Chapter 96: No Need to Suffer for Nothing
While "Dollar" Bill was still muttering under his breath about the lost $120 million—
Bobby Axelrod glanced at him and said, "Starting next quarter, the capital under your line… doubles."
Bill's head snapped up.
He stared at Bobby, as if trying to confirm he'd heard correctly. "Is this… compensation?"
"No." Bobby shook his head. After a brief pause, he continued,
"This is trust. The same way you trust that I had a reason to walk away from that $120 million."
Silence hung in the air for a few seconds.
Bill opened his mouth, all the objections he had prepared rising to the surface—
Then he swallowed them back down.
He stood up and said only one sentence:
"I understand, boss."
—
That's how the world works—
Some people move a hundred million dollars in a matter of minutes.
Others spend an hour treating a wound on a calf—using even a resurrection spell—
and charge just a hundred dollars.
The patient was a construction worker.
On the inner side of his calf was an open ulcer, about five centimeters in diameter.
It wasn't bleeding. No pus. No intense pain.
Just constant seepage, accompanied by a persistent stinging sensation.
The edges of the wound kept dying, regenerating, then dying again—
like a maze with no exit.
He had been treating it elsewhere for a year.
It never healed.
The reason was simple—
This kind of injury required consistent, long-term medication.
But reality didn't work that way.
No work meant no income.
When the medicine eased the pain, he assumed it was fine.
Hospital appointments were always impossible to get—endless queues that crushed any resolve he had to seek proper treatment.
Ethan spent forty minutes just cleaning the wound.
There was nothing graphic about the process—
Just repeated use of healing and resurrection magic, slowly pulling back the tissue the body had already given up on.
The long treatment made the patient restless.
"Doctor… when will this actually heal?"
Ethan had already finished and was writing the prescription. He didn't look up.
"Apply the medication as instructed. Three days, and it'll be fine."
Then he added calmly,
"But if you skip even once… it might never heal for the rest of your life."
The man clearly didn't believe him—thinking it was a joke.
Ethan looked up this time, his tone turning serious.
"I'm not joking. Especially the part about 'never healing.'"
The man froze under his gaze, then nodded repeatedly, almost like making a vow.
"I'll apply it. I won't miss a single time."
He went to the front desk to pay.
By now, Helen handled everything with practiced ease.
She carefully checked the form, gave the patient a brief once-over, and quoted the price:
"One hundred dollars."
The man visibly relaxed, paid without hesitation, and thanked both Helen and Ethan sincerely.
On his way out, he even grabbed a small cupcake.
There were more patients waiting.
But Helen still waited a few minutes before letting the next one in.
Only then did Ethan truly realize—
Helen's presence had freed him from countless small burdens.
Her attentiveness was almost instinctive.
From managing the workflow, coordinating timing, to controlling the pacing of patients—
everything was handled with quiet precision.
She even handed him coffee at just the right moments—
and, after he finished his third cupcake of the day, firmly stopped his hand from reaching for a fourth.
Ethan used to think running a clinic alone was pretty great.
There was even a certain satisfaction in that feeling of being "all-capable," in control of everything.
But looking back now—
waiting months before hiring a receptionist?
That wasn't independence.
That was just making life harder for no reason.
Now, he could focus far more of his energy on actual treatment.
Even during peak hours, patients rarely had to wait more than half an hour.
Of course… exceptions existed.
Like the case earlier.
Treating a single patient for an entire hour wasn't common—but it happened a few times each month.
More often than not, Ethan preferred to spend extra time in one go rather than have a patient come back again.
Because no one knew whether that "next visit" would be in a month—
or half a year.
—
James Whitmore had already come to the clinic three times.
Each time, he arrived alone, leaving his entourage outside.
And each time, he brought a gift.
The first time—a black card delivered by an assistant.
The second—a bottle of champagne.
The third—a bottle of whiskey.
None of them looked flashy—no elaborate packaging, no eye-catching labels—
but each one carried the quiet weight of something expensive.
After the latest treatment, Whitmore didn't leave immediately.
He lingered at the front desk for a while, casually chatting with Helen.
The conversation was light, scattered—nothing more than polite small talk.
At first, Ethan didn't think anything of it.
Everything seemed perfectly normal.
It wasn't until Whitmore left and the clinic fell quiet again—
that Ethan noticed something.
Helen had already returned to work mode.
Sorting out documents. Checking records. Handling files.
As if that conversation had never really happened.
Only then did Ethan realize—
Helen didn't seem to like old James very much.
In contrast, she clearly had a soft spot for the Pearson family.
—
On the day William came in for his follow-up, it was practically a full family turnout again.
Beth had an important meeting and couldn't make it—
but the two daughters took time off, and even Randall's brother—
Kevin Pearson—came along.
Kevin had just moved from Los Angeles to New York.
On the West Coast, he was what you'd call a "familiar face."
He had starred in a family sitcom, playing the ever-reliable, always-present "perfect dad."
The show did well.
He became a regular on variety programs—
relaxed on camera, naturally likable, and steadily building a fanbase.
But that was the past.
Now, Kevin had moved to New York, leaving everything behind.
In his own words, he had completely cut ties with his previous "history."
The "perfect dad" image included.
He wanted a fresh start—an entirely new acting career.
It was also Kevin's first time meeting Randall's biological father.
And he seemed genuinely curious about the man Randall had spent his whole life searching for.
—
In a quiet corner of Rayne Clinic sat an old piano.
It had been there ever since Ethan bought it.
Before Helen arrived, almost no one touched it—
yet it had never been moved away.
This time, William finally made good on his promise to play something for Ethan.
It was the quietest part of the day.
William had just finished his treatment, and he looked noticeably better.
There were no patients waiting.
He invited Ethan to the waiting area.
No ceremony.
No preparation.
He simply sat down, placed his hands on the keys, and paused—
as if checking whether something in his memory was still there.
Then—
the notes began to emerge.
At first, they weren't a full piece—
just scattered fragments of jazz.
Then the music began to flow.
Gradually filling the space.
A steady rhythm replacing the emptiness of the clinic.
And softly, he began to sing:
"You are so beautiful."
"My dear, I want to tell you—"
"I'm such a fool… unworthy of you."
…