Medical Center. Operating Room.
"…Are you ready?"
Facing the stubborn insistence of the "Green Hat King," Adam couldn't help but let out a bittersweet chuckle before asking.
"Yup."
Mr. Little Robinson flashed a small smile.
Adam nodded and glanced at the anesthesiologist.
The anesthesiologist placed a breathing mask filled with anesthetic gas over Mr. Little Robinson's face. With a few breaths, he was out cold.
"Let's get started."
Adam signaled the beginning of the surgery.
"Scalpel!"
He held out his hand, taking the scalpel from the nurse, and began operating on Mr. Little Robinson.
As expected, the malignant glioma wasn't green. No surprises there.
Beep beep.
Beep beep.
Halfway through the procedure, the monitoring equipment started blaring alarms.
"Complete heart block!"
"Injectable's hit the artery!"
"Give him a dose of atropine!"
"No response!"
"Another dose of atropine!"
"…"
The situation turned critical. Despite repeated attempts to save him, it was no use.
"Patient One, treatment failed."
Adam stopped, turning to Lexie. "Dr. Grey, declare the time of death."
"Time of death: 11:23."
Lexie glanced at the clock and announced it.
"Dr. O'Malley, you and Dr. Carter can handle the rest."
Adam gave his instructions, peeling off his surgical gown and gloves as he headed out.
The patient was gone. The cleanup was naturally left to the interns.
"Got it."
George nodded, stepping up to the lead position to start suturing the patient.
"Dr. Grey, what are you waiting for?"
Adam, now at the operating room door, looked back at Lexie, who was still standing there, dazed. "Come with us to break the news to Mr. Robinson's family."
"Oh, uh, right!"
Lexie snapped out of it, noticing Little One already trailing Adam. She hurried to catch up.
She'd almost forgotten—her "detached yet not cold" professional demeanor still needed work. Moments like this were rare chances to train her emotional restraint and Little One's warmth.
"Mrs. Robinson, I'm so sorry…"
Adam, with Little One and Lexie in tow, stepped out of the operating room and delivered the expected bad news to Mrs. Little Robinson, who was waiting outside.
"Grey, wipe those tears."
After breaking the news and stepping away, Adam tossed out a gentle reminder.
Yup, you guessed it! As Mrs. Little Robinson broke down sobbing, Lexie—watching from the sidelines—couldn't help but get misty-eyed too.
"Sorry, Dr. Duncan."
Lexie sniffled, wiping her tears as she apologized.
"Grey, was there something wrong with our surgery?"
Adam asked.
"No."
Lexie shook her head quickly.
During the resuscitation, she'd seen Adam steady as a rock. For a moment, she'd even thought they'd pull it off.
"Did the patient not fully consent beforehand?"
Adam pressed.
"Of course not."
Lexie shook her head again.
"How long would he have lived without the surgery?"
Adam kept going.
"According to the medical records, just a few weeks at most."
Lexie was starting to catch on to where Adam was headed. "Dr. Duncan, you gave the patient and his family plenty of time to think it over and explained every possible outcome upfront."
"Was the patient in pain when he passed?"
Adam wasn't done yet.
"He was under deep anesthesia—no sensation at all."
Lexie could only answer honestly.
"So, what more could we have done?"
Adam looked at her.
"I… can't think of anything."
Lexie shook her head.
"We did everything we could."
Little One chimed in, saying what Adam was building up to. "Doctors aren't gods. Giving it our all, doing our best, and having a clear conscience—that's enough."
"When an elder passes away at home, a lot of people like to wail loudly in front of everyone."
Adam turned to Lexie. "I'm not saying some of them aren't genuinely heartbroken and crying out of uncontrollable grief. But those who turn it into a dramatic aria? No matter how loud they cry, it doesn't beat caring for the elder more while they were still alive.
Dr. Grey, we're doctors, not the patient's family. Our tears and sobs mean nothing to the deceased or their genuinely grieving loved ones.
It's like those over-the-top mourners crying operatically for a departed elder—it's pointless.
So dry those tears. Turn them into drive and determination. Do everything you can to prepare before surgery, give it your all during the procedure, and whatever the outcome, we can hold our heads high.
Otherwise, it's just powerless wailing. Cry your eyes dry, cry yourself blind—it changes nothing.
But here's the flip side: shed one less tear today, and maybe tomorrow, one less family will have to grieve."
"Yes, Dr. Duncan."
Lexie felt a wave of shame. 😔
"Go on, then. Organize the data from this surgery properly. Think hard about what went wrong. You're both great doctors—maybe you'll get a spark of inspiration and come up with something better."
Adam glanced at Little One. "We've got 11 more shots at this, but I'd rather not use them all up."
"Yes, sir."
Little One nodded firmly.
Noon. Cafeteria.
"Heard your surgery didn't make it?"
Christina asked with concern.
"Yeah."
Adam gave her a look.
"It's a groundbreaking procedure—no real playbook to follow. Failing the first time's totally normal."
Christina grinned. "You've still got 11 more chances."
"11 chances?"
Meredith blinked, confused.
"Clinical research like this is overseen by an ethics committee."
Christina clearly had done her homework, explaining like a pro. "If you fail 12 times in a row and 12 patients die during the study, the ethics committee will pause the whole thing.
And once it's paused? Restarting it later is a million times harder than getting it approved in the first place."
"I'll treasure every one of those chances and think carefully about each attempt."
Adam nodded.
Lu Xun once said, "Failure is the mother of success." In theory, every failure builds experience toward a win.
But in reality? No one's handing out infinite do-overs—especially when patient deaths are involved.
Twelve straight failures could mean the project's too tough, the luck's rotten, or the skill's just not there. Whatever the reason, the person leading the study isn't fit to keep running it anytime soon.
Adam might be able to pull strings and stretch his chances. But that'd open him up to criticism and attacks.
This wasn't some life-or-death stakes tied to his own survival—he wouldn't go that far.
So yeah, 11 chances left. That's it.
If he doesn't succeed after 11 more tries, this clinical research project he's pinned big hopes on will get shelved.
In his past life, maybe 20 years down the line, there'd be a shot at reopening it. But this is a TV drama world.
Thanks to some mystical vibe he got from testing Ouyang Feng's life-extending trick, Adam's gut told him: 20 years from now, he'd still be out of luck.
So these 11 chances? They're the real deal. Gotta make 'em count. 💪
(End of Chapter)