Chapter 198
He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing once. "The hands can have steel rods implanted to maintain their shape, but daily function will definitely be limited. But the legs—those have to be amputated. The toxins produced by the necrotic tissue are entering your systemic circulation through the remaining capillaries. Your elevated white blood cell count and arrhythmia right now are both signs of toxins in your bloodstream. If we don't remove the dead tissue, those toxins will cause multiple organ failure within forty-eight hours. By then, it'll be too late."
"You're lying." Lucas's voice suddenly went flat, so eerily calm that everyone in the room felt their hearts clench. "You're lying. I'm a doctor—I know my own body. Just wrap up my leg, give me antibiotics, the strongest antibiotics you have, put me in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber. I absolutely cannot become a cripple!"
"Hyperbaric oxygen therapy can only help repair damaged microcirculation. Antibiotics can only kill bacteria. But your leg and hands are already—they're already beyond the realm of 'damaged.' The angiography shows that from the knee down, all major blood vessels have been burned shut by the electrical current. There's massive tissue necrosis in the surrounding area. The vascular network in your palms is completely destroyed, and your finger bones are shattered beyond anything orthopedic surgery could repair. This isn't about repair anymore—these aren't living tissues."
"Say that again." Lucas's voice was barely a whisper, like a string pulled taut to its breaking point, trembling in that final second before it snaps. "You're saying they're not living tissue? Then why can I still feel the pain—do you have any idea how much it hurts? It hurts so much I'd rather stab myself to death! And you're telling me it's already dead?"
"Those are ascending nerves transmitting residual pain signals. Pain doesn't mean the tissue is alive. Your leg and hands are, strictly speaking, already gone. What's left there is just necrotic tissue that hasn't been cleared yet. Right now it has no function—instead, it's releasing toxins, poisoning the rest of your body. If we wait any longer, we won't be able to save your life either."
"My hands are gone." His lips moved, the words barely audible, like he was talking to himself. "My legs are gone too."
He lifted his head. Blood was still seeping from his eye sockets, bloody tears streaming down his cheeks and converging at his jaw into two thin red lines. His gaze swept across every face in the room, one by one. Then the corner of his mouth twisted into a deranged smile.
"Without hands, without legs, how am I supposed to stand at the operating table? How am I supposed to perform surgery?" The words clawed their way out of his throat, ragged and broken. "You might as well just kill me!"
That last sentence came out as a roar, so raw and desperate it made everyone's eardrums ache.
Lucas suddenly began thrashing violently, his hands flailing in the air, slamming against the bed rail, smearing blood everywhere.
One of the cardiac monitor leads tore loose. The heart rate line on the screen went wild, and a shrill alarm blared.
"Mr. Lucas Howard, don't move—"
Two other lab technicians lunged forward to restrain him, but Lucas's strength was terrifying now. It was the kind of pure, animal force that remained after all reason had burned away.
He kicked over the bedside table. Medicine bottles crashed to the floor with a clatter, glass shattering everywhere, medication spreading across the tiles in dark, spreading stains.
"Hold him down! Hold him down!!"
It took all three of them to pin him back to the bed.
Lucas's chest heaved violently. Anguished whimpers tore from his throat, one after another, like a wild beast caught in a trap—desperate and savage. His eyes were wide open, bloody tears streaming endlessly from the corners, running into his ears, into his hair, staining a section of the pillow red.
The senior technician held Lucas down while lifting his gaze toward Evan, the assistant standing off to the side.
"Evan," his voice snapped Evan out of his daze, "you're the only one here who can make this call now. If we wait any longer, Mr. Lucas Howard really will be in mortal danger!"
Evan had been by Lucas's side for eight years—since Lucas was still a resident. He'd followed him all the way to becoming a world-renowned surgeon.
He'd seen Lucas commanding the operating room with confidence. He'd seen that imperceptible cold smile when Lucas was scheming behind the scenes. But he'd never seen Lucas like this—like a stray dog with its spine crushed, collapsed on a bed soaked with blood and pus, barely able to muster the strength to scream anymore.
"Schedule the surgery immediately. If Mr. Lucas Howard blames anyone afterward, I'll take responsibility." His voice trembled slightly, but his tone was resolute. A flicker of something complicated and fleeting passed through his eyes.
The senior technician nodded, then turned to the other two and barked out rapid orders: "Prep the OR, get blood ready, notify the anesthesiologist—now!"
The needle pierced the vein in Lucas's neck. The plunger pressed down slowly, the anesthetic flowing in drop by drop.
Lucas's struggles grew weaker. His eyelids began to droop, his pupils dilating. Those bloodshot eyes finally closed, and his entire body went limp, sinking into unconsciousness.
The technicians wheeled the bed toward the operating room at a run, the wheels crunching over broken glass with sharp, brittle sounds.
Evan followed the bed for a few steps, then caught sight of Angela out of the corner of his eye.
She'd been standing there—who knew how long—one hand covering her mouth and nose, her face pale.
Evan stopped at the doorway. Before Angela could say anything, he spoke first.
"Miss Clifford, you should go."
Angela froze, her lips parting as if to speak, but Evan cut her off with one final sentence that left no room for argument: "You saw it yourself. Mr. Lucas Howard can barely save himself. He can't help you."