6:45 AM – Benjamin Moore's Apartment, Boston
The alarm blared. Benjamin Moore's hand slapped the snooze button with the precision of a man who had spent years training his reflexes. He groaned, rolling out of bed, his muscles protesting. The mirror showed a man in his prime—sharp jawline, dark hair still damp from the shower, and eyes that held an unsettling intensity.
He buttoned up his crisp navy-blue dress shirt, the one he reserved for surgeries—his version of armor. A quick glance at his watch. 7:02 AM.
Late. Again.
His phone buzzed. A text from Jack Norris, his fellow surgeon:
"Dr. Thorne's already prowling. You're dead."
Benjamin smirked, typing back:
"Tell her I died heroically saving a kitten. She'll forgive me."
He grabbed his keys and stepped into the brisk morning air, heading toward his black BMW M5. The engine roared to life, a sound that never failed to stir something primal in him.
Like a scalpel cutting through flesh—smooth, precise, inevitable.
7:32 AM – St. Ignatius Hospital
Benjamin strode through the sliding doors, his polished Oxfords clicking against the linoleum floor. The scent of antiseptic and coffee filled the air. He was halfway to the ER when a voice cut through the hum of the hospital like a scalpel.
"Dr. Moore."
He turned. Dr. Evelyn Thorne, the hospital's Medical Director, stood with her arms crossed. Tall, silver-haired, and sharp enough to suture a wound with her glare alone.
"You're late," she said.
Benjamin adjusted his cufflinks. "Technically, I'm fashionably delayed. Like Napoleon at Waterloo—everyone remembers the dramatic entrance."
A flicker of amusement crossed her face before she schooled it back into stern disapproval. "Just get to the ER. We've got a mess."
7:45 AM – Emergency Room
Chaos.
Paramedics rushed past, wheeling in a gurney. A teenager—Rony, 17—lay on it, his face pale, his breath ragged. A metal rod jutted from his rib cage, just below his left pectoral. Blood seeped through the bandages hastily wrapped around the wound
Benjamin's eyes narrowed.
"What's the story?" he asked, snapping on gloves.
A nurse, Lisa Chen, handed him the chart. "Suicide attempt. Jumped off a construction site. Rod impaled him on the way down."
Benjamin leaned over Rony. The boy's eyes fluttered open, glassy with pain.
"Why'd you do it, kid?" Benjamin asked, probing the wound gently.
Rony's voice was a whisper. "D-Didn't see the point."
Benjamin's fingers brushed the skin near the rod. A deeper injury—something beneath the rib. Fractured lumbar vertebrae.
"He's got spinal trauma," Benjamin muttered. "L1 and L2. If we don't stabilize him, he'll be paralyzed."
Dr. Thorne exhaled sharply. "He's lost too much blood. Odds aren't good."
Benjamin met her gaze. "You know what they said about Alexander the Great? 'Impossible' was just a word he hadn't conquered yet."
Thorne rolled her eyes. "Fine. But if he dies, it's on you."
8:15 AM – Operating Room 3
The OR hummed with controlled urgency. Benjamin stood over Rony, his hands steady, his mind a scalpel.
"Alright, team. Let's dance."
Step 1: Secure the rod.
Benjamin examined the impalement. The rod had missed the heart but pierced the left lung, causing a hemopneumothorax.
"Lisa, get me a chest tube. Jack, prep for a thoracotomy."
Step 2: Remove the foreign body.
Benjamin's fingers wrapped around the rod. "On three."
He pulled.
A wet, sucking sound. Blood welled.
"Clamp it!"
Jack moved in, clamping the bleeding vessels. Benjamin's hands worked fast—ligating the intercostal arteries, debriding the damaged tissue.
Step 3: Assess the spine.
Benjamin palpated Rony's lower back. "Vertebral fractures. We need a posterior fusion."
"He's crashing!" Lisa called out.
The monitor screamed. Flatline.
Benjamin didn't hesitate. "Epinephrine. 1 mg. Now."
The syringe slid into Rony's IV.
Three seconds.
Five.
Beep.
The heart rhythm stuttered back to life.
Benjamin exhaled. "Alright, let's finish this."
3:22 PM – Post-Op Recovery
Rony was stable. The rod was out. The spine was fused.
Benjamin leaned against the wall, his scrubs stained with sweat and blood. Jack handed him a coffee.
"You're insane," Jack said. "But damn, that was a good save."
Benjamin smirked. "Like I said. Impossible is just a word."
10:47 PM – ICU Round
The hospital was quieter now. Benjamin walked past the ICU, his eyes drifting to Bed 7.
An elderly man lay there, hooked to monitors. Mr. Harold Greer, 68. Admitted for pneumonia.
Benjamin froze.
A black haze curled around the man's chest, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Jack noticed him staring. "What's up?"
Benjamin didn't blink. "He's going to die."
Jack frowned. "What? His vitals are stable."
"Not for long," Benjamin murmured. "48 hours. Heart attack."
Jack laughed. "You're exhausted. Go home."
Benjamin didn't argue. But as he walked away, he knew.
The clock had already started.
Next Day – 10:03 PM
Jack's phone rang.
"Code Blue, ICU Bed 7!"
He sprinted down the hall, skidding to a stop at Mr. Greer's bedside. The monitor showed ventricular fibrillation.
"Shock him!" Jack yelled.
The defibrillator charged. Clear!
The body jerked.
No change.
They tried again. And again.
At 10:47 PM, exactly 48 hours after Benjamin's prediction, the flatline tone echoed through the ICU.
Jack stared at the clock, his blood running cold.
Benjamin had been right.