The hospital was not supposed to feel like a battlefield.Althea stood scrubbed and gloved beneath surgical lights, hands steady, voice calm as she issued instructions. Around her, the operating room moved with precision. The monitors are humming, instruments passed without error, a choreography she knew by heart, her medical team alert for every instruction or development.If she focused hard enough, the world narrowed to tissue and bone, to sutures and measured breaths. She focused hard enough, so she could forget that her name had become a trigger.“BP is stabilizing, Dr. Johnson.” The anesthesiologist reported.“Good.” Althea replied. “Close in layers.”She did not miss and never did.That’s the reason why they called her Miracle Hands.And that was exactly why she was afraid because miracles can draw attention.And attention, she had learned, could be lethal.Outside the ope
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