Medical Center.
"Got another big surgery waiting for you?"
Alex sneered as he saw Liz rushing toward him.
Even though Liz had bailed him out yesterday, he didn't appreciate it.
Because no matter how things played out, the result was the same—he got humiliated in front of everyone and was hit with severe punishment.
For an intern, every second counts in gaining surgical experience to improve their skills. After all, in a year, they need to pass their exams to officially start their residency training.
But now, he was banned from the OR for two weeks—only allowed to do rectal exams.
And now, that ban had been extended to three weeks.
His progress had been set back way too much.
And Liz?
Not only had she performed open-heart surgery, but Dr. Burke even praised her.
More importantly, Liz and the others were getting close to Adam.
The friend of your enemy is also your enemy.
"Did your gunshot patient have any other wounds? Did you ask him?"
Liz asked urgently.
"Hey! That's my patient!"
Alex snapped, irritated. "I'm a doctor just like you! I know what I'm doing!"
"So you checked?"
Liz's temper flared as well. "Are you sure? Just like you were so sure yesterday that I didn't page you?! If not, then go check right now! If he has an infected wound, the stress response from the gunshot could worsen it. You might end up killing your patient—again!"
Alex froze.
He hadn't asked.
He had been too busy chatting with the guy, trying to build rapport. Who had time to ask about that?
Besides, the guy was Black and believed in pain control—if he wasn't feeling pain, he'd make some just to regain control over it.
Even if Alex had asked, the guy might not have answered.
If he could've handled the gunshot himself, he wouldn't have come to the hospital in the first place.
Then Alex's face changed as he glanced down at the lab report in his hands.
Liz snatched it from him, scanned it quickly, and her expression darkened.
"White blood cell count is extremely high—27,000. Sixteen percent are band neutrophils. That's way beyond a typical stress response."
Beep beep!
Alex's pager went off.
One look at the screen and his face turned black. He had no time to argue with Liz anymore—he turned and sprinted toward the patient's room.
Liz didn't need any more confirmation. Adam had been right—there really was a severe infection.
"Page Dr. Burke! Page Dr. Duncan!"
She shouted to a nurse before running after Alex.
Inside the patient's room.
"What's going on?"
Alex pushed open the door, frowning.
"I'm freezing, Doc. I can't stop shaking."
The Black man was curled up on his side, shivering violently.
No more friendly "bro" or calling Alex by name. Just "doctor."
A clear distinction—he was the patient, and Alex was the doctor responsible for saving his life.
"Doctor, his temperature is rising, and his blood pressure is dropping," the nurse reported.
"Mr. Owens, do you have any other tattoos? Any new ones?"
Liz asked immediately.
"Yeah, on my leg. Just got one recently," Owens replied, his voice trembling.
Liz pulled up his pant leg—and her face changed dramatically.
There, on his calf, was a massive spider tattoo.
But it wasn't just a spider anymore.
It was a rotting spider—decayed and necrotic.
"Oh my God!"
Owens forced himself to look, then let out a horrified yell. "It didn't look this bad this morning!"
"It's severely infected," Alex muttered, then glared at the patient. "Why the hell didn't you say something sooner?"
"It wasn't bad at the time," Owens mumbled, unable to look anymore. He lay back down, trembling.
"What's the situation?"
Adam entered the room.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Alex's expression darkened.
"I paged him," Liz cut in quickly. "Adam predicted this would happen. If he had been Owens' attending physician, this wouldn't have gotten this bad."
"I can handle my own patient!"
Alex shouted.
"Adam, what do we do?"
Liz ignored Alex and turned to Adam as she stepped up to the patient. "Mr. Owens, your infection is serious. Before Dr. Burke gets here, I strongly recommend you let Dr. Duncan take over your case."
"He's just an intern like me!"
Alex scoffed.
"I agree—let Dr. Duncan be my attending physician."
Owens didn't hesitate.
Alex was stunned.
If he had known things were this bad from the start, he would've listened to Dr. Burke's advice and let Adam handle his case.
All that talk about "Whatever doesn't kill me makes me stronger" and "Only death can make me admit defeat"?
That was just tough talk before facing death.
Now, he could barely breathe, let alone act tough.
Nothing makes you fear death more than standing on its edge.
Loyalty and camaraderie? That was nonsense.
The only thing that mattered now was who could save him.
And Alex clearly wasn't that person.
"Page Dr. Burke!"
"Already did!"
"Page him again!"
"Start antibiotics!"
"The patient is showing signs of multi-organ failure. The secondary infection has led to sepsis. Move him to the ICU now! Get respiratory support ready—prepare epinephrine!"
The moment Owens abandoned Alex for him, Adam stepped in and took charge without hesitation.
He wasn't happy about Owens' earlier attitude, but saving lives—and gaining lifespan points—was Adam's core principle.
To him, Owens was just another patient—an opportunity to gain experience in emergency care and rack up some extra lifespan points.
Even the smallest gains still counted.
Business was business.
Besides, given Owens' condition, even if he survived, he'd probably be crippled.
If he wasn't confined to a hospital bed for the rest of his life, that would already be a win—forget about wrestling or talking big again.
In America, losing your job and income meant that even if you survived, life could still be hell.
There was always talk of "Angels of Death" in medical dramas—nurses or doctors who, either out of extreme compassion or mental instability, secretly ended the suffering of patients who were in unbearable pain.
Of course, in many cases, those patients asked for it themselves—too weak to do it on their own.
One dose of morphine, and it was over.
But that was a serious crime. Few were willing to take such a risk, even out of compassion.
And then there were those with mental disorders—if they decided you wanted to die, you wouldn't have a say in it.
That wasn't a mercy killing. That was a murder spree.
Even truly compassionate "Angels of Death" could eventually break under the pressure, their minds warping over time.
That's why the law forbids doctors from performing euthanasia—because you never know if there's a personal agenda involved.
"Angels of Death" were rare.
If Owens survived but was stuck in a hospital bed, suffering and watching his life crumble, he'd probably start wishing for one.
Alex had a connection with death—but if anyone thought he'd risk his career to be Owens' "angel," they were dreaming.
A Grim Reaper title suited him much better.
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