Chapter 37 — Cleaning Up the Mess
Ethan lifted Mary onto the operating table and began treating her wound properly.
He removed the chaotic, uneven sutures she'd done on herself. The stab wound was deep—deep enough to have pierced the abdominal aorta. She had only managed to close the outer layers.
An injury like that usually meant death in under ten minutes.
And yet—aside from the outer flesh wound, the internal, fatal damage had almost completely healed.
Ethan re-stitched her carefully, applied medication, and wrapped the bandages. When he finished, Mary still hadn't woken up.
This was the first time he had used Resurrection on a human.
The end result looked good—Mary had come back to life.
But the process had been brutal.
He'd lost count of how many times he had cast the spell, gathering every scattered mote of light in the room back into her body before she finally breathed again.
"This thing is kinda clunky, huh…" he muttered to himself.
"I'm not asking for Naruto-level nonsense where someone claps their hands and revives an entire village."
"But at least one cast per person would be nice. And from what that… whatever ancient cosmic customer-service rep said, if someone's been dead too long and the soul drifts too far, the Light can't reach them. You'd need Shadow to drag them back by force."
So the Light could only revive the recently dead?
That was… disappointingly situational.
Can't the soul just run back on its own?
Back in World of Warcraft, corpse-running was basic life skills for any normal player. Hardcore servers excluded—those people were built different.
But if the Void voice was right, once death lasted long enough, only Shadow could retrieve the soul.
That, Ethan believed.
After all, if the Light could bring everyone back, some people wouldn't have turned to the dark in the first place.
Suddenly Resurrection didn't feel nearly as overpowered as he'd imagined.
Feeling a bit of his strength returning, he casually cast a Healing spell on Mary to stabilize her further.
Then he looked around.
The clinic was a disaster—blood everywhere.
And outside… there was still a corpse.
Ethan stood there, conflicted.
Should he call the police?
Soon, the decision was made for him.
Sirens wailed outside the clinic.
Police cars and an ambulance flooded the street with flashing red and blue light. Paramedics and NYPD detectives rushed inside, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. The metallic smell of blood still lingered in the air, sharp enough to tighten the throat.
Mary had already received basic first aid and was now on a stretcher, surrounded by medical staff running checks. The wound Ethan had dressed was carefully examined, photographed, and documented.
She was awake.
Her face was pale as paper, lips drained of color—but she was conscious and able to answer in a faint voice.
A female detective crouched beside her.
"Miss Mason, I need to confirm a few things. Do you know your attacker?"
Mary took a shallow breath. Her voice was hoarse.
"No."
The detective kept writing as she questioned her.
Inside the clinic, a forensics tech photographed the scene and collected evidence. Officers checked for signs of struggle, bagged the knife, and pulled footage from the exterior cameras.
A paramedic finished a quick assessment and reported to the detective,
"Single sharp-force injury to the left abdomen. Deep wound, but bleeding is fully controlled. Vitals stable. Sutured and dressed prior to our arrival—antibiotics and tetanus administered as infection prevention."
The brown-haired nurse added,
"Open abdominal trauma. Fortunately limited to the abdominal wall—no organ rupture or internal hemorrhage. Still, it's penetrating trauma. She'll need close monitoring."
Mary turned her head slightly toward Ethan.
There was something complicated in her eyes—questions, confusion, something she wanted to confirm… but she said nothing.
Ethan met her gaze and gave a reassuring nod.
"Thank you," he said quietly to the medical team.
The detective flipped through her notes.
"We've reviewed the footage. This is confirmed self-defense. You're not in any legal danger, Miss Mason."
Mary closed her eyes briefly. A weight lifted.
Then the detective turned to Ethan.
"Dr. Rayne, we've seen the attack sequence. You were the first to arrive, correct?"
"Yes," Ethan replied. "She called me. I took a taxi over. I saw the man outside but didn't stop—I went straight in to find her. She was injured and unconscious. I sutured the wound and provided treatment. Then you arrived."
Thankfully, the cameras had only covered the outside.
The detective nodded.
"Procedure checks out. Thank you for your cooperation."
The statements took more than ten minutes. Attacker identity, timeline, surveillance footage—everything was reviewed.
When they finished, the detective gave Ethan a respectful nod.
"Long night, doctor. Once she's rested, we'll continue questioning at the hospital."
They loaded Mary into the ambulance.
Just before the doors closed, she looked at Ethan. Her lips moved slightly.
He raised a hand in a small wave.
The ambulance drove off. The police tape came down. The body outside had already been taken by the coroner. The flashing lights faded at the end of the street.
Silence returned.
Ethan took out his phone, hesitated a moment, then dialed.
Max answered groggily.
"…Who is this? It's one-thirty in the morning. If you're calling now, you're either a debt collector or a pervert."
"It's me," Ethan said.
"Oh. The rich one. What happened? You bolted so fast Han thought you skipped the bill."
"Mary got attacked," Ethan said. "The clinic's shutting down for a few days. Needs a full cleanup. Don't send the cupcakes until I call."
Max's voice sharpened instantly.
"Hold up—attacked how?"
He gave her a brief explanation.
Silence for two seconds.
Then:
"Damn it. New York's a hellhole. Even doctors get stabbed. You sure you don't want to go back to working at a big hospital? Way safer."
"…We'll see," Ethan said. "Probably not necessary."
They talked a little longer, then hung up.
The clinic felt hollow, as if the air had been drained out.
Ethan stood in the bloodstained wreckage, alone.
I actually brought someone back to life.
He stared at his hands in disbelief.
I could start a cult with this…
Once the adrenaline faded, reality set in. Blood everywhere meant bacteria—and questions. Too many signs. Too much to explain.
He found a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and got to work.
Mopping. Scrubbing. Disinfecting. Clearing instruments. Disposing of damaged materials.
Hours passed.
At last, even the final blood-darkened seam between floor tiles was clean.
He slid down the wall and sat there, rubbing his temples.
The exhaustion of an entire sleepless night hit him all at once.
Ethan yawned deeply.
"Sleep first. Then hospital. Need to align stories with Mary. Clinic closes for a couple days."
He stood, turned off the lights, locked the door.
Dawn was just beginning to bleed into the sky.