The morning was dull, except for the occasional wail of an ambulance and the idle chatter of doctors.
The hospital walls were as white as snow, as if the building itself were claiming a purity it didn't possess. Not many knew the red stains hidden beneath that clinical white.
Nowadays, doctors were becoming scarce. It wasn't that the pay was low, but the demand was high—too high for most to handle. This hospital was the only one in the city with top-tier facilities, which was likely why the staff acted like they were divine beings.
Egoistic bastards.
The sun was shining so brightly it seemed intent on tormenting bald people. Patients flooded in: some with broken wrists, some with deep injuries, and apparently, some with broken hearts. They came and went, always with a look of disgust on their faces, complaining about the rudeness of the staff.
But as the saying goes: beggars can't be choosers. They had to tolerate it.
It was common knowledge that if you were a doctor here, you were rude. But intelligent people never brag, and that applied to Aman Mehta.
Aman was a respected surgeon, and everyone who hadn't met him assumed the worst: If the other doctors are this bad, how rude must the star surgeon be?
But Aman was the exception, both in looks and soul.
Most of the doctors were clean-shaven and "smart-looking," some sporting beer bellies—men who looked gentle but acted like tyrants. Aman was the opposite. Tall and broad, his long hair was tied in a neat bun, a thick beard covering most of his face. He looked like someone who would scold you just for speaking to him.
Fierce in looks, but gentle in nature.
Aman had just entered the hospital when the emergency call came. An immediate surgery was needed—a complicated case, and he was the only one qualified to handle it.
He didn't know it yet, but as he stepped toward the operating room, his life was shifting beneath his feet. Fate had begun to play its role.
And thus, it began.