Chapter 24
That feeling of being completely ignored stung Jack, an energy tycoon unaccustomed to dismissal. Yet something in the stranger's calm eyes made him swallow his objections against his better judgment.
He stepped aside with a gesture that said "after you."
The motorcade glided silently from the airport toward Celestria's most prestigious medical facility: St. Marcellus Health Institute.
Jack had already secured the entire top floor of the neurosurgery department, clearing out all unnecessary personnel.
In the observation room stood two figures of tremendous importance in the field of neurosurgery, both in Celestria and globally.
One was David Green, the silver-haired, sixty-something Chief of Neurosurgery at St. Marcellus. The other was visiting professor Andrei Popov, renowned for his aggressive surgical techniques, specially summoned from the neighboring country.
Both had been called in through Jack's connections as "backup." Backup was just a polite way of saying insurance—if this "W" turned out to be a complete fraud, they could step in immediately to salvage the situation.
"David, has Jack lost his mind?" Andrei asked, coffee cup in hand as he watched the motorcade slowly pull up below through the massive one-way glass.
His tone dripped with mockery. "I canceled an important conference today to witness this farce—all for some internet doctor."
David's expression remained grave. "Andrei, Jack has no other options. His son's cerebral aneurysm is in an impossible location. Even with both of us working together, the success rate wouldn't exceed ten percent. When people reach desperate situations, they'll believe in miracles."
"Miracles?" Andrei scoffed. "Miracles don't come from mystery doctors who won't even reveal their real names! I'll bet you a hundred dollars this 'W' is either a lunatic after research funding or some medical student who doesn't know their limits."
As they spoke, footsteps echoed down the corridor outside the operating room.
Jack appeared, leading a figure wearing a hat and surgical mask. When Diana's slender form and casual attire came into view, both specialists in the observation room froze in disbelief.
Andrei nearly spat out his coffee, mouthing dramatically to David, "A girl? Am I seeing things?"
David had imagined their mystery surgeon might be an eccentric reclusive specialist or perhaps an academic with revolutionary theories.
Never had he expected Jack to stake his son's life on someone who looked barely twenty years old. This wasn't merely a farce—it was an insult to medicine itself.
Diana seemed completely oblivious to their scrutinizing, questioning, and even angry stares. She walked straight to the operating room entrance without greeting anyone and simply extended her hand toward Jack.
"The latest brain CTA, MRA, and DSA imaging reports, along with vital sign monitoring data from the past forty-eight hours," she requested, her words clinical and without a single unnecessary syllable.
An assistant quickly handed over a tablet.
Diana accepted it, flipping through complex three-dimensional cerebrovascular reconstructions before her eyes.
Her reading speed was astonishing—data that would take a team of specialists half a day to analyze thoroughly seemed to register in her mind like ordinary pictures.
In less than twenty seconds, she closed the tablet and handed it back to the assistant.
"Prepare for surgery."
Those words made everyone present draw in a sharp breath. Jack's lips parted, but he couldn't bring himself to ask if she had actually finished reviewing everything.
"Wait just a minute!" A sharp command cut through the air.
David and Andrei could no longer contain themselves, their faces flushed with barely suppressed rage.
"Mr. Harrison!" David spoke first, pointing at Diana with a severe tone. "I must remind you that this operation carries the highest possible risk level! You cannot entrust your son's life to an... an unverified young person!"
Andrei was even less diplomatic, looking Diana up and down with contempt. "Young lady, do you even know where you are? This isn't a playground for make-believe. Tell me, who's your supervisor? Where are you doing your residency? Perhaps I should call your mentor to come collect you before you embarrass yourself further."
Their accusations would have crushed any young doctor just starting their career.
Diana, however, merely lifted her gaze, giving them the briefest of glances. That look was strange—devoid of anger, panic, or even the humiliation of being insulted. It was pure, undiluted indifference, as if she were observing nothing more significant than noisy summer cicadas.
She didn't even bother answering their questions, turning instead to Jack. "My time is valuable. Every minute of delay decreases your son's chances of success by point one percent. Are you sure you want them to continue wasting time here?"
Jack looked at this young woman—unfazed by the criticism of two world-class specialists—then back at the fuming David and Andrei. Ultimate arrogance versus ultimate authority. Jack felt his heart nearly stop beating.
He reminded himself that this girl was, after all, the "W" account holder who had chartered a plane, the one saying "the only person who can save him." At this point, all he could do was continue betting on her!
"Please return to the observation room," Jack said hoarsely. "This... Dr. W is the surgeon I've invited to lead the operation. During surgery, I don't want anyone disturbing her."
"Jack, you've lost your mind!" David trembled with anger.
"You'll regret this!" Andrei spat, turning on his heel to storm back to the observation room. He was determined to witness firsthand how this presumptuous girl would botch the surgery.
The operating room doors slowly closed behind them. Diana changed into sterile surgical attire, donning a cap and mask that left only her eyes exposed—eyes whose calmness seemed completely at odds with the tense atmosphere surrounding her.
She approached the operating table, glancing at the complete set of top-tier surgical instruments already prepared.
These were the newest models of microsurgical equipment, each piece worth a small fortune. She looked at them for only a moment before telling the scrub nurse, "None of these will be necessary."
The nurse froze in shock. Under everyone's astonished gaze, Diana placed her small metallic case on the tray and opened it.
Inside were no fancy gadgets—just a few peculiarly shaped instruments resting on black shock-absorbing material. Each piece gleamed with a cold metallic luster, their precision and design far surpassing any of the expensive standard equipment in the room.
"What are those...?" the anesthesiologist couldn't help asking.
"My own tools." Diana picked up a custom microsurgical scalpel, twirling it deftly between her fingers with a strange, fluid grace.
Without further explanation, she took her position at the head of the operating table, adjusted the microscope's focus, and fixed her gaze on the patient's head.
"Vital signs."
"Blood pressure 120/80, heart rate 75, oxygen saturation 98%. All normal," the anesthesiologist reported automatically.
Diana nodded once.
In the observation room, Andrei folded his arms, sneering at the glass. "She thinks a few homemade toys will make her a savior? Watch—in less than ten minutes, she'll be crying for us to come save the day."
David remained silent, his eyes fixed on the hands holding the scalpel on the screen. They were beautiful hands—slender fingers with defined knuckles.
But what struck him was how those hands, gripping the surgical scalpel, didn't tremble even a fraction.
Under the surgical lights, Diana's eyes narrowed slightly. The unusually designed scalpel in her hand traced the first arc with a light touch. Precise. Clean. Like a work of art.
The blade sliced through skin and fascia layers. Under the microscope's magnification, the scalpel's tip remained perfectly steady, every movement controlled by those hands.
There was no sound or smell of cauterized tissue that typically accompanies electrocautery. Diana's instruments seemed to incorporate some kind of microwave hemostasis function—the incision was as clean as a textbook illustration, with almost no bleeding.
"What is she doing? That approach..." In the observation room, David unconsciously leaned forward, his nose almost touching the glass.