The chaos outside seemed to have nothing to do with her. When faced with patients, Arla-Rosa could shut out everything else and remain focused.The crew was still fumbling with the broadcast equipment, preparing to dismantle the cameras, when the sharp wail of ambulance sirens cut through the air outside Fleming House of Hope.Nurses rushed to the entrance, the heavy glass doors banging open as a stretcher was wheeled in at breakneck speed. On it lay a man in his early thirties, his uniform still torn and charred from the explosion that had nearly claimed his life. Blood pooled beneath him despite the frantic pressure of the paramedics’ hands.“Thirty-two-year-old male! Battlefield explosion! Shattered ribs....left side collapsed! Abdominal rupture with uncontrolled bleeding! Spinal fracture...unstable!” The head nurse rattled off the details, her voice shaking. “He won’t last more than two hours without intervention.”The surg
The operating theater fell silent as the first patient was wheeled in. An eight-year-old girl, pale as porcelain, her lips tinged with blue, lay unconscious on the stretcher. Tubes and monitors surrounded her, a fragile body drowning under the weight of machines. On the screens overhead, her case file glowed in merciless detail. Congenital heart defect. Two failed surgeries. Survival expectancy, near zero.Doctors in the observation room shook their heads. “She’s too small and too weak. The muscle tissue won’t survive another attempt.” “Even the Boston team declined her case.”“This is suicide. Why would Hernandez start with the hardest?” Arla-Rosa’s voice cut through the murmurs, calm and unyielding. “Because she’s a child. And children should never be made to wait for hope.”She scrubbed in, her hands steady despite the knowledge of being by millions. Cedric stood at the far end of the room, his presence a fortress. His eyes followed her every move,
The International Symposium on Advanced Eastern and Western Medicine buzzed like a hive. Reporters, doctors, scholars, and dignitaries from every continent filled the grand hall in Geneva. Massive screens broadcasted the proceedings live, carrying every word and breath to millions around the globe.At the center table, Arla-Rosa Hernandez sat calmly in her white coat, her dark eyes focused, her presence serene yet impossible to ignore. Beside her, Duke Cedric Fleming exuded quiet strength, his arm occasionally brushing hers, a silent shield and anchor.Across the stage, Reginald Caldrick adjusted his tie, the gleam in his eyes betraying triumph. The cameras caught the smug curve of his lips as he leaned into the microphone.“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished colleagues, and curious onlookers,” he began, his tone measured but filled with unconcealed disdain, “we have gathered here to evaluate the so-called prodigy of medicine. Dr. Arla-Rosa has had her successes, but medicine is not
The morning after the storm broke, the Fleming House of Hope was unrecognizable. Camera vans jammed the gates, helicopters buzzed overhead, and journalists jostled for quotes. Staff had to form human chains to usher patients through the entrance. The hospital board, exhausted but jubilant, whispered one word over and over again. Arla-Rosa.Inside the director’s office, papers were scattered across the table. Charts, press statements, urgent requests from ministries of health, all demanding the same thing. “Put her forward.” “Send her abroad.” “Give her authority.” The director rubbed his temples. “The world won’t wait. They’re already calling her the Phoenix Surgeon.” What the world did not know, was they were right by comparing her to a phoenix. Arla-Rosa once died and was reborn, through sheer determination.In Geneva, Caldrick faced his own tribunal. The board of the Global Medical Consortium sat around a mahogany table, the meeting room filled with tension. These were men who con
The senior anaesthetist whispered what everyone else was thinking. “Those patients should have died on the table. Anyone else would have lost them.” But the murmurs were drowned by the blinking red lights of the cameras still rolling. They had been meant to switch off after the first operation. Instead, they captured every bead of sweat on Arla-Rosa’s brow, every word of doubt she had uttered, and every miracle that followed. The world had seen it all. In Geneva, Caldrick leaned back in his leather chair, fingers tightening around the glass of scotch he had not touched. He had called the broadcast team himself, moments before the second emergency case rolled in, instructing them in his silken voice. “Do not cut the feed. Keep it live. This will break her.” And for a time, it looked as if he had been right. The patient had been a mangled wreck of humanity, his lungs shredded, his spine twisted, his heart clinging to life by threads no surgeon dared touch. Even the most decorated spe
The Fleming House of Hope did not sleep that night. Its walls had borne witness to what would later be called the surgery that shifted medicine. Nurses lingered in the hallways, staff whispered in disbelief, and reporters swarmed outside the gates, their cameras flashing like lightning against the night sky. Inside, however, it was strangely quiet.Arla-Rosa sat in the recovery lounge, her twins curled up against her sides. Celeste had fallen asleep with her small hand resting on her mother’s wrist, while Cassian, though exhausted, fought to keep his eyes open. Cedric draped a blanket over them all, standing like a sentry at their side.“You should rest,” he murmured. “I will,” Arla-Rosa replied softly, her voice calm but edged with fatigue. “But first, I must ensure the patient stabilizes through the night.” Cassian tugged at her sleeve. “Mom… you… you saved him again.” His eyes glistened, pride mixing with childish awe. She stroked his hair, smiling faintly. “We saved him, Cassian.