Medical Center. ER. Exam Room.
"Come at me!"
"Bring it!"
A middle-aged sociologist stood there like some wannabe villain facing off against a legendary duo. Adam didn't mind letting him take a swing—figuratively, of course. He wasn't like Sheldon or Beverly, looking down on sociologists for not being "real" scientists. 😏
"You're young, good-looking, and already a doctor at New York Medical Center—bet you got in through the back door, huh?" The sociologist smirked, clicking the timer on his wrist.
"Good looks? Born with 'em, can't help it," Adam grinned. "But getting into the Medical Center? That's all me. What, you think looks trump talent? That's your take?"
He casually glanced at the guy's receding hairline, his expression screaming, "You've got zero looks and made it as a sociologist on talent alone—shouldn't you value skill over shallow stuff?"
"…" The sociologist's face darkened. "You gotta be honest, or this study's pointless."
"Oh?" Adam raised an eyebrow. "Honesty's the key? Shouldn't you be the one sifting through my answers, picking out what pisses people off? Who even asks dumb questions like that seriously?"
"That one doesn't count," the sociologist muttered, his lip twitching. "You saw it coming and braced yourself."
"Exactly! Too many variables," Adam said, throwing up his hands. "This whole topic's a waste of time. But I get it—scientists, right? I've got buddies who 'work' all day: check emails, send emails, skim news, scam some grants. One even watches full-screen rom-coms—action rom-coms—in his office. Gotta look busy or they're out the door!" 😅
"You—" The sociologist didn't rile Adam up but nearly blew his own top. He caught himself, though, and looked at Adam with surprise. "You're good."
"Nah, I'm not that great," Adam shrugged. "You just haven't met a real master troll. Those guys are born for it. Talent's everything—most people's lifetime grind barely hits a genius's starting line. The news keeps preaching 'hard work's all you need.' Cruel, huh? Especially for folks who buy it. Hope they never meet a true prodigy—shattered dreams aren't easy to swallow."
He locked eyes with the guy the whole time.
"…" The sociologist felt the sting of that shade. But he was ready now—no anger, just fired up.
"Got family?" he asked, resetting his wrist timer with a sly smile.
"Yeah," Adam said, frowning as he sensed trouble. "There's a line with these studies. Don't cross it."
"Can't agree there," the sociologist grinned. "My project's PAI—Provocation-to-Attack Interval, testing negative emotion resistance. Anything to tick you off is fair game. It's like no-holds-barred fighting—for science, not personal."
"Okay, we're done," Adam waved him off. "I'm out."
"Why?" The sociologist perked up. "Is it 'cause family's your weak spot? Can't handle jabs at them? Or maybe you've got some weird family secrets you're scared I'll accidentally hit—"
"Carol!" Adam ignored him, calling the nurse. "Mr. Desmond's just got a scratch. Stitch him up."
"Got it," Nurse Carol stepped in.
"What's wrong? Scared?" The sociologist wouldn't quit, hurling a string of family insults at Adam's back.
Adam glanced at him.
"You mad yet?" The guy beamed, thrilled. "Wanna hit me, huh? Go for it! I won't sue—I've got premium insurance, NASCAR-driver-level premiums. Might as well use it. Come on!"
"Mr. Desmond, you're a riot," Adam smiled. "I'm a doctor—can't go hitting patients."
He turned and walked out.
"I'm serious! It's for science—don't bottle up that anger! Hit me—argh!" The sociologist kept taunting Adam's retreating figure, only to yelp in pain mid-sentence.
"Sorry," Nurse Carol's voice chimed in. "I'm new—still getting the hang of this."
"Ah! Ah! Oh, God!" The sociologist's pained cries echoed.
Adam's lip curled into a smirk. He's a law-abiding doctor—punching a patient? Against hospital rules and the law? Never! 😇 But after that guy trashed him and his family in front of Carol, well, his wish might just come true anyway.
If the sociologist hadn't ignored Adam's warning and dragged his family into it, Adam would've told Carol to go easy—maybe even had John Carter stitch him up instead. Too bad he didn't listen. Stitching a face wound? One slip, and that needle stings.
Still, Adam underestimated his clout with the nurses. After "rookie" Carol fumbled through the stitches and left, word spread like wildfire through the ER.
"That jerk!"
"Unbelievable!"
"He got Dr. Duncan roughed up earlier, and now he's insulting him and his family?!"
"Ugh, I'm pissed!"
"No way we let this slide!"
The nurses huddled, whispering, shooting shady looks at the sociologist's room. He, meanwhile, had no clue.
A few minutes later—
"Someone's here to keep you company, Mr. Desmond," Carol said, wheeling in a gurney.
On it? A hulking Black guy, shirtless, all muscle, rocking shorts. A pro boxer—underground circuit. Emmm… Knocked out cold after three straight losses, sent here in a foul mood.
"This is Mr. Parnell," Carol said, parking him next to the sociologist's bed before bolting.
It wasn't a VIP room—two beds, standard setup. Hospital beds are tight; gotta maximize space.
"Hey there," the sociologist said cheerfully. Bored anyway, right? New research material!
"What's up with you?" he asked.
"Don't wanna talk about it," the boxer grunted, barely glancing at him.
The sociologist's eyes lit up. Perfect.
Outside, the nurses gathered at the station, watching, one of them timing it.
Two minutes later—
Bang!
Ugh!
Thud!
A meaty punch landed, followed by a pained groan. A figure slid out of the room, slamming into the hallway wall. The boxer's cold laugh rang out.
"There's your answer to both those questions."
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