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The fat old white man tossed a stack of documents onto the table, scattering them everywhere, and asked bluntly, "Can you do it?"
Looking at the spread of medical records and X-rays, the Tinkerer picked them up, flipped through a few pages, and said, "Hilar cholangiocarcinoma?"
That was a cancer progressing from stage two toward stage three. In addition to removing the bile duct, it required cutting out part of the liver and surrounding tissue where cancer cells had spread. Because of the dense network of blood vessels and nerves nearby, it was an extremely difficult surgery.
If the patient was indeed the fat man in front of him, then just carving out a clean field of vision through those layers of fat would already take quite a bit of work.
Still, this kind of case wasn't anything special at some top medical centers in the U.S. There were plenty of brilliant doctors there who could pull off medical miracles—and some of them might even consider such a surgery too easy and hand it off to junior surgeons.
So if someone that wealthy didn't dare go to a hospital, that only meant one thing—this person had serious trouble, the kind that couldn't see the light of day.
The Tinkerer didn't answer the man's question directly. Instead, he tossed the medical file back onto the table and asked, "Who's the patient?"
"Me. Just tell me if it can be done."
"No. Goodbye."
The Tinkerer rose to leave the moment he finished speaking—but before he could take a step, the man standing behind the sofa pushed him back down.
With a cigar dangling from his mouth, the Tinkerer shot a glance at the white man behind him—the one who had invited him here—but didn't say anything. The man being stared at spoke up instead: "You're messing with someone you can't afford to offend. You'd better think carefully about what you're doing."
The Tinkerer ignored him and turned to explain, with an almost bored tone, to the displeased fat man:
"Hilar cholangiocarcinoma has no clearly identified cause so far. That means there's no effective way to prevent it. Most recommendations are just to quit smoking, drink less, and maintain a healthy weight.
"Simply put, you keep your body healthy to avoid liver problems and reduce the risk of bile duct cancer. But you—"
No need to mention the cigar in the fat man's hand; just that belly alone probably weighed seventy or eighty kilos. The man himself had to be over two hundred kilos. Add the two women clinging to him, plus several empty bottles on the table—red wine, whisky, vodka. None of them were cheap. But mixing them? Even elixirs turn into poison that way.
"—if you keep living like this, even if I save you once, you'll relapse sooner or later. Instead of you later complaining about my medical skills and ruining my reputation, I'd rather walk away now."
What the Tinkerer didn't say was that, though it wasn't written in the medical report, the man's tongue coating, skin condition, and certain bodily signs hinted that he also had a venereal disease.
Maybe even the venereal disease of the century—AIDS.
These kinds of sexually transmitted diseases spread mainly through bodily fluids, and blood was one of those mediums.
Operating on someone like this meant the doctor was taking on the risk of infection himself. That's why many hospitals refused to admit such patients or perform any procedures on them.
Technically, simple surface contact without open wounds couldn't transmit it—but if someone was careless, touched something they shouldn't, or ate before properly cleaning up, they could still swallow the virus themselves. One careless move, and infection was guaranteed.
The problem was that you couldn't tell with your eyes whether something was truly clean. That's why hospitals without full protective gear, proper isolation, and decontamination procedures would rather not take the risk.
But the fat white man hadn't dragged him here to hear a lecture. He said impatiently, "I'm asking, can you do the surgery or not? Everything else is none of your concern."
"I can," the Tinkerer said truthfully.
The fat man pointed to the side. The lights flicked on, revealing an inflatable mobile sterile operating room. Beside it stood several men and women with calm expressions—looked like doctors and nurses.
"What else do you need?" the fat man asked.
The Tinkerer leaned back in the luxurious antique armchair, puffed out a ring of cigar smoke, and said casually, "Your money for a life—one million dollars."
The room fell silent. Everyone was stunned. Those standing by the inflatable operating room might not have heard, but everyone else was wide-eyed in shock.
The fat man, to his credit, recovered quickly. He burst into a loud laugh. "I like you. You tell funny jokes—and you've got the guts to tell them to my face. Not bad. I like that."
"I'm serious. One million dollars, or no deal," the Tinkerer said again, tone flat.
He locked eyes with the fat man, whose face had suddenly gone cold. The Tinkerer didn't have the same aura, but his indifference was steady and unwavering.
The fat man's forehead veins bulged with anger. "I've never heard of you charging that kind of fee. You think I'm some easy mark?"
"Of course not, sir." The Tinkerer smiled faintly. "I don't charge for treatment. I charge for life. Some lives are cheap, some are precious.
"Those two women beside you—same surgery, I'd charge them maybe a hundred or two hundred bucks, depending on my mood. But him—"
He pointed at the man behind him, the one who'd brought him here.
"—his life's only worth twenty-three dollars and seventy-five cents. If I took a penny more, it'd be too generous. The people I usually treat are poor folk, the kind who can barely afford to eat. Their lives are cheap, so their ransom for life is low.
"But you, sir—you're different. You're educated, live in luxury, have women on your arm. I doubt you want to die early. So tell me—how much is your life worth to you? How much would you pay to stay healthy, or live just a few more years?"
It turned out there were people words couldn't sway. The fat man wasn't interested in any of it. He gave a glance to his men.
A gun was pressed to the back of the Tinkerer's head.
Unfazed, the Tinkerer only said, "I'll ask again. Can you do the surgery?"
Is he confused… or just stupid? the Tinkerer wondered.
He took another slow drag of his cigar and exhaled thick smoke. "Yes," he said simply.
Pointing toward the mobile operating room, the fat man said, "Then get ready. Your life—" he smirked, "—is my payment. If you want to live, make sure I do too."
So he really is just stupid, the Tinkerer thought.
At that point, he lost all interest. With the cigar still in his mouth, he walked lazily toward the inflatable operating room, not even bothering to pick up his medical bag.
As he approached, he asked the others casually, "Are all the surgical instruments ready?"
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