Divorced: The Hidden King Rises

Ch.4 - Blood and Helicopters

The incandescent lights in the corridor were a blinding, clinical white.

Nicholas Wells stood before the closed doors of the emergency room, his hands clasped behind his back.

His suit was still covered in ash and smears of Ryan's blood. To Nicholas, those stains were medals of honor, earned by the young man who had nearly traded his life for his.

"Where is the blood from the other hospitals?"

He turned his head. His voice was low, rumbling like distant thunder.

He fixed his gaze on the attending physician, who was frantically checking a stack of documents.

The doctor wiped his forehead. His palms were slick with sweat; his voice trembled as he spoke.

"Mr. Wells, we've... we've already contacted the blood bank. But Mr. Sinclair's blood type is Rh-negative Golden Blood. It's incredibly rare. Our hospital's stock is exhausted."

"To pull from the municipal blood bank, we need three levels of approval. Plus, with current traffic..." He swallowed hard. "It will take at least three hours."

The doctor pointed a shaking finger toward the window, where the remnants of the traffic control from the fire were still visible.

 "The Starshine Hyatt fire has paralyzed the main arteries. Ambulances can't move fast enough."

"Three hours?"

Nicholas repeated the words, his lips curling into a cruel, dangerous arc.

"He's in there bleeding out every second, and you're telling me it takes three hours?"

"It's the protocol, Mr. Wells. Even for someone like you, we have to follow the regulations—safety checks, cross-matching, cold-chain transport..."

The doctor tried to explain further, but the words died in his throat as he met Nicholas's murderous gaze.

Nicholas didn't bother responding. He pulled out a specialized, private smartphone and dialed a number that had been buried in his contacts for years.

"Old Strauss, it's Nicholas."

His voice was calm, but it carried a frantic, undeniable urgency. "I don't care where you are. I don't care what you're doing."

"Ten minutes. I want the best Rh-negative whole blood in this city delivered to First Hospital's ER. Now."

On the other end of the line, Strauss—the Director of First Hospital who was just about to fall asleep—bolted upright in bed.

"Ten minutes? Nicholas, are you insane? Pulling blood, testing it, transporting it... even if I did it myself, it would take an hour!"

Strauss's voice rose in disbelief. "What the hell happened? Is your wife injured? I can arrange a team of specialists—"

"It's not her," Nicholas interrupted coldly.

He stared at the surgery doors, emphasizing every syllable.

"It's someone ten thousand times more important than my own life."

"Strauss, if that blood isn't here in ten minutes—if anything happens to him—you won't be Director by sunrise. Do you understand?"

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The call ended.

Nicholas tucked the phone away, his eyes deep and unreadable.

The attending physician's heart hammered against his ribs. He couldn't help but whisper a warning.

"Mr. Wells, I understand your concern, but... ten minutes. It's literally impossible."

"Even if the blood was ready now, the paperwork alone takes twenty minutes. This is unheard of. You shouldn't get your hopes up."

He shook his head, thinking the billionaire had finally snapped under the pressure.

In this city, no matter how much power you had, could you make time move backward? Could you turn regulations into scrap paper?

Time ticked away, second by second.

To Nicholas, every tick felt like being seared over an open flame.

"Five minutes left," Nicholas said, checking his watch. His voice was as cold as a knife.

The doctor sighed, opening his mouth to offer more hollow comfort. Suddenly, a faint, low-frequency roar echoed from the distant horizon.

"What is that sound?" The doctor froze.

The roar grew louder, approaching with terrifying speed. It was the thunderous beating of heavy rotors churning the air.

The entire hospital building seemed to tremble.

The doctor instinctively ran to the window at the end of the hall. He looked down and stood there, paralyzed as if struck by lightning.

Three black helicopters were diving through the pitch-black night in a V-formation, their massive searchlights turning the hospital lawn into high noon.

"Helicopters? Flying low altitude in the city center?" The doctor's voice hit a frantic pitch. "Whose... whose are those?"

One of the helicopters didn't even wait to touch down. While still several meters off the ground, the side door slammed open.

A man in tactical gear, clutching a silver liquid-nitrogen container to his chest, slid down a fast-rope.

He hit the ground without a moment's pause. Like a bolt of black lightning, he sprinted into the hospital building, flanked by several armed bodyguards.

"There they are!"

"Move! Clear the way!"

The bodyguards' roars echoed through the hallway. The frantic rhythm of boots hitting the floor was so fast it blurred into a single sound.

The doctor's jaw dropped.

From the moment Nicholas hung up the phone to this very second, exactly ten minutes had passed.

No. It had been nine minutes and forty-five seconds.

BAM!

The fire exit doors were kicked open.

The man in black reached Nicholas and dropped to one knee, holding the silver case high above his head.

His gear was drenched in sweat. He gasped for air, but his eyes were filled with absolute reverence.

"Mr. Wells! The blood has arrived!"

"Direct supply from the top-tier vault. One hundred percent purity. The cold chain was never broken!"

Nicholas spun around, looking at the stunned doctor.

"What are you standing there for?"

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that made the soul shiver.

"Go! Save him!"

"If he loses so much as a single hair, I guarantee you'll never hold a scalpel again for the rest of your life."

The doctor flinched, his professional composure vanishing instantly.

He practically snatched the container and scrambled into the operating room.

As the doors hissed shut again, the hallway returned to a deathly silence.

Nicholas stepped back into the shadows.

He watched the helicopters outside as they ascended to circle the building. A complex swirl of emotion flashed in his eyes.

It was awe. And it was expectation.

"Ryan... no. I should say... Little Young Master."