George sat on the edge of his bed, his chest heaving as he stared at his hands.There were no calluses from gripping a wooden nightstick. There were no grease stains under his fingernails from cleaning the security booth. His skin was clean, smooth, and steady. He was looking at the hands of a chief cardiovascular surgeon.He stood up and walked into the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, he didn't see the hollow-cheeked, broken man who had been pushed out of a fourth-floor window just minutes ago in his memory. His face was full of life. His eyes were sharp.He was twenty-eight years old again."Six months," George whispered to his reflection.Six months ago, his entire existence had been dismantled in a single night. A spiked drink, a blurred memory, and a staged hotel room with a female patient had cost him his medical license, his reputation, and his dignity. After that, Tiffany had convinced him to transfer his small medical software startup into her name "for legal protection."

Ten minutes passed.George sat comfortably on the leather sofa, his leg crossed over his knee. He was talking calmly about the upcoming hospital charity mixer downstairs.On the opposite sofa, Vincent stopped talking mid-sentence.He blinked rapidly, shaking his head as if trying to clear a sudden fog. His hand lifted to rub his temples. "It's... it's really warm in here," Vincent mumbled, his speech slightly slurred.Tiffany frowned, looking at her gold watch. It had been twelve minutes since the toast. She turned her eyes toward George, expecting to see him slumping over the armrest.Instead, George was sitting up straight, completely alert, watching them both with dark, unblinking eyes."Vincent?" Tiffany asked, her voice tight with confusion. "Are you okay?""I don't... my legs feel ," Vincent stammered. He tried to stand up from the sofa, but his knees buckled instantly. He crashed back onto the cushions, his head rolling to the side. The empty crystal glass slipped from his fing

At seven o’clock the next morning, the executive boardroom of City Hospital was already packed.George walked into the room wearing his tailored charcoal suit, his medical ID badge clipped to his lapel. The long mahogany table was surrounded by twelve members of the hospital board, all whispering anxiously. At the far end of the table sat Dr. Webber, his forehead shining with sweat.Right beside Webber sat a man George hadn't expected to see so soon: Richard Vance, Tiffany’s uncle and the chief financial officer of the regional medical supplier, Vance Biotech."Ah, Dr. Sterling," Dr. Webber said, standing up quickly and gesturing to the empty chair at the head of the table. "Please, sit. We have... a delicate administrative crisis to address."George sat down, resting his folded hands on the table. "Good morning, Dr. Webber. Mr. Vance. I assume this meeting concerns Dr. Dean?"Richard Vance leaned forward, his sharp, hawk-like eyes fixing on George. Richard was a man who ruled through

The gold-plated tip of the fountain pen hovered an inch above the crisp, cream-colored paper.George’s hand was steady, but his chest felt as if it had been wrapped in bands of cold iron. He looked at the signature line,the small, neat dotted rule where he was supposed to write away his financial survival. And then he looked up at Tiffany.She was still kneeling on the Persian carpet beside his chair. Her hands were folded gently over his knee, her large, amber-brown eyes shining with a thin film of unshed tears. To anyone else, she looked like a picture of absolute, selfless devotion.George looked at her face and suddenly remembered a rainy Tuesday afternoon four years ago.He had been a third-year resident then, working ninety-hour weeks on a resident’s meager stipend, his eyes permanently bruised with exhaustion. His car had broken down on the interstate three miles from the hospital. He had walked the rest of the way in the downpour, his scrubs soaked through, his shoes squelchin