The tension in the operating room was hot, too hot, like an oven. The bright lamps shined down hard on the open chest of the patient. Light bounced off the steel tools, off the blood, sticky and dark on the table.
The heart lay there, beating weak and uneven. Each beat looked like it could be the last.
Every second felt like it was pressing on his chest, dragging on and on, each one harder to bear than the last.
"Damn it! Clamp! I said clamp!"
The young surgeon's voice broke out in the room, loud and shaky at the same time.
It was sharp, but the nervousness in it was clear, like he was forcing himself to sound strong but couldn't hide the fear in his throat.
His face looked pale, almost like the blood had drained out. Sweat kept sliding down from his forehead, one drop after another.
A nurse leaned in quick with a cloth, wiping it fast before it could fall into the open chest of the patient.
The heart looked like it could stop any moment. The tear in the aorta was deep, spreading, a deadly kind even the best surgeons hated to see.
This wasn't normal surgery. It was a type A aortic dissection. The kind where most patients never even make it to the hospital.
The wall of the aorta was thin, like wet paper, ready to tear wide open with each beat.
It had to be fixed perfect. One wrong stitch and the patient would bleed out in seconds.
"I can't see it clearly! Suction! More suction!"
His voice came out rough, breaking in the middle of the words. It shook like he was close to shouting and close to crying at the same time.
His hands were shaking as he tried to push the needle through. The thread slipped, the tips of his trembling fingers.
Blood kept gushing out, running over the field, covering everything until his view was blocked. No matter how much he blinked, all he saw was red in front of him.
The nurses didn't say anything back. They just kept moving the way he ordered, hands busy but faces stiff.
None of them lifted their eyes, all of them looking down at their work. They already knew who he was. He wasn't just any doctor. He was the Director's son.
No one dared to stop him. No one dared to open their mouth. They all saw his hands fumbling, they all saw the mistakes clear as day, but still they stayed quiet.
Their heads stayed low, their lips pressed shut, like silence itself was safer than truth.
Up above, behind the glass in the viewing gallery, other doctors leaned close to each other. Their voices dropped into whispers.
"He's in over his head."
"Why is he even on this case?"
"Because his dad runs the hospital."
"He just wants to be in the news. Fool."
"No, no, no! I'm losing him!"
The young surgeon's words came out broken, the sound cracking halfway like his throat couldn't carry it.
"I can't— damn it— why won't it hold!"
His voice jumped higher at the end, shaky, like he was yelling and begging at the same time.
He slammed his palm down hard on the edge of the table. The steel tray rattled loud, the tools shaking and clinking against each other.
A pair of scissors rolled to the side, almost falling off before a nurse caught it just in time.
At the same moment, the monitor let out a sharp, long beep that filled the room.
The line dipped low, the numbers flashing red. The patient's blood pressure was falling fast.
"No, no, no… this can't be happening!"
His voice cracked as the words tumbled out, one after another, almost like he was choking on them.
Sweat slid down into his eyes, stinging and blurring his sight, but he didn't even raise a hand to wipe it away.
His hands kept moving, frantic, like wiping his eyes would waste time he didn't have.
The mask he always wore, that arrogant look he carried like he was above everyone, was gone now. His eyes darted fast, wide with fear, his lips pressed tight but shaking.
All that showed on his face was panic. His hand slipped on the forceps, the nervousness making his grip weak, and the tool dropped from his fingers and clattered to the floor with a loud metallic clang.
He snapped his head at the nurses, yelling at them, spitting out his anger. "Why aren't you doing your job right! Why didn't you wipe it off properly! Do you want me to go blind while I'm working?!"
"This stupid bleeding won't stop! I told you to clamp it! Why aren't you doing your job?!" he barked at the nurse, even though her hand had never left the suction line.
The monitor screamed faster. He sounded less like a surgeon and more like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum.
"Go! Call my dad! Now!" he yelled, voice bouncing off the white walls. "Get him here or this man dies!"
The nurse froze on the spot. Her hands stiffened where they were, her eyes wide like she wasn't sure if she had heard him right.
For a moment she didn't even breathe, her whole body caught between fear and shock.
"What are you waiting for? MOVE! If this patient dies, none of you keep your jobs tomorrow!"
His finger stabbing the air in her direction. The glove on his hand shook as he pointed straight at her.
It didn't look like the strong order of a surgeon — it looked desperate, like he was just trying to push all the blame onto her with that one finger.
"Y-yes, doctor!"
She ducked her head, hiding her fear, then ran out fast.
Her breath came in sharp pulls, shallow and fast, like she couldn't fill her lungs enough.
She dashed through the corridor and almost slammed into a patient being wheeled on a stretcher. "Sorry! Sorry!".
Her shoes slipped on the floor, her body tilted sideways, and for a second it looked like she was going to fall, but she caught herself and kept running, her steps was uneven and desperate.
"S-sorry! Excuse me!" she gasped as she crashed into an intern rushing the other way.
His clipboard flew out of his hands, the papers spilling into the air and scattering all over the floor.
A few sheets even landed on her shoulder and slid off as she kept running. She didn't stop, didn't even look back.
"Watch where you—"
"I'm sorry! Emergency!" she shouted, already gone.
She shoved her way through the double doors, grabbing the metal bar and pushing it open with both hands. The doors swung wide, and she rushed out into the hall.
As she was running to find the Director, her mind was stuck on the same thought again and again. If I don't bring him… if I don't bring him right now… I'm finished.
She reached the elevator and slammed the button with her palm, hitting it again and again like pressing harder would make it come faster.
"Come on, come on…" she whispered, biting her nail, foot tapping.
The doors opened slow, too slow like door were taking their time on purpose.
As soon as door opened she jumped inside, pressing the close button again and again, slamming the button like it would make the door close faster.
When the bell dinged, she didn't wait for the doors to open all the way. She shoved herself out as soon as the gap was wide enough.
Her footsteps pounded the quiet corridor until she reached the tall double doors — the Director's office.
No knock on the door. She pushed them open.
The office was big, bigger than any room she had run through just now. It was quiet inside, so quiet that even her rushed steps sounded strange.
The only sound in the whole room was the Director's voice, clear and strong as he was speaking into the phone.
A large mahogany desk was placed close to the wide windows.
The Director sat behind the desk wearing a sharp suit, the gold tie clip on his chest catching the light. Sitting there, he didn't look like a doctor at all. He looked more like some rich businessman.
He had a phone to his ear, talking fast. Besides that, three more phones on the desk were also ringing, their screens flashing again and again.
"Yes, front page! I don't care if you cut the mayor's story. My son is performing the most complex aortic surgery this hospital has ever done. Headline? Write: 'God's Hand in Training!'"
He switched to another call without pause. "Put it on the journal site. By noon. Don't wait for the outcome. Success is certain. I trained my son myself!"
The nurse stood at the door, her shoulders rising and falling fast as she tried to catch her breath.
As she listened as the Director bragged into phones, one after another, calling reporters, producers, anyone who would listen. He was selling his son's name like the surgery was already done, already a success.