The Amazing Doctor Sterling

Chapter 2

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." Then, once he was stripped of everything, they had murdered him.

A cold, calm clarity settled over his mind. He didn't scream. He didn't punch the wall. He simply reached for his car keys on the dresser.

Thirty minutes later, George pushed through the double swinging doors of the surgical wing at City Hospital. The smell of antiseptic and antiseptic scrub soap hit his nose, a scent he had missed every single night he spent guarding the hospital's outdoor parking lot in the rain.

"Dr. Sterling! Thank goodness you're here," Nurse Clara said, running up to him with a clipboard pressed against her chest. "The donor heart is already on ice in Operating Room 3. The patient’s blood pressure is dropping fast."

"Who is on the table?" George asked, his voice steady and commanding as he walked toward the scrub sinks.

"Raymond Maxwell," Clara said. "Chairman of the Maxwell Logistics Group. His family is in the gallery right now. The hospital board is terrified, Dr. Sterling. If he dies on our table, the hospital could lose half of its private funding."

George nodded. He remembered this surgery.

In his previous life, he had performed this exact transplant. It had been a success, but he had been so exhausted and naive afterward that he had allowed Dr. Vincent Dean to handle the post-operative press conference. Vincent had stolen half the credit, using it as a stepping stone to become the hospital board's favorite surgeon.

Not this time.

George pushed the pedal of the scrub sink with his foot, letting the warm water wash over his forearms. As he reached for the surgical soap, the door to the scrub room swung open.

Dr. Vincent Dean walked in.

Vincent was wearing fresh blue scrubs, a custom-embroidered surgical cap, and a luxury gold watch on his wrist. He looked at George with a practiced, warm smile,the exact same smile he had worn right before his hands had closed around George’s throat six months in the future.

"George," Vincent said smoothly, stepping up to the sink next to him. "You look tired, man. Did Tiffany keep you up late again?"

George didn't flinch. He didn't look at Vincent’s eyes. He focused entirely on scrubbing under his fingernails.

"I'm awake, Vincent," George said quietly.

Vincent chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, listen. Maxwell is a high-risk patient. His aortic root is severely calcified. If things get too complicated in there, don't try to be a hero. Step back and let me assist. We can share the responsibility if the table goes bad."

Share the responsibility.

It was code for: If the patient dies, you take the blame. If the patient lives, I take the glory.

"I won't need you to assist, Vincent," George said, turning off the water with his elbow. He grabbed a sterile towel and dried his hands. "You can watch from the corner. Try not to touch anything."

Vincent’s confident smile faltered for a second. His eyebrows twitched in surprise at George’s cold tone, but he quickly covered it up with a dry laugh. "Alright, George. Let's see what you've got."

Inside Operating Room 3, the atmosphere was suffocating. Eight nurses and two anesthesiologists stood around the operating table. In the glass viewing gallery above, three members of the hospital board stood next to a tall, elegant woman in a dark business suit,Elena Maxwell, the patient's daughter.

George stepped up to the table. Nurse Clara tied the back of his sterile gown and adjusted his surgical light.

"Vitals?" George asked.

"Blood pressure is 80 over 50, Doctor," the anesthesiologist said nervously. "He's fibrillating. We don't have much time."

"Scalpel," George said, holding out his right hand.

The instrument was slapped into his palm.

For the next two hours, George didn't think about Tiffany. He didn't think about the window, or the cold wind, or the security guard uniform. He merged entirely into the medicine. His hands moved with blinding, effortless precision. He opened the chest cavity, bypassed the calcified tissue without tearing a single vessel, and prepared the cavity for the donor heart.

Suddenly, the heart monitor began to beep rapidly. A sharp, high-pitched alarm filled the room.

"Massive hemorrhage in the posterior wall!" the assistant surgeon yelled. "The tissue is tearing! He’s hemorrhaging!"

Blood flooded the surgical field. The patient's blood pressure plummeted on the monitor.

In the corner of the room, Vincent stepped forward immediately, his eyes shining with hidden excitement. "The wall is too thin! We’re losing him! George, step back, clamp the primary line and call it,it’s too risky to suture that tissue!"

"Shut up," George commanded.

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that instantly silenced the entire operating room. Even the anesthesiologist stopped talking.

"Suction," George ordered calmly. "Give me a 4-0 polypropylene suture and a Teflon pledget. Now."

"Dr. Sterling, you can't stitch a wall that thin blind," Vincent argued loudly, making sure the board members in the gallery above could hear him. "You're going to kill him on the table!"

George ignored him completely.

Drawing on the countless medical journals he had memorized during his miserable nights in the security booth, George didn't rely on sight alone. He used the rhythm of the suction and the resistance of the needle. With three rapid, fluid motions of his wrist, he placed the sutures precisely across the hemorrhaging artery, anchoring the fragile tissue without tearing it.

"Release the clamp," George said.

Nurse Clara held her breath and released the clamp.

The bleeding stopped instantly. The surgical field remained clear.

"Start the bypass pump," George instructed. "Let's introduce the donor heart."

Twenty minutes later, the new heart beat steadily inside Raymond Maxwell’s chest. Strong, rhythmic, and perfect.

"Blood pressure is 120 over 80," the anesthesiologist whispered, his voice trembling with awe. "He's stable. Dr. Sterling... that was impossible."

George stepped back from the table, peeling off his blood-stained gloves. He looked across the room at Vincent.

Vincent’s face was pale. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles in his neck stood out. He had wanted George to fail. He had wanted a public disaster. Instead, he had just watched George perform a surgical miracle.

"Close the chest," George told the assistant surgeon.

He walked out of the operating room and into the quiet hallway. He pulled his surgical mask down, letting the cool air hit his face.

As he walked past the main nurses' station, his eyes landed on the large desk calendar sitting next to the computer terminal.

August 1st.

George froze in his tracks. His heart skipped a beat.

August 1st was not just any day. It was the night of the Annual Hospital Foundation Mixer at the Grand Celestial Hotel.

It was the exact night his drink had been drugged. It was the night he had been dragged to Room 304 and framed for abusing a patient.

The trap wasn't coming in a few weeks. It was set for tonight.