Arthur’s hands moved with practiced certainty under the battery-powered lamp, guiding Dr. Kowalski through the manual tissue verification. He recited the calculated cellular oxygenation rates, his voice calm and steady. Dr. Kowalski, tense but trusting, carefully observed the microscopic slides, cross-referencing Arthur’s numbers with her own observations.
“Match confirmed,” Arthur announced, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “Three minutes to spare.”
A collective sigh of relief swept through the medical team. The emergency transplant proceeded with a quiet urgency, the surgeons working by the dim, flickering battery light. Outside the operating room’s reinforced glass, Julian stood like a statue, watching, his face pale and streaked with silent tears. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on him.
Moments later, Marcus DeWitt, the senior risk management adjuster, emerged from the shadows of the corridor. His face, usually cold and cynical, now held a hint of impatience.
“Pendelton,” DeWitt said, his voice a low growl. “Where are the signed documents for the clinic sale? We need to finalize this transfer, emergency or not.”
Julian turned, his eyes still red-rimmed but now hardened with a sudden resolve. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the clinic sale contract, the pages stiff and official. DeWitt extended a hand, a predatory glint in his eyes.
Julian looked at the contract, then at DeWitt, then back at the operating room where his daughter fought for her life. With a swift, decisive motion, he ripped the contract into a dozen pieces, the tearing sound echoing sharply in the quiet corridor.
“It’s over, DeWitt,” Julian said, his voice low and firm. “The deal is off. Permanently.”
DeWitt’s face twisted in disbelief and then rage, but Julian merely turned his back, his gaze returning to the operating room.
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