Chapter 21: Implant Rupture? I Really Don't Know Anything About Plastic Surgery
"Ow, fuck!"
A cry of pain erupted from the female assassin's mouth.
The reason was simple: the surgical scissors had plunged into her right breast as she lunged forward.
David chuckled as he helped the assassin back onto the bed and untied the safety measure he'd taken—the sheet binding her ankles.
"Sorry. To prevent you from instinctively trying to kill me, I took a small precaution."
The assassin gasped, staring at David with complete shock.
Usually, doctors bolted from the room the moment treatment was finished.
Who the hell, like David, would stick around waiting to witness an assassin's reflexive attack?
Was this guy insane?
Looking at the assassin's surprised and furious eyes, David smiled apologetically.
Just as he was about to extract the scissors, he suddenly noticed that no blood was flowing from where they'd penetrated.
Curious, David gently nudged the scissors' handle, and immediately, ripples spread across the surface.
Gasping again, the assassin realized she was now completely exposed.
Instinctively reaching to cover herself, she pressed her hand directly onto the embedded scissors.
Pop!
The scissors, driven deeper, actually punctured the implant!
Immediately following, a hissing sound of escaping saline filled the room, plunging the situation into peak awkwardness.
David hadn't expected this development—the assassin's chest really did have a damage absorption feature.
He stood frozen for a moment before stammering:
"Uh, I really haven't studied anything related to cosmetic surgery..."
"Get the fuck out!"
The assassin, seething with rage, yanked out the scissors and hurled them at David.
Strangely, no blood flowed from her right breast—instead, a gel-like substance continuously leaked through the puncture.
Easily dodging the scissors the assassin threw in her fury, David said:
"About the payment..."
The enraged assassin grabbed a gold coin and flung it straight out the door, roaring:
"OUT!"
Hearing the forceful command, David darted from the room, scooped up the gold coin from the hallway carpet, and headed toward the first-floor lobby.
As for the client's attitude? Who cared.
This wasn't Princeton-Plainsboro—as long as the patient was alive, mission accomplished.
Now he needed to find Charon to complete his onboarding!
When David reappeared in the lobby, Charon's face registered genuine surprise.
He'd naturally received the same intelligence Winston had.
Their assessments were similar—believing that David, lacking field experience, would likely be neutralized by the veteran physician observing from the closet, probably while trembling in terror.
Neutralized meant eliminated.
If you can't be one of us, then you must die.
This was the ruthless doctrine of the assassin organization.
But David appearing here unharmed meant he'd passed the test!
This was truly unexpected.
Fortunately, years of professional composure allowed him to quickly mask his surprise and present the wooden case he'd prepared in advance.
"Welcome to our establishment. As night physician, you'll have permanent access to room 211.
Provided, of course, that you fulfill the requirement of treating at least ten patients monthly.
This case contains everything you require: documentation, identification, protocols, contact directory, and so forth.
Additionally, all services within the network will be available to you.
Furthermore, as a physician, you'll enjoy our protection so long as you don't violate the rules.
Now then, I trust you'll find your tenure here... agreeable."
David accepted the wooden case without asking what would happen if he failed to meet quota.
For an assassin, the consequence of a failed contract was death.
For a physician, it was the same.
Taking the case, David rode the elevator to the second floor under the scrutinizing gazes of everyone present.
After David departed, the lobby immediately buzzed with conversation.
"Charon, is that kid the new doc?"
"Indeed."
"He looks barely legal. Can he actually handle the work?
I'm not exactly comfortable trusting my life to some kid who can't even grow a proper beard yet."
Charon glanced at the female assassin who emerged from the elevator, clutching her chest:
"Whether he's capable, you can ask Melina."
"Huh? Melina, why are you holding your chest? Did that kid do something to you?
Come on, tell us—how were his skills?"
Melina, being ribbed, glared viciously at the man lounging in the lobby:
"Marcus, shut your mouth if you want to keep breathing!"
Marcus chuckled, completely unfazed by Melina's threat:
"Tsk, looking at how animated you are, that kid's skills must be decent."
Melina shot Marcus a murderous look, then slammed a gold coin heavily onto the concierge desk:
"Charon, I need a plastic surgeon!"
David naturally didn't know about the drama downstairs.
He followed the room numbers and located his exclusive quarters, room 211.
Upon entering, David tossed the wooden case aside.
Then he dry-swallowed an entire bottle of painkillers and injected himself with some sedative.
Afterward, he collapsed onto the plush bed and fell into deep sleep.
The arterial repair surgery had drained too much of his energy—he had nothing left to deal with anything else now.
The next day, a splitting headache woke David from his exhausted slumber.
Sighing heavily, David swallowed another full bottle of painkillers.
Then he straightened his appearance and left the room.
When he reached the lobby, Charon suddenly spoke:
"Dr. Wells, do you require transportation services?"
David raised an eyebrow:
"Complimentary?"
Charon smiled faintly:
"It appears Dr. Wells didn't review the information in the case yesterday.
Transportation is merely one of the privileges afforded to physicians.
You may regard the Continental as your... home base."
David smiled without responding.
Home? The people foolish enough to treat the Continental as home were already six feet under.
However, David wouldn't refuse free transportation.
Soon, David—arriving precisely on schedule—appeared in Diagnostics' conference room.
Today was different from yesterday's idle state.
All four physicians from Diagnostics, including House, were absent.
After asking a passing nurse, David learned that a new patient with blood pressure completely unresponsive to IV push meds had arrived in the ER overnight.
This symptom had immediately captured House's attention.
So even before official hours, he'd taken his three-person team to the patient's room to assess the situation.
David hadn't even made it to see the patient when House returned with his three fellows.
House was frowning deeply, clearly contemplating something.
He didn't acknowledge David, walking straight past him into the Diagnostics office.
However, Foreman, trailing behind, spotted David standing in the corridor and immediately scoffed:
"Kid, what time is it? Do you have any concept of punctuality?"
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