The scorching noon sun cast a harsh light over the dusty outskirts of Damascus, Syria. Wind carried fine sand through the temporary medical tents set up outside the field hospital. Inside one of the makeshift clinics, Reina Amamiya knelt down, gently examining a young girl clinging to an old stuffed bear.
"Doctor… are you leaving soon?" the girl asked quietly.
"Yeah… I have to go," Reina replied softly, tucking a strand of hair behind the child's ear.
Her six-month volunteer mission was finally coming to an end. It was almost time to return—back to where bombs didn't fall, and sorrow wasn't carved into every gaze.
"Will I ever see you again?"
Reina froze. Those eyes—clear as spring water, aged by war—robbed her of speech.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"It's okay… We understand."
And that, somehow, hurt more.That response stung more than any wound Reina had treated. These children were heartbreakingly mature. All she could do was squeeze the girl's hand and gently stroke her dusty hair.
As Reina stepped out into the blinding sun, the dust stirred again. Until frantic footsteps broke the silence, followed by a familiar voice calling her name.
A nurse burst into the tent, breathless and pale.
"Dr. Amamiya… there's been a shooting, one critical patients, we need you now!"
Reina stood instantly, patting the children's shoulders.
"I'll check on you all tomorrow, okay? Go home now, and stay safe!"
Without waiting for the nurse to lead the way, she sprinted toward the ER.
---
The ER was a warzone. Screams, blood, and the stench of fear thickened the air. Somewhere, a child was crying, their wails nearly drowned in the cacophony.
Despite spending half a year in this place, Reina still felt a jolt every time chaos erupted. This kind of emergency still hit her like a punch to the chest.
"Dr. Amamiya! Over here!" shouted Harry, one of her fellow team members.
She followed his voice into the trauma unit—and froze.
A young boy, no older than eight, lay unconscious on a stretcher. A metal rod—roughly 40 centimeters long and about two centimeters thick—had pierced diagonally through the right side of his chest, entering below the clavicle and emerging near the scapula. His lips were bluish, and his breaths were shallow, irregular.
Harry's tone was grim:
"The rod went through the right thoracic cavity—likely punctured the lung. We may have a hemothorax or pneumothorax. He's decompensating fast. SpO2 is dropping, and his pulse is faint. If we don't get a chest tube in and prep for an emergency thoracotomy, we're going to lose him."
Reina's stomach turned. She knew what those shallow breaths meant. Air or blood must be pooling in his chest—collapsing his lung by the second.
She tightened the strap of her mask. Her heart was pounding, but her hands were steady.
Because in this place... fear came last.
Reina tilted her head slightly and ordered the nurse beside her, "No one is to remove the metal rod. Stabilize it immediately!"
A nurse quickly grabbed sterile gauze and gently wrapped it around the rod, carefully stabilizing it to prevent any further movement. Reina bent down, checking the boy's breathing — his lips turning pale blue, each shallow breath growing weaker by the second.
"He needs to be taken to the operating room immediately. We can't afford to waste any more time," she said with a grave tone.
Harry and the team promptly prepared the instruments. The steady beeping of the monitors echoed like the hospital's fragile heartbeat, signaling the fragile thread of life hanging by a thread.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from the main entrance. Reina looked up and, in that instant, saw a group of people entering — some dressed in dark suits, others in formal military uniforms, their eyes cold as steel.
"Who's in charge here?" A man in a dusty, blood-streaked military uniform barked.
"I am," Harry said, sweat pouring down his forehead, voice tight.
A few soldiers shoved the boy's stretcher aside without warning. Everyone froze.
At the same time, another patient was rushed in.
A man, soaked in blood. Bullet wounds visible through the torn white shirt.
"What are you doing?" Harry shouted.
"Save this man first! That's an order."
Harry exhaled sharply, about to argue — when a cold black gun barrel slammed into his face. The room went dead silent.
"I said, save this man first," the officer growled.
Harry's throat tightened. Swallowed hard.
Only the machines beeped.
The boy was dying.
"Take the boy first," Harry gasped, fighting to stay calm.
The officer sneered. Pressed the gun harder to Harry's head.
"You're challenging me?"
No heroics now. But Harry couldn't abandon any life.
"This boy is critical. Let us get him to ER first."
His hand clenched tightly around his coat, eyes locked with the officer's, every breath a struggle beneath the weight of the cold barrel.
Click.The officer cocked his gun. No hesitation. No mercy.
For a breathless moment, the world shrank to the barrel aimed at Harry's skull.
Then... a slender hand shot out, seizing the gun in one swift motion. And slammed the muzzle against her own forehead.
"Go ahead. Shoot me."
Reina spoke, her voice hoarse, each breath ragged and woven between words like a dare aimed straight at the barrel.
Her heart pounded violently against her ribcage, but her gaze remained steady—cold, unyielding.
Sweat trickled down her forehead, mixing with dust and dried blood on her skin, but she didn't blink. She was daring the world to pull the trigger.
The officer flinched.
"Kill us both, and let every goddamn patient in here bleed out, starting with your precious man."
Her voice sliced through the suffocating silence like a blade. Reina stepped forward, hand firm on the gun's frame, her defiance radiating in every motion. The emergency room held its breath with her.
"Is that what you want? Huh?" she hissed, teeth bared.
A bitter smile tugged at her lips. Her jaw clenched tight, as if she could grind down her fear and spit it out as venom. There was madness in her eyes—bold, reckless, resolute.
"Then go ahead—be the coward who shot an unarmed doctor. Right here, right now. In front of everyone."
She held her breath for a second, her pulse stalling before thundering again like a war drum. This moment wasn't just about her—it was life or death for every soul in the room.
Everyone froze. The machines beeped louder than ever.
Harry's heart thundered.
"Move the boy—now!" she barked over her shoulder.
Startled into motion, Harry and the nurses sprang into action. The boy's stretcher rolled away—fast.
The officer didn't move.
He didn't blink.
Reina didn't either.
Because this was her ER. And she made the rules.
The room was now left with Reina and a few men, but she showed no sign of yielding.
At that moment, the man coughed up a mouthful of dark red blood.
Reina dropped the gun and rushed toward him.
Blood soaked her fingertips as she pulled down the torn shirt to apply pressure to the wound.
There were at least three bullet wounds on his body.
But it wasn't the injury that made her pause.
A silent black tattoo lay just beneath his left ribcage.
A snake coiled around a sword, its lines etched with such precision it sent a chill down her spine. The snake's eyes shimmered faintly with silver ink—a rare detail, almost haunting under the dim light of the tent.
Reina tilted her head.
"Rod of Asclepius…?" she murmured, but quickly noticed the difference.
Not a staff. A sword.
And that snake—it didn't look protective.
It looked like it was waiting to strike...
A distorted emblem of medicine.
Reina quickly checked his pupillary reflex and examined the wounds, then asked.
"Do you know what kind of gun fired at him? Did any of you see it?"
A man in a black suit stepped forward, briefly inspected with her, then replied,
"Probably a pistol."
The type of injury wouldn't be too severe if shot from a distance, but since the bullets hit at very close range, the wounds were critical. Reina nodded slightly, her sharp gaze fixed on the weakening man before her.
Suddenly, a nurse hurried in, calling out,
"Dr. Amamiya, the operating room is ready for the boy's surgery! We need you immediately!"
Reina glanced at the injured man then nodded,
"Coming now."
The man in the black suit suddenly grabbed her hand, pleading,
"Please, help us save him. He can't die here."
Her eyes burned red with defiance, unwavering as they locked onto his cold, unblinking stare.
"Don't worry, I won't let my patient die. The wounds didn't hit any vital organs. I will save him. Please rest assured."
She motioned the nurse closer to prepare to move the man into surgery. The nurse looked at her in disbelief.
"Are you crazy? How can you perform two surgeries at once?"
Without hesitation, Reina's voice was firm,
"We have to save them both. Help me."
She pulled a few nearby soldiers, and together they moved the injured man toward the surgical area.
Reina entered the operating room like a cold gust of wind. Bright white surgical lights shone directly onto the gleaming steel table in the center. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, mixed with the steady sound of the ventilator and the beeping from the heart rate monitor.
She was wearing a light teal surgical gown, with a tightly tied mask and cap that left only her sharp, cold eyes visible — the eyes of someone accustomed to facing life and death. Each step she took echoed lightly on the shiny tiled floor, full of determination and absolute calm.
Once everyone was present and preparations were complete, Harry scanned the room and spoke in a low voice:"We'll operate on the boy first, an emergency surgery to save his life. Then we'll attend to the male patient who was shot."
He took a deep breath and continued,"No matter what happens, we have to save both of them. No one can die here."
Everyone nodded, their eyes free of fear. They all knew that if they panicked now, no one would be able to save their patients.
Reina stepped forward to take the scalpel from the nurse's hand."Let's begin."
She silently vowed to save them at all costs.