Chapter 119 — Katia
Ethan had just returned to his room and was about to check whether John was back next door—
when the room phone rang.
He picked it up.
The voice on the other end carried the Continental's usual politeness and distance:
"Dr. Rayne, a guest is requesting medical services. Are you available to take the case?"
Ethan asked, "Do they know my pricing?"
"Yes." A slight pause. "She requested the best treatment."
Ethan didn't hesitate. "Alright. Give me the location."
He stepped out and ran into an attendant at the corner of the hallway.
After giving the room number, the attendant didn't ask any questions—just gestured politely and led him through several quiet corridors.
They stopped at a dark-colored door.
The attendant nodded slightly and left.
Ethan raised his hand and knocked.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It took a moment before the door opened.
A young woman—no, a girl—stood inside.
A fitted dark tank top, slightly worn jeans, clean lines at the waist.
No jewelry. No perfume. No unnecessary adornments.
Her skin was a shade darker, her frame lean—but not fragile. Her shoulders were defined, her arms toned. No exaggerated muscles, but the kind of strength built from long-term training.
Her right arm was crudely immobilized, clearly limiting her movement.
Her eyes scanned Ethan's face first, then dropped quickly—
checking for weapons—
before returning to his eyes.
"Hi," Ethan spoke first, casual. "I'm Ethan Rayne. Are you the one who needs a doctor?"
"You're a doctor?" Her voice was low, but sharp.
Then suddenly—
"Wait. Ethan Rayne? You're Ethan Rayne???"
"That's me. Something wrong?" Ethan asked, curious.
She didn't answer.
She just looked him up and down, as if his name interested her more than his profession.
After a moment, she spoke again.
"You're a doctor. Why didn't you bring anything?"
"Don't need to," Ethan replied.
"First time here?"
"First time in Rome," Ethan said honestly. "And my first time at the Continental."
"What should I call you?"
She stared at his young face for two seconds, as if weighing something.
"…Katia."
Ethan nodded, his gaze already falling on her injured arm.
"Diagnosis is one gold coin," he said. "Treatment is extra—starting at ten."
"With your condition—you're still standing. Ten will be enough."
Katia clearly knew the price, but still frowned.
"Why is it so expensive?"
"Because you asked for the best."
She went quiet for a moment. "What if I'm not satisfied?"
"You can file a complaint with the Continental."
She let out a faint scoff. "Fine. Let's see."
She stepped aside.
Ethan walked in.
The door closed behind him.
The silence inside felt heavier—sealed, like a separate world.
"What do you need me to do?" Katia asked.
"Sit," Ethan said, pointing at the sofa.
He pulled out a pair of gloves—the only "medical equipment" he'd brought to Rome—and put them on.
Then began a routine check.
"Right arm fracture."
"Gunshot wound in the left abdomen. Bullet already removed."
"Field treatment was… average. But manageable."
Katia glanced at him, reassessing this so-called "doctor."
"There's another injury."
She paused for a few seconds.
Then, without hesitation, she pulled her tank top off over her head.
The motion was clean, decisive—but her back muscles tensed for a split second.
Ethan had already seen the abdominal wound.
The chest wound was worse.
A clean cut—precise.
Professional.
"Not deep," he said. "But high tension."
"Standard procedure: cleaning, disinfection, suturing or sealing, plus painkillers and antibiotics."
Katia stared at him. "How long?"
"A few weeks."
He paused.
"But—you said you want the best. And I didn't bring anything."
Ethan raised his hand.
"You might feel a little sleepy."
"But it'll be quick."
A faint golden light gathered in his palm—
Heal.
The recovery was visible to the naked eye.
The swelling in her right arm faded rapidly. Bones realigned.
The dull pain in her abdomen vanished.
The sharp sting from the blade wound—
lifted, like it had been brushed away.
Katia froze for a moment.
Then suddenly snapped back—
she rolled off the sofa, stood up instantly, and scanned the room.
Still just Ethan.
She looked down, lifted her right arm—
fully mobile. No pain.
She rotated her wrist, raised her arm again—smooth, precise.
For the first time that night, her expression changed.
No longer cold. No longer guarded.
Just disbelief.
"…That's not possible."
"You wanted the best," Ethan said calmly. "This is the best."
She lifted her shirt and checked her abdomen.
Smooth skin.
No wound.
No scar.
She walked to the mirror and looked at her chest—at the place where the blade had cut, where even perfect treatment should have left a mark.
There was nothing.
The result was… unnervingly perfect.
Ethan pulled off his gloves and tossed them into the trash, his tone relaxed.
"Satisfied?"
"…I see now." Katia turned to look at him. "What exactly are you?"
"What do you mean?" Ethan didn't quite follow. "I'm just a doctor. I just charge a bit more."
She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded.
From her pocket, she took out eleven gold coins and handed them over.
"I'll come to you again, doctor."
Ethan accepted the coins.
"Sorry, I'm just visiting. I'll be heading back in a few days."
"For normal injuries, you should find someone local. If they can't handle it—"
He paused.
"Come to New York. Brooklyn, Seventh Avenue. Rayne Clinic."
"You're based in New York?"
"Yes."
Katia nodded, committing it to memory.
"I'll remember."
Ethan stepped out of the room.
The hallway was as quiet as ever, as if nothing had happened.
He looked down at the gold coins in his hand and couldn't help but feel a little absurd.
Making money this easily—in a hotel full of assassins?
He couldn't help but wonder—
why had his clinic in New York been so quiet lately?
Was his pricing too high? Had he scared all his patients away?
After Ethan left, Katia stood in front of the mirror, repeatedly checking the places where she had been injured.
She still couldn't believe that in just a few minutes, everything had healed completely—
not even a trace left behind.
After a long while, she had no choice but to accept reality.
A power like this…
no wonder someone would spend a fortune to protect him.
She was about to take a shower when the door was knocked again.
Katia quickly got dressed and opened it cautiously.
Standing outside was the manager of the Rome Continental—
Julius.
"Apologies for the disturbance. I'm the hotel manager."
His gaze swept the room quickly.
Then settled on her.
More precisely—on her right arm.
No bandage. No splint. Natural posture.
Julius paused, almost imperceptibly.
"May I ask—were you satisfied with the doctor's treatment?"
"Very satisfied." Katia raised her arm and moved it casually. "…Recovered much faster than I expected. It's almost unbelievable."
Julius looked at her, then glanced toward the nearby trash can.
Inside—
just a discarded pair of gloves.
"The doctor has already left?" he asked.
"Yes."
Julius nodded, asking nothing further.
But in his mind, the conclusion was already clear—
this was not ordinary medicine.
Nor was it anything within the Continental's existing system.
"If you need anything," Julius said, "the Continental will continue to provide full assistance."
Katia nodded.
Julius turned and left.
His footsteps remained calm in the hallway.
But as he rounded the corner, his expression subtly tightened.
Now he understood—
perhaps not everything, but at least a part of it—
why that doctor from New York was being treated with such importance.