At nine in the morning, the corridor of the neurosurgery ward was tranquil and orderly. Yang Ping stood at the door of Lin Xiaoyu's ward, his figure upright.
Weber and Manstein followed closely behind, both wearing neatly arranged white gowns, standing erect, their expressions solemn, carrying the unique rigor and prudence of doctors. Inside the ward, twelve-year-old Lin Xiaoyu was already prepared, half leaning against the headboard. Her hospital gown was pristine, her jet-black hair neatly combed, exuding a maturity beyond her years. Her mother stood by the bedside, holding a thermos cup, with a hint of restrained tension in her expression.
"Professor Yang." Lin Xiaoyu's voice was clear, more confident than during last week's follow-up, shedding some of the post-illness frailty.
