High above Bao University Hospital, Dr. Teng lounged in his sleek office, the morning sun glinting off glass walls, casting him in a halo of smug confidence.
His pristine white coat hung over the armrest, and across from him, Alex Kim, his wiry, ever-nodding resident,perched on a chair, pen scratching furiously like he was transcribing a prophet's words.
"Trauma Centre's scrambling to boost their numbers," Teng said, voice smooth and sharp, a scalpel wrapped in velvet.
"It's futile—they'll never pull it off." Alex bobbed his head, eyes gleaming with adoration.
"Totally, Dr. Teng, no chance at all. I mean, you're the miracle surgeon—never lost a patient, not a single one! If you say it's dead, it's done."
Teng's lips curled, ego soaking up the flattery like a sponge.
"Precisely, Kim. They're ants, and I'm the boot." He leaned forward, fingers steepling, a glint flickering in his dark eyes.
"And even if they somehow scrape by, I've got a card to play. They won't see it coming." Alex scribbled faster, muttering, "Brilliant, absolute genius," as Teng waved him off with a lazy flick, the cryptic tease lingering like smoke in the air.
***
Thursday morning broke gray and soggy, Vice trudging into the hospital, sneakers squeaking on the wet floor, his jacket still damp from the drizzle.
Lisa bounced beside him, pink scrubs rustling, her laugh cutting through the lobby's hum.
"Oh, Vice, your 'lovable' personality, so lovable the nurses' crushes flatlined faster than a bad ECG!" She cackled, elbowing him.
"One night out, and bam, they're over you, guess you're not TikTok boyfriend material!" Vice's face flamed, ears red as he shot back.
"Yeah? Well, that's why you've been single forever, scaring guys off with that hyena laugh!" Lisa tossed her head back, letting out a mysterious giggle, the kind that screamed: "I've got a boyfriend, and you're clueless."
Vice squinted, suspicious, but she pranced ahead, humming some pop tune, leaving him muttering, "Weird," under his breath.
He didn't get two steps before his phone buzzed, Nam's gruff voice barking through. "Xong, OR Three, now! Mountain accidents, multiple surgeries, ugly ones. You're with me on the big hits, minors in between. Hurry!"
Vice's stomach dropped, the day exploding into chaos.
He bolted to the Trauma Centre, its usual buzz now a roar—gurneys clattering, nurses shouting, the air thick with antiseptic and panic.
Nam loomed by the OR doors, barking at a nurse, his broad frame a wall of focus.
"Xong, Details: Skull fracture's up, teen hiker, rockslide. Then a crushed leg, internal bleeds. You're on, Xong, don't choke."
A ping sliced through Vice's mind, sharp and urgent:
[Quest Received: Stabilize the Trauma Centre's Surge]
[A wave of critical cases threatens collapse. Keep the numbers up, save them all.]
[Cost of Failure: Regression of Truma Centre Progress]
[Reward: Doll's Grace, +350 Life Points]
Vice swallowed hard. [NeuroFlux Overdrive] activated. [Slow to Panic] engaged. 'Skull fracture. Brain's exposed. No time to waste.'
He scrubbed in next to Nam. The operating room was a controlled chaos—green gowns moving fast, machines beeping in steady rhythm, surgical lights blazing overhead.
On the table lay the patient: a wiry 17-year-old boy. Head shaved. A deep, jagged wound ran above his temple, crusted with dried blood. His face looked ghostly beneath the oxygen mask.
Nam didn't hesitate. "Depressed skull fracture. Bone's pressing into the brain. We lift it, stop the bleeding, or he's gone."
Vice gave a curt nod, heart steady thanks to [Slow to Panic]. "He's out," the anesthesiologist called. "Vitals holding."
Nam's scalpel sliced clean through the scalp—deliberate, practiced. The skin peeled back with a slick, wet sound. Blood rose fast, black-red and thick, pooling along the skull.
Vice moved in with suction, [NeuroFlux] sharpening his thoughts, although his movements remained inexperienced, but he kept up.
"Hematoma's under here," Nam said tightly, reaching for the drill.
The burr screamed to life—high-pitched, shrill. White bone dust burst into the air like powdered chalk. Nam made two dime-sized holes, then slid the elevator tool under the crushed skull fragment.
"Push," he barked.
Vice braced the tool and lifted.
Crack.
The bone popped free. Beneath it pulsed an ugly, swollen clot—deep red and throbbing.
"Big one," Nam muttered. He irrigated with saline. Vice moved automatically, clearing the mess as water mixed with blood into a swirling crimson flood.
His brain flashed the next steps. A procedure he knew—thankfully.
"Artery's torn—clip it," Nam snapped.
Vice's forceps darted in. A spitting red thread of blood burst from a tiny artery. He pinched it shut. The flow slowed to a trickle.
"Good. Dura's next."
Vice passed the suture kit. [NeuroFlux] mapped the technique in his mind:
'Close the tear. Keep it tight'
Nam stitched, hands swift and sure, needle flashing. Vice fed thread, falling into a quiet, surgical rhythm with him. A grim, precise dance.
The clot shrank. Pressure eased. Nam drilled anchor holes, then screwed the bone flap back in place with microplates—tap, tap, tap—each one a note of survival.
Vice flushed the site again, washing blood from the brain's surface. The pulsing had returned to a steady beat.
Nam closed the scalp with tight, clean stitches. Each pull was neat, methodical.
The monitor beeped.
Steady.
"He's holding," Nam said, stripping off his gloves.
Vice let out a breath, feeling the ping in his mind.
[+75 LP]
"Next," Nam barked, already moving.
No pause—Nam prepped the crushed leg surgery, femur rods gleaming under the lights, while Vice dashed to the ward.
A woman, mid-30s, hunched on a gurney, clutching her side, groaning, "Fell hiking, it hurts so bad."
Vice scanned her, [NeuroFlux] clicking. 'Flank pain, pale, tachycardia—internal bleed, spleen's likely.'
"Ultrasound, now!" he called, wheeling the machine over himself.
The screen flickered—dark pool spreading, spleen ruptured, blood leaking fast. "OR Four, stat!" he shouted, rushing her down the hall, hooking fluids en route—saline bag swinging, IV line taped shaky but secure.
Her pulse steadied, [+10 LP], and he handed her off, sprinting back, legs burning, throat raw.
Next up, a guy with a mangled hand—rock had crushed it, fingers bent at sick angles, bone jutting white through torn skin.
"Can't feel it," he rasped, sweat beading his forehead.
Vice grabbed gauze, [NeuroFlux] humming.
'Crush injury, nerve damage, stabilize first.'
"Hold still," he said, voice firm, splinting it fast—wood brace, tight wrap. Blood soaking through in red blooms.
He jabbed morphine, "This'll help," watching the guy's eyes soften, pain fading. [+10 LP] pinged as Vice flagged a nurse, "X-ray, then OR—go!" He wiped his brow, headache pulsing, but kept moving.
Back in the ward, a kid, maybe 14, sat clutching a gashed arm, blood dripping in fat, dark drops onto the floor.
"Stupid rock," he muttered, wincing as Vice knelt. [NeuroFlux] locked in.
'Deep laceration, no artery hit, close it tight.'
"Stay steady," Vice said, grabbing a suture kit, needle flashing under the lights.
He stitched five quick loops, pulling skin together like a zipper, curses fading to whimpers as the kid relaxed.
[+10 LP], and Vice taped it, "You're good—rest it." He stood, knees creaking, the grind relentless, only possible due to both of his trait, his mind giving him answers quicker than he could even blink, his heart keep steady from panic.
Yet as he rushed through the Trauma Centre a fear hung in his heart, he had encountered things he knew so far what happens when his memories pulled up blank, his hands could already barely keep up with his knowledge.
'Not enough experience.'
Nam's voice cut through."Xong, OR Three, now!" Vice bolted, scrubbing in as the next patient rolled in—a woman, 40s, abdomen swollen, vitals tanking.
Nam sliced her open.
"Splenic artery's ruptured," He barked.
Blood flooded the abdominal cavity like a dam bursting—hot, fast, obscuring everything.
It sprayed against the suction line before Vice could even react.
[NeuroFlux Overdrive] hummed.
… His memory pulled up blank.