The Miracle Doctor Returns: Divorce To Hidden Identity

Chapter 7

Linda led me through a private elevator that bypassed the main floors, descending into a wing few eyes had ever seen. The air was hushed, heavy with the sterile scent of disinfectants and the faint mechanical hum of life-support machines. The sign on the wall read: Skydome VIP Ward.

“This,” she said, her voice low, “is where the untouchables come when money and power can’t buy them time. Foreign heads of state, billionaires, royalty. Their last hope sits here.”

We stopped at the entrance of a glass-paneled room. Inside, a boy no older than seven lay pale on a hospital bed. His tiny chest rose and fell in shallow, fragile breaths, every exhale sounding like a whisper fighting extinction. His father, a man in a tailored suit whose aura screamed power, stood by the bedside, face carved with despair.

I recognized him instantly—though not from memory, but from reputation. One of the city’s wealthiest magnates, a man whose signature could sway entire industries. And here he was, clutching his son’s hand like it was the only thing left worth owning.

Around the boy stood a team of foreign specialists, their accents thick, their arrogance thicker. One of them removed his gloves and shook his head gravely. “We’ve exhausted every protocol. The infection has spread too deeply. His organs are failing. It’s… hopeless.”

The father staggered, his knees almost buckling. His wife let out a muffled cry, clutching his arm for support.

Hopeless. The word echoed in my head, sharp and merciless.

The doctors turned to Linda, explaining with cold professionalism the futility of further attempts. She listened, nodding, though her eyes flicked toward me more than once.

I stood frozen, watching the boy’s tiny frame tremble against the ventilator’s rhythm. My hands clenched at my sides. And then—suddenly—something inside me shifted.

A flicker. A flash.

My fingers twitched, trembling violently. My chest tightened as though an invisible hand squeezed my lungs. And with the tremor came a memory—not clear, not whole, but sharp enough to cut through the fog.

A hand in mine. A wrist beneath my touch. The faint rhythm of a pulse.

I gasped. “I… I need to examine him.”

Linda’s head whipped toward me. “Charlie, no. Not now. You’re not—”

But I was already moving.

The specialists burst out laughing, their accents dripping with derision. “Examine him? You?” one sneered. “This is no time for theatrics. You’re not even qualified to hold a stethoscope, let alone treat this.”

Another crossed his arms, smirking. “A layman playing doctor. That’s all this is.”

Their words struck like darts, but my legs kept moving. I couldn’t explain it, but my body knew something my mind refused to remember. I pulled a stool beside the boy’s bed, gently taking his frail wrist in my hand.

Silence pressed in. The pulse was faint, erratic, like a candle sputtering in the wind. But beneath the weakness was a rhythm—hidden, subtle, screaming to be heard if one only knew how to listen.

Ancient training stirred in my veins. I didn’t remember where I had learned it, but the sensation was undeniable.

“The child doesn’t have a simple infection,” I murmured, more to myself than to anyone else. “His heartbeat is shallow not because of organ failure, but because of a secondary blockage… a hidden toxin constricting his blood channels.”

The specialists scoffed. “Nonsense!”

But I pressed on, my voice steady, the tremor in my hands now gone. “You’ve been treating symptoms. The true illness lies deeper. If you keep pushing antibiotics, you’ll kill him faster.”

I turned to Linda, my voice commanding in a way that startled even me. “Take me to the vault.”

Her eyes widened. “Charlie…”

“Now!”

Minutes later, we were in Skydome’s restricted vault. I moved along the shelves like a man possessed, my gaze landing on herbs and compounds I couldn’t name but somehow recognized. My hands flew, selecting roots, powders, and vials, combining them with precision that frightened me.

Linda watched, stunned. “You… you shouldn’t even know these formulations.”

“I don’t,” I admitted, grinding the ingredients together with a mortar and pestle. “At least, not up here.” I tapped my temple. “But my hands remember.”

We rushed back into the ward. The specialists looked ready to explode, but Linda’s sharp glare silenced them. I prepared the mixture into a warm solution and carefully administered it. The boy’s lips twitched, his breathing rattling. Seconds stretched into minutes, the longest of my life.

Then—his chest rose deeper. The shallow wheeze gave way to steadier breaths. Color crept back into his cheeks like dawn breaking over night.

The father’s eyes widened. He gripped my arm with trembling hands. “He’s… stabilizing. He’s breathing on his own!”

The mother fell to her knees, tears streaking her face. “Thank you… thank you!”

The specialists stood rigid, their faces pale with humiliation, their authority shattered in front of everyone.

I stepped back, staring at the boy, heart hammering against my ribs. My body buzzed as though every nerve had awakened from slumber.

Linda’s expression was unreadable. Relief, awe, and something else—fear.

Outside the ward, unseen by the family, I caught movement in the shadows. Two men lingered at the far end of the corridor, their eyes fixed on me. Their expressions told me everything: shock, recognition, and worst of all—calculation.

Spies.

One slipped away quickly, phone already at his ear. I didn’t need to guess who he was calling. Carl’s backers would know before the hour was over.

The Miracle Doctor. The man they thought erased. The man they’d tried to destroy.

I looked down at my hands. They were still trembling, but not with weakness—with memory.

“How?” I whispered to myself, voice barely audible. “How do you remember what my mind has forgotten?”

The boy slept peacefully, the family’s tears echoing behind me. But I couldn’t shake the truth clawing its way into my chest.

If my body remembered these skills, then my enemies would remember me too.

And the storm was already coming.