Vice flicked off the resting ward's lights, a habit drilled into him—energy bills were expensive as hell after all.
'I bet the hospital doesn't have issue with that.' he thought, mockingly.
The room dimmed, shadows stretching across the empty chairs, tables and beds. He turned to leave, jacket slung over his shoulders.
A figure loomed in the hallway, hair a wild curtain over its face, standing stiff like some horror flick ghost. Vice yelped, a high-pitched, little-girl scream that echoed off the walls.
Then another scream answered, sharper, and he shrieked again, stumbling back, heart hammering.
The cycle went on, him squealing, the figure matching him, until he froze, panting, and squinted through the dark.
"Lisa?" he croaked, voice still shaky. The figure brushed its hair back, revealing her smirking face, disheveled from a long shift.
"Gotcha, star," she said, cackling, hands on her hips. "You scream like my niece when she sees a spider."
Vice clutched his chest, glaring. "What's wrong with you? I thought you were a patient—or a ghost!"
What he didn't say however was for her to drop calling him star.
He knew the moment he said that it would become his new name after all the nicknames that always stood the ages were the once you told the person who came up with it to not call you.
"Ghosts don't drag you to drinks," she shot back, stepping closer. "Come on, nurses' night out. You're not wiggling free this time."
He groaned, rubbing his aching neck. "I'm beat, Lisa. I just want to crash."
Her grin turned wicked. "Oh? Should I call your mom then? Tell her you're dodging 'potential wife' setups?"
Vice paled, the threat landing like a punch. "You wouldn't."
"Try me," she said, already pulling out her phone.
"Fine," he muttered, defeated. "But I'm not staying long."
She looped her arm through his, dragging him off, and he sighed, already regretting it.
He cursed the woman who called herself his friend but acted more like his mother's agent.
***
The cab jostled Vice awake Wednesday morning, his head throbbing faintly from last night's disaster. The drinking get-together had been a train wreck.
He'd tried—really tried—to chat with the nurses, but the second he opened his mouth, it flopped. Social media? He didn't get the memes. Movies? He'd mumbled about a documentary on spleen surgery. Entertainment? Blank stares when he brought up a medical podcast.
They'd nodded politely, then turned away, chattering about TikTok trends and some actor's abs, leaving him nursing a soda in the corner like a forgotten plant.
Lisa had smirked, muttering, "Smooth, Xong," but even she'd drifted off eventually.
He slumped in the cab, vowing never again.
Yet he remembered his mother's text dreading the future.
Bao University Hospital loomed as he stepped out, the glass tower glinting in the gray dawn. His shoes slapped the pavement, still damp from yesterday's rain, and he caught two doctors muttering by the entrance.
"Trauma Centre's scrambling to boost numbers," one said, scoffing.
"Fat chance, Dr. Teng's never lost a patient. They're toast."
Vice's gut twisted, but he kept walking, hands in his pockets, the weight of Nam's "sloppy" still stinging.
'Never lost a patient.' he exhaled. "I'll have to do better."
The Trauma Centre buzzed when he entered, its usual rhythm humming—monitors beeping, nurses weaving between beds with purpose, the air sharp with antiseptic.
He'd barely crossed the threshold when a ping hit his mind, sharp and insistent.
[Quest Received: Keep the Trauma Centre in Order Before Dr. Nam's Arrival]
[Dr. Nam's out—30 minutes? An hour? Maybe three, who knows? Hold it together, don't let him down.]
[Cost of Failure: Trauma Centre falls, salary slashed, possible firing]
[Reward: Trait: NeuroFlux Overdrive]
Vice froze, blinking at the system's glow. 'Three hours? Alone?' His chest tightened, but [Slow to Panic] kicked in, steadying his breath.
He grabbed a tablet, scanning patient data, the charts were a mess, beds half-logged, nurses milling. "Okay," he muttered, "let's do this."
He started with the charts, fingers flying over the tablet, sorting vitals, flagging urgent cases.
"Hey," he called to a nurse—tall, brunette, one of the best—tending an old man with a sprained wrist. "Can you check room six? It's a bleed, she'll needs you more."
The old man puffed up, face red. "No way! I deserve a pretty nurse, not some newbie!"
He jabbed a finger at Vice, who flinched. "She stays!"
Vice sighed, glancing at Lisa nearby. "Can you take him?"
She sauntered over, smirking, but the old man scowled. "Not her—ugly and fake! Where's my pretty one?"
Lisa's jaw dropped, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me, gramps?" She planted herself by his bed, arms crossed.
"You're stuck with me now, you little gremlin." The old man pouted, sinking into his pillow, muttering about "no respect," while Vice bit back a laugh.
The brunette nurse was free at last.
He moved on, delegating—stubborn nurses pushed back, one snapping, "I've got this, doc," over a minor burn. Vice kept his tone firm, "Room ten's worse, go there," and she huffed but went.
Lisa hovered, barking at stragglers, "Move it, he's not your babysitter!" Her harsh support kept them in line, though she grinned at Vice, "You owe me, star."
He nodded, too busy to argue, his drive burning—Nam couldn't see a mess.
A kid wailed in bed four, fever spiking.
Vice checked the chart. 'Just a cold?' he thought.
But his gut nagged, he wasn't sure of his ability to diagnose based on sight.
He flagged a nurse, "Get fluids in him, now," and caught the Dengue hint Nam had mentioned, earning a quiet [+10 LP].
He juggled, redirecting a janitor clogging the hall, soothing a groaning patient with, "Hang on, we're on it," and the centre hummed smoother, his headache pulsing but ignored.
Around 9 AM, a guy with a limp hobbled in, griping, "Doc, my leg's killing me!" Vice peeked,swollen, red.
"Sit," he said, thinking, 'Infection, maybe?' He swapped ointment duty to a nurse, earning [+5 LP], and kept moving.
Lisa caught him, smirking, "You're like a mom herding cats—cute. Too bad you don't have this much skill when talking to females, truly sad."
He flushed, muttering, "Shut up," but her laugh spurred him on.
By 11 AM, a woman with a cut hand whined, "It's deep!" Vice checked, shallow, dramatic.
"Bandage it," he told a nurse
Dodging her pouty, "But doc!"
With a quick, "You're fine."
[+5 LP.] The centre flowed, nurses on task, patients logged, chaos tamed.
His legs ached, throat scratched, but he pushed, Lisa's "Don't slack!" ringing in his ears.
Nam strode in at 2 PM, broad and gruff, eyeing the room.
"Not a disaster," he grunted, flipping through the tablet. "Better than yesterday."
Vice exhaled, shoulders slumping, head pounding harder.
The rest of the day blurred, Nam took over, Vice tagged minor cases: a sprained ankle [+15 LP], a burn [+10 Lp], a kid's cough [+5 LP].
He stabilized a chest pain case with fluids and calm words [+25 LP], then shadowed Nam in a quick stitch-up involving internal stitching.
[+10 LP]
Ending with a stubborn rash guy [+10 LP]. Total haul: 145 LP, bringing him to 615. He didn't check the reward—too wiped, saving it for later.
Nam clapped his shoulder, "Good Work, Keep it up," and left.
Vice slumped in the break room, neck stiff, the vending machine humming. The system pinged softly:
[Quest Completed: Keep the Trauma Centre in Order Before Dr. Nam's Arrival]
[Reward: You have earned a trait.]
He smirked faintly, too tired to peek, but a spark flickered—whatever [NeuroFlux Overdrive] was, it'd push him further. Tomorrow loomed, full shift ahead, and he'd grind it out, headache and all.