Sensing the gazes of the doctor and the middle-aged man converge on him at the same time, Max knew perfectly well what they were waiting for.
Not a roundabout explanation, not meaningless pleasantries, but an answer heavy enough to shoulder the suffocating tension filling the room.
He didn't look flustered, nor did he rush.
The corner of Max's lips curved into a faint smile, just enough to make him hard to read, yet not provocative.
He stood upright, his gaze calm, as if the thing lying in the emergency room wasn't a human life teetering on the brink of death.
Max didn't ramble.
"I can handle your father's case."
Just a single sentence, yet it was like a boulder crashing into an already boiling lake. The air in the room instantly sank.
The doctor in white froze for a beat, his pupils contracting reflexively. The middle-aged man beside him clenched his jaw, his expression darkening.
A case already diagnosed as extremely complex, with survival odds so slim they were practically negligible.
An entire team of top doctors still had to weigh every step with care, yet a strange young man, appearing out of nowhere, dared to say he could solve it.
If this wasn't a joke, then it was an outright insult.
The man could no longer hold back. He stepped forward and grabbed Max by the collar, the force strong enough to wrinkle the fabric.
Don't be fooled by the respectful demeanor he showed when speaking to doctors, on the business battlefield, Victor Hale was infamous for being decisive and ruthless.Only because the people before him held his father's life in their hands had he restrained himself until now.
But this youth was different.
In Hale's eyes, Max had no status, no value worth any courtesy.
"Young man," Hale's voice dropped, heavy with pressure, "I don't know if you're some kind of YouTuber who enjoys trolling people."
He leaned closer, eyes locked onto Max's.
"But you should understand, there are words that, when spoken in the wrong place and at the wrong time, can send you straight to hell."
Hale stared directly into Max's eyes, trying to catch the slightest tremor. He wanted to see panic, hesitation, anything that would suggest the boy was pretending to be calm.
But there was none.
What Hale saw was confidence.
Not the reckless confidence of youth, nor the careless bravado of someone who didn't know fear.
It was more like the gaze of someone who had stood before life and death too many times, to the point where life and death no longer shook him easily.
Victor Hale had spent over half his life as a businessman. Reading people was a survival skill. From a glance, from breathing patterns, he could tell real calm from self-deception.
And Max's eyes told him this wasn't empty talk.
Of course, that didn't mean Hale fully believed him.
But in that instant, a faint hope still flickered to life. Like someone falling into an abyss, knowing the rope ahead might be rotten, yet unable to stop himself from reaching out.
Hale loosened his grip slightly. His tone softened, though his stance remained firm.
"Speak," he said. "What are you relying on?"
Max didn't answer immediately.
He raised a hand, gently placed it on Hale's wrist, and calmly pushed the hand gripping his collar away.
The movement was natural, not forceful, yet so deft that Hale only realized he'd let go when he looked down.
That gave him pause.
At that moment, the doctor in white cut in, his voice carrying the professional scrutiny of someone used to operating rooms.
"Young man," he looked Max up and down, "could you introduce yourself? What's your success rate? Which medical school did you attend? Who was your mentor?"
This doctor was no nobody. He was famous for a patient survival rate of ninety-four percent. Even one major failure could tank that number, directly damaging the reputation he'd built over many years.
To be honest, he hadn't wanted to take this case at all. But the client was Hale, he couldn't refuse. If someone else were willing to take over this nearly impossible surgery, it would be nothing short of salvation for him.
Whether Max was a quack or not didn't matter much. As long as Hale nodded, all responsibility would shift away from him.
Those questions were, in the end, just a formality. In such an urgent situation, who had time to verify diplomas? The doctor believed his hint was clear enough, so long as the boy understood and fabricated a passable background, it would be fine.
But Max's answer nearly made both men lose control.
"My success rate is zero percent," Max said casually. "I've never tried it on a real person. My name is Max. I'm currently in university, but my major has nothing to do with medicine."
The air in the room froze solid.
"Bastard!" Hale roared. "My father's on the verge of death and you dare joke around here, do you really think I wouldn't kill you?"
Max's voice remained calm, his demeanor so natural it was like a job candidate honestly admitting he lacked relevant experience.
Only in this context, that confidence no longer looked profound, it frankly looked like something was wrong with his head.
Hale had completely lost patience. Every second spent here felt like trading away his father's life. He lunged forward, fist clenched, but before he could strike, the doctor grabbed him.
"Wait!" the doctor said urgently, trying to keep things from spiraling out of control. "Don't focus too much on theoretical details.
What matters is who your teacher is. As long as your mentor is reputable enough, we can trust you."
He was trying to put out the fire, to give Max a way out. But Max seemed oblivious to the goodwill.
"My teacher?" Max tilted his head, looking like he was genuinely thinking. "Let me recall… I think that old man was called Elias Thorne. The greatest doctor of the modern era or something."
This time, the doctor in white was truly desperate.
Anyone else would've been fine, but he had to make up the name Elias Thorne. That was a figure bordering on legend in medical circles.
There were rumors he had disciples, and rumors he'd vanished years ago. No one could prove either true, and no one could completely deny them.
It was like an untestable hypothesis.
Seeing the emotions of the two men reach a breaking point, Max felt his theatrics had gone on long enough. He changed the subject with a completely unrelated question.
"Doctor," he asked, "do you have a suture needle?"
The doctor froze, pointing at himself to confirm.
When Max nodded, he immediately turned to fetch one.
His manner clearly showed he wanted to see what this youth was planning. After all, things couldn't get any worse.
Whether Max could save Hale's father or not was no longer the most important issue to him. What mattered now was preserving his own success rate.
While the doctor was gone, Hale and Max locked eyes once more. A heavy, suffocating silence lay between them. Hale continued to assess; Max waited calmly.
Before long, the doctor returned, needle and thread in hand. He handed them to Max carefully, eyes filled with doubt.
He had no idea what the youth intended to do with it.
Yet deep down, an inexplicable mix of unease and expectation quietly spread.