The Miracle Doctor Returns: Divorce To Hidden Identity

Chapter 10

The call from Nancy still echoed in my ears as I tore through the streets. The convoy of luxury cars that had followed me earlier was nowhere to be seen; I had no patience for the ceremony now. Linda sat beside me, silent for once, while the driver pushed the car harder than the law should allow.

By the time I reached the hospital, chaos had already taken root. Nurses ran back and forth, their voices sharp with panic. Doctors clustered in corners, debating in low tones. When I pushed through the ward doors, their eyes snapped to me, and for a breath, silence fell.

“It’s him,” someone whispered. “The Miracle Doctor.”

The words carried a strange weight, half reverence, half desperation. I didn’t respond. My focus narrowed the moment I saw Nancy’s mother. She lay on the bed, pale as parchment, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Monitors screamed at irregular intervals. Her life was slipping, grain by grain, through an unseen crack in the hourglass.

Nancy was at her side, eyes swollen with tears. When she saw me, something raw flashed in her face—hope, anger, fear, all colliding. “Charlie, please… don’t let her die.”

I didn’t answer her either. I couldn’t. Emotion was a luxury I didn’t have at that moment. My mind shifted into the old rhythm, the one my body seemed to remember even when my memory refused.

I stepped closer, ignoring the doctors who hovered around me. One of them muttered under his breath, “Even he can’t—”

I cut him off with a single glance. My fingers found the woman’s wrist. Her pulse was faint, scattered, uneven. Beneath it, something else whispered—a hidden pattern, a second enemy masquerading beneath the first.

“A secondary infection,” I murmured. “Deep tissue. Masked by the initial symptoms.”

The doctors stiffened. They hadn’t seen it. Of course they hadn’t. Their tests would never reveal it in time.

I straightened and snapped to Linda, “Bring me the vault access. Formula 17-B and 22-C. Prepare the monitoring equipment. I’ll guide it myself.”

She nodded sharply and moved. The others hesitated, uncertain whether to obey me or protest. My voice cut through their doubt.

“Stand back. Or get out.”

They stood back.

Minutes later, Linda returned with sealed cases. Inside, vials gleamed under sterile light—experimental treatments Skydome guarded like crown jewels. My hands moved instinctively, mixing components, adjusting dosages, calibrating the monitors. Every movement was measured, every step precise. To them, it must have looked like improvisation, but to me it felt like memory bleeding back into my veins.

The procedure began. A battlefield, but this time the enemy was infected, and my weapons were medicine and vigilance.

For a while, the room held its breath. Her vitals spiked, dipped, then stabilized in fragile patterns. I adjusted, countered, shifted tactics. It was a war of attrition, but one I refused to lose.

Then I noticed it—an inconsistency in the IV line. Too subtle for ordinary eyes. A slight discoloration, a timing that didn’t match the flow. My gut clenched. Sabotage.

I scanned the room. Carl’s men were here—I could feel their presence even if I couldn’t see them. A nurse lingered too close, his posture wrong, his eyes avoiding mine. He thought I wouldn’t notice.

Without breaking stride, I cut the line, neutralizing the tampered fluid before it reached her bloodstream. My movements were calm, almost casual, as though it had been part of the procedure all along. The staff didn’t even realize what had happened. Only Linda’s sharp eyes caught it, and she tensed, fury flickering in her gaze.

But I couldn’t stop. They would try again. Sabotage in the instruments, the monitors, anywhere they could plant doubt. I countered each move with silent precision, folding their interference into my adjustments so no one outside the loop would suspect. To the family, it looked like mastery. To Carl’s men, it was humiliation.

Finally, after what felt like hours compressed into minutes, the monitors began to steady. The ragged spikes evened into smooth rhythms. Her breathing deepened, no longer desperate but measured, alive.

Nancy clutched her mother’s hand, tears streaming freely now. Her voice trembled as she whispered, “She’s… she’s breathing again.”

Around us, murmurs rose. Staff who had doubted now looked at me as though I had stepped out of legend.

“No one could have done this…” a nurse whispered.

“Only the Miracle Doctor.”

The title rippled through the room like a current. I clenched my jaw. Miracle Doctor. Warlord Doctor. Names I didn’t choose but couldn’t escape.

Nancy turned to me, her expression raw. Gratitude warred with questions she wasn’t ready to ask. I only gave her a brief nod before stepping back. This wasn’t about me. Not yet.

Outside the ward, shadows moved. I didn’t see them, but I felt them. Carl’s men, their sabotage thwarted, slipping away into corridors, faces hard with frustration. Somewhere far from here, in a room filled with smoke and rage, Carl would already know.

I could almost see him—jaw clenched, fists tight, eyes burning as he realized what my survival meant. Not just survival. Return.

He had tried to erase me from the board, to bury me with whispers and blades in the dark. But now, every move he made only sharpened my edge.

The Miracle Doctor had returned.

And this time, I wasn’t going to vanish quietly.