The first rays of dawn were beginning to bleed through the skylights of Tokyo General Hospital, but inside Operating Room 4, the world remained frozen in a high-stakes chill. At the center of this sterile universe stood Naea. To a casual observer, she was a woman who seemed to command the very air she breathed.
𝒯𝐻𝐸 𝒰𝒩𝐹𝒪𝑅𝒢𝐸𝒯𝒯𝒜𝐵𝐿𝐸 𝒢𝒜𝒵𝐸 :
Naea's beauty wasn't the kind born from vanity; it was a haunting, magnetic presence that made time stutter. Her skin was as clear as porcelain, yet it carried a faint, human pallor—the mark of a woman who had traded sleep for the lives of others. Even tucked beneath a surgical cap, her dark hair framed a profile that belonged in a high-end gallery, sharp and elegant.
But the real power lay in her eyes—deep, mahogany orbs that burned with an intensity so fierce they seemed to see through bone and into the soul. There were secrets in those eyes—nights of restless questions and the weight of every heartbeat she had ever saved. She was so strikingly beautiful that she could easily be mistaken for a socialite at a luxury gala, yet the grim set of her jaw told a different story.
She didn't care for hospital hierarchy or designer scrubs. On her feet were a pair of scuffed, grey rubber clogs. They were ugly, worn-out, and carried the faint dust of a long shift. They were her anchor, a reminder that beneath the "Goddess" reputation, she was a professional who prioritized function over form.
𝒯𝐻𝐸 𝒟𝒜𝒩𝒞𝐸 𝒪𝐹 𝐿𝐼𝐹𝐸 𝒜𝒩𝒟 𝒟𝐸𝒜𝒯𝐻 :
The patient on the table was a young man, his life flickering like a candle in a storm. His thoracic aorta—the body's main highway—had shredded. Every other surgeon had deemed it a lost cause, a "medical impossibility."
"Scalpel," Naea said. Her voice was a low, steady hum, devoid of theatricality but saturated with a cold, calculated confidence.
The first incision was a masterpiece of muscle memory. She didn't just cut; she moved with the grace of an artist sketching on silk. But the reality inside was a nightmare. Blood pressure was plummeting, and the suction machine was struggling to keep up with the crimson flood.
"BP is 40 and falling! We're losing him, Dr. Naea!" Kaito's voice cracked with panic.
Naea didn't even glance at him. Her face was no longer a mask of beauty, but a map of absolute focus. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, reflecting the harsh surgical lights. Suddenly, a spray of blood hit her mask. Anyone else would have flinched, but Naea didn't even blink.
She plunged both hands into the warm, slick cavity of the patient's chest. She wasn't just looking; she was feeling—the rhythm of the organs, the hidden pathways of the vessels. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, the room falling into a terrifying silence. And then... click. She placed a clamp blindly, guided only by instinct and years of hidden practice.
The monitor's frantic screeching died instantly, replaced by a slow, hopeful thud-thud. It wasn't a miracle; it was the result of her all-rounder brilliance. She picked up the needle holder, her fingers dancing over the shredded tissue like a weaver at a loom. Every stitch was perfectly spaced, every knot a testament to her perfectionism.
𝒯𝐻𝐸 𝒰𝒩𝒮𝒫𝒪𝒦𝐸𝒩 𝐵𝒰𝑅𝒟𝐸N
Four hours later, as she tied the final suture, the patient was stable. She had excised the "Cancer"—the rot that threatened to take a young life.
Without a word, she laid down her instruments. Her beauty was now decorated with exhaustion; deep, red indentations from the mask etched her skin, and her scrubs were soaked in sweat. She didn't wait for praise. She simply turned and walked out, the quiet thud-thud of her clogs echoing in the hallway.
Her gait carried a silent authority that said: "I am here for the work, and the work is my only identity."