson, whose wealth commanded priority but whose failing vision demanded Devon's singular genius.
Grayson, a wiry man in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a tailored suit that screamed money, shifted in the exam chair, his fingers tapping nervously on the armrest. "Dr, I'm told you're the best. My eyes, things are blurry, especially at night. Halos around lights. It's interfering with my work. I can't afford to lose my edge."
