Morning light filtered through the blinds, casting fragmented shadows across a coffee-stained ledger on the desk.
The air carried a tired mixture of alcohol and coffee—stale and weary.
When Ethan pushed open the door, the bell chimed with a bright ding, and he spotted Mary Mason hunched over the counter, flipping through paperwork.
She wore a gray-white coat with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her hair pulled back efficiently, her fingers long and graceful. She didn't look like a doctor—more like an artist preparing to dissect the world.
Ethan greeted her. "Morning. No classes today?"
"Only this morning." Mary didn't look up. "Bad news: we owe the pharmacy three grand, and the electric bill just came in."
"And the good news?"
"The clinic hasn't been shut down yet."
Ethan pulled two coffees from a bag and set them on the desk.
"A reward for spending your half-day off working here."
Mary took the cup and sipped. "This is a meaningless bribe. I'm still charging you eighty dollars."
They'd originally agreed on twenty dollars an hour, but Ethan found tracking hours tedious, so they settled on eighty bucks per shift—morning, afternoon, or evening. It sounded like more than twenty an hour, but it was barely above minimum wage for a med student internship.
"Eighty bucks for a lovely morning? What a steal!"
The counter was cluttered with patient files, receipts, and a newly purchased stethoscope.
Mary opened the ledger, her fingertip tracing down the numbers.
"You've got five days before bankruptcy," she said flatly.
"That's two more than I expected." Ethan smiled. "Doesn't that sound encouraging?"
"Encouraging? Last time you said 'encouraging,' the health department almost shut us down."
"Which proves I'm at least a man of conviction."
Mary couldn't help rolling her eyes.
She'd never believed in God, and she certainly didn't believe "conviction" could pay rent.
They sat down together with their coffees.
"Before you got here, I saw two patients," Mary said, perking up slightly at the mention of work. "One got his head busted in a fight, the other got his foot smashed."
Ethan: "Wow! Keep that up and I'll be able to hire a nurse."
Mary: "You can barely afford to pay me, and you're thinking about hiring a nurse? Also, why should I be the one working harder?"
"I'm working hard too." Ethan leaned against the doorframe, eyeing the flickering overhead light. "Though if that thing keeps strobing like that, we're both gonna need to see an optometrist."
Ding—
The bell suddenly rang, interrupting their coffee break.
A young delivery driver stumbled in clutching his arm, his face tight with pain.
"Sorry, I'm hurt... heard this place was affordable."
"Lie down." Mary stood smoothly.
Ethan pulled on gloves and walked over. "What happened?"
"Opening a box. Cut myself on accident."
"Classic laceration." Mary examined the wound. "Superficial incision, no stitches needed. Simple treatment should do it."
She cleaned, bandaged, and applied ointment in one fluid motion.
Ethan assisted, passing tools and cutting gauze, playing his role as the reliable assistant.
Five minutes later, the patient sat up, gingerly touched his thoroughly wrapped arm, and looked visibly relieved.
"How much do I owe you?" He pulled out his wallet, revealing crumpled bills inside.
"Twenty bucks." Mary named a fair price.
"Really? You're a lifesaver, doc."
"Am I? Come back anytime!"
The delivery driver thanked them and walked out cheerfully.
Mary slipped the cash into the register. "See? That's our most common case—the price of cheap labor."
Ethan: "Our reputation is growing. And didn't you notice? They trust us."
Mary snorted. "Or they're just broke."
"There's only one disease in this world—poverty." Ethan found himself recalling a line from his past life.
Mary: "If poverty's a disease, then we're all critically ill! And it's contagious! Your compassion is going to shut us down!"
"Don't worry, I'll give you severance before we close."
Mary glared at him but couldn't help laughing.
They were just about to clear the table when the door burst open. A middle-aged man stumbled in, both hands pressed tight against his stomach, blood seeping between his fingers.
His voice was hoarse: "Doctor—please—help—"
Before he finished, he collapsed onto the floor.
"Emergency!" Mary's voice and body moved simultaneously. She crouched to check his breathing. "Pulse weak, blood pressure low—possibly traumatic hemorrhage. Ethan, lock the door and get the sterile pack!"
"On it!" Ethan immediately pulled on gloves, drew the blinds, and flipped the sign from "Open" to "Closed."
The air went taut.
The man's shirt was soaked dark red. His abdomen had a clean gash about fifteen centimeters long, the edges neat.
Mary looked at the wound and her breath caught. "That's a blade wound... not a work accident. Looks like he was slashed."
"Blood loss approximately six to seven hundred milliliters, mild shock response," Ethan added.
The metallic scent of blood was thick enough to tighten their throats.
Together they lifted him onto the examination table. The patient was barely conscious, breathing shallow, his skin pale from blood loss.
Mary quickly checked his pupil response. "Unconscious, blood pressure eighty, pulse weak—we need to stop the bleeding and suture immediately."
"Got it." Ethan pulled down the surgical lamp and handed her hemostatic clamps and suture needles.
The light fell across the patient's body, his skin almost translucent.
Mary tore open gauze, moving with practiced efficiency. "Iodine—"
"Here."
Mary bit her lip, her fingers trembling slightly, but her movements remained precise: debridement, compression to stop bleeding, suturing the incision.
The sound of the needle piercing skin was especially sharp in the cramped exam room.
Ethan passed her fresh forceps, cotton swabs, alcohol wipes.
"Pulse dropping." He glanced at the monitor, frowning slightly.
"He's not gonna make it." Mary gritted her teeth. "We need to speed up."
She accelerated the suturing. Blood continued seeping out, staining her white gloves red.
"Breathing shallow," Ethan reported. "Blood pressure under eighty."
"Dammit—" For the first time, Mary's voice carried panic. "He's going into shock!"
The light flickered. Ethan's hand quietly pressed against the patient's chest.
He murmured something low, like a prayer no one could quite hear.
The air seemed to ripple with something unusual—a faint warmth emanating from his palm, so brief and pale it was like the first light of dawn.
Mary was focused on suturing. Ethan simply lowered his eyes, expression calm.
Mary didn't notice that Ethan's fingers were still faintly warm—the light had vanished, but the heat remained.
A few seconds later, the heart rate slowly climbed—from forty beats per minute to fifty, then sixty.
Mary froze, hardly daring to believe it. "Blood pressure... it's rising?"
"Is it? The glucose must be kicking in."
"That fast?"
"Sugar's the strongest magic there is."
Mary had no time to argue. She quickly finished the final sutures, tied off the thread, and bandaged the wound with clean, efficient movements.
"Bleeding's controlled. He's out of immediate danger."
Ethan placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her into a chair. "Nice work, Dr. Mason."
She pulled off her gloves and exhaled deeply. "By all rights, he should be under observation for at least six hours."
"Problem is, we don't exactly have a hospital ward." Ethan smiled. "But hey, I don't think he'll mind."
The air still smelled of blood and iodine, but the clinic had returned to quiet.
The patient's breathing steadied, and some color returned to his face.
Mary bent down to check on him. Her heartbeat was still racing, and she murmured, "That's so strange... he was barely breathing just now."
Ethan: "Medicine always has its miracles."
Mary checked his blood pressure again. The patient's hand twitched slightly.
Then he let out a muffled groan.
"He's awake?" Mary blinked in surprise.
The man struggled to open his eyes, his throat scraping out a hoarse question: "I'm... not dead?"
"Almost." Mary said dryly. "Five more minutes and you'd have made the local news."
The man blinked, coming to his senses. He tried to sit up, but Mary pressed him back down.
"Don't move. You just got twelve stitches."
"I... don't feel that bad."
Ethan leaned in. "I should remind you, that wasn't just a scratch. You'd better listen to the doctor."
The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "But I really do feel... fine. Head's clear, I can move my hands and feet."
Mary frowned. "That's not scientifically possible."
"Maybe he's got a strong metabolism," Ethan said earnestly. "Some people just heal fast."
Mary shot him a look, clearly skeptical. She'd watched this man go unconscious with a barely-there pulse—now he was acting like nothing happened.
The man took a few breaths, then propped himself up. His movements were slow but steady.
He looked down at his bandaged abdomen—the gauze was fresh and dry, no trace of blood visible.
"You guys are... miracle workers!" He laughed hoarsely. "I need to go."
"Go? Are you kidding me?" Mary's voice rose. "With that kind of wound, you need at least two days of observation!"
"Can't." The man shook his head. "They'll track me down. If I stay, I'll put you in danger."
As he spoke, he pulled out a crumpled wad of cash and pushed it onto the table.
"For the treatment. And... thank you."
Mary started to protest, but Ethan gently pressed her wrist.
"It's okay," he said quietly. "Let him go."
Mary looked at the man's complexion, then at his surprisingly steady gait—he really didn't look like someone who'd just lost hundreds of milliliters of blood.
When the man reached the door, he turned back.
"If I get the chance, I'll come back here."
"Anytime," Ethan replied.
The man smiled, then disappeared into the sunlight.
The moment the door closed, the air settled back into silence.
Mary stared at the empty doorway, her frown deepening. "That's completely abnormal. Twelve fresh stitches and he just walks out?"
Ethan leaned against the doorframe, casually sipping his now-cold coffee. "Like I said—sugar's the strongest magic there is."
"Ethan, I'm serious."
"So am I." He smiled. "But—maybe he's just a really lucky guy."
—Target status updated: "Restoration" effect expired.