The emergency room of Saint Aurora Hospital was unusually chaotic that night.
Rain hammered against the tall glass windows while thunder rumbled across the dark city sky. Nurses rushed through the halls, doctors shouted orders, and the sharp scent of disinfectant filled the air.
Alexander Kazafi stood quietly beside the nurse station, reviewing a patient chart.
At twenty-six, he was one of the youngest surgical residents in the hospital.
Yet it was impossible for people not to notice him.
His hazel-green eyes were calm and gentle, framed by soft black hair that fell slightly across his forehead. His slim figure gave him an elegant appearance, almost too beautiful for the harsh environment of an emergency ward.
Many patients often whispered the same thing after meeting him.
"Dr. Kazafi feels… warm."
And it was true.
Alexander had a quiet kindness about him that made frightened patients feel safe.
He closed the file in his hand and sighed softly.
Another long night shift.
Before he could sit down, the hospital doors suddenly slammed open.
BANG!
Heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway.
Several men in black suits rushed into the emergency room, their expressions tense.
And between them—
They carried a massive man covered in blood.
"Doctor! We need help!" one of the men shouted.
The nurses froze when they saw the injured man.
He was enormous.
Even lying on the stretcher, his size was overwhelming.
His broad chest was covered in dark tattoos, his muscular arms hanging heavily at his sides. His black shirt was soaked with blood from multiple gunshot wounds.
But what truly made the room fall silent was his face.
Cold.
Dangerous.
Terrifying.
One of the senior doctors stepped forward, then suddenly stopped.
His face turned pale.
"…No way," he whispered.
Another nurse gasped.
"That's… that's him."
The name spread through the room like a quiet shock.
Vladimir Volkov.
The infamous mafia king.
A man whose criminal empire stretched across multiple countries.
A man feared by governments and hunted by enemies.
And now—
He was dying on their hospital stretcher.
The senior doctor immediately stepped back.
"We can't treat him," he said quickly.
The room went silent.
One of the suited men stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous.
"Doctor… are you refusing treatment?"
Sweat formed on the doctor's forehead.
"This is a hospital," he stammered. "But… if we get involved with him… there could be consequences."
Everyone understood what he meant.
Treating Vladimir Volkov meant stepping into the violent world of the mafia.
And that world destroyed anyone who got too close.
The injured man suddenly coughed violently.
Blood spilled from the corner of his lips.
His pulse on the monitor dropped.
BEEP… BEEP…
Weak.
Fading.
He was dying.
Alexander stepped forward.
"Move."
The room turned toward him in surprise.
The senior doctor frowned.
"Kazafi, don't be foolish."
Alexander ignored him.
He walked calmly to the stretcher and began examining the wounds.
Two gunshots.
One dangerously close to the lung.
Severe blood loss.
If they didn't operate immediately, the man would die within minutes.
Alexander looked up at the others.
"Prepare the operating room."
The senior doctor stared at him.
"Are you insane? Do you even know who this is?"
Alexander gently pressed gauze against one of the wounds.
His voice remained calm.
"Yes."
He looked at the unconscious man.
"But right now, he's just a patient."
The room fell silent.
One of the mafia men stared at Alexander with surprise.
The senior doctor clenched his teeth.
"You're only a resident!"
Alexander met his gaze.
"And he will die if we waste more time."
For a moment, no one moved.
Then one of the nurses suddenly nodded.
"I'll prepare the OR."
The tension in the room shifted.
Machines were rolled forward.
The stretcher was pushed down the hallway.
Alexander walked beside it, his hazel eyes focused and calm.
Behind him, the suited men exchanged glances.
One of them murmured quietly.
"…Boss is lucky tonight."
They entered the operating room.
Bright surgical lights illuminated the table.
Alexander washed his hands and put on gloves.
He glanced at the heart monitor.
The pulse was dangerously low.
Another minute, and it would stop.
The nurse looked at him nervously.
"Doctor… are you sure you can handle this surgery?"
Alexander picked up the scalpel.
His voice was gentle.
"We don't have another choice."
The scalpel touched the skin.
The surgery began.
But Alexander didn't notice something.
The unconscious man on the table—
His cold gray eyes slowly opened.
And for the first time…
Vladimir Volkov saw the face of the doctor trying to save his life.