It had been just over seven hours since Devon stepped into the operating room.
Inside, the world narrowed to a choreography of five. Devon stood at the center, leading the procedure with practiced focus. His two assistants flanked him, mirroring his movements. Helena worked across the table, calm and alert in her scrubs.
The anesthesiologist remained stationed at the head of the table, eyes on the monitors, fingers near the controls. Circling them all, the nurse moved like a shadow, quiet and efficient, always exactly where she needed to be.
Beyond the sterile field, a medical student stood frozen at the edge of the room. She said nothing, did nothing. Her eyes, wide behind her mask, tracked every motion with a mix of awe and apprehension.
Overhead, the surgical lights cast a white, unwavering glow. The air buzzed faintly. Monitors pulsed with steady beeps, a quiet rhythm that underscored every movement. The atmosphere was tight but controlled, like a stage where every gesture mattered.
Now, the final suture was in.
The wound was closed. The bleeding had stopped. The silence that followed felt almost ceremonial. Devon didn't move at first. His gloved hand hovered above the patient, pausing as though unsure if the moment was truly done.
Across from him, Helena had already begun the final count. Her voice was steady, unhurried.
"All sponges accounted for. Final count clear."
Devon gave a small nod, the kind that barely registered unless you were watching closely. Around him, the room began to shift. Tension loosened. Energy settled. But for a few seconds longer, he remained still, eyes on the patient beneath the drapes.
Seven hours of focus, reduced now to stillness.
Then he stepped back.
With the ease of long habit, he peeled off one glove, the latex crackling faintly as it came away from his skin. Then the second. He let them fall into the red-lined biohazard bin by the door, not breaking stride as he reached up and unhooked the strap of his mask.
As it came off, he rolled his shoulders, the first visible sign of fatigue after seven hours of steady, focused work. Then he stepped through the doorway, leaving behind the cool hum of the OR and the quiet intensity of the sterile field.
Behind him, the surgical team watched in silence. No one said a word, but their eyes followed him, a mix of admiration and quiet reverence in their gazes, until he disappeared down the hallway.
Helena remained by the table, hands still gloved, eyes lingering on the door he'd passed through. She didn't speak right away. If she hadn't already known what Sophie had told her, she might've doubted it entirely. The man she'd just spent seven hours working beside had seemed completely absorbed in his craft, detached from anything that didn't serve the patient or the procedure.
That was the impression he gave. Singular, focused, unreachable.
"He's so dreamy," the assistant beside her whispered suddenly, snapping Helena from her thoughts.
Meanwhile, Devon was already making his way out of the operating room, heading straight for the director's office. He stepped into the elevator, adjusted his posture, and gave a brief nod to the secretary stationed outside the office as the doors opened.
Before she could rise to stop him, he had already pushed the door open and stepped inside.
"Dr. Devon—" she called out, hurrying in after him.
"I…" She began to speak as she entered, but the moment her eyes met the director's, she hesitated. Director Pierce raised a hand in a quiet gesture, silencing her without a word. She stepped aside and backed out of the office, closing the door behind her.
Devon didn't acknowledge her. His eyes were locked on Pierce, unwavering. He barely spared a glance for the woman seated across from the director.
Pierce cleared his throat and straightened in his chair.
"Dr. Devon, is everything alright?" he asked, though the tension in the room made the question feel unnecessary.
"I just spent over seven hours in the operating theatre," Devon said, his voice calm but clipped. "That surgery shouldn't have taken more than four. But the equipment, it's outdated. The machines are sluggish, and the instruments barely adequate."
He took a step closer.
"When I agreed to sign with this hospital, I was assured that standards wouldn't be compromised. That we'd be given what we needed to do the job right. People's lives are at stake here, and you're asking us to work with tools that belong in a museum. It's not just inefficient and it's dangerous."
He was about to go on when Director Pierce raised a hand.
"Dr. Devon, this is Dr. Marianne Voss," he said, his tone shifting slightly. "She's one of the High Chancellors on the Board of Specialty."
Devon's words stalled.
The Board of Specialty was no ordinary regulatory body. It governed the standards, ethics, and evolution of medical practice across every licensed field, from general surgery to psychiatry. Its authority extended far beyond hospitals and private practices. When the Board spoke, even governments took note.
At the top sat the four High Chancellors. They weren't just experts or advisors. They were final judges in all major disputes, reforms, and disciplinary actions. Their word could make or break careers. Their decisions shaped the future of medicine itself.
Devon turned his gaze to Marianne, eyes narrowing slightly as recognition settled in. His brow lifted, just a fraction.
"Good evening, Dr. Marianne," he said, his voice steady, a polite nod following the greeting.
Even seated, she was a vision of ripened temptation. She was tall, thick, and built like desire had personally carved her out and never let go.
She sat there like sin itself as if the the chair were lucky to hold her. The white shirt gripped her chest like it had no choice, stretched tight over breasts that looked too heavy to be real, too perfect not to stare at. Each button was a test of restraint, the top two already undone, teasing a mouthwatering glimpse of cleavage deep enough to drown in.
Her pants clung to her thighs like hands would, sculpted around thick curves that demanded attention. Her legs parted just enough to suggest what it would feel like to kneel between them. Even seated, you could tell her hips were wide, ass full, the kind of body that begged to be touched, taken, ruined.
"I'm pretty sure he knows who I am," Marianne's voice rang out, sharp and unbothered. "We've met a couple of times."
Devon said nothing. But he didn't look away.
She locked eyes with Devon as she folded her arms across her chest. The motion made her breasts shift and bounce softly before settling again, as if her body moved just to be noticed.
Behind his desk, Director Pierce glanced between them. The weight in the room was impossible to miss. The air had turned electric, saturated with a tension that went deeper than disagreement. This wasn't professional friction.