Chapter 766

The operating room lights glared with sterile intensity.

Vivian Laurent stood at the surgical table, her gloved fingertips growing cold. The patient's vitals plummeted as monitor alarms shrieked against eardrums.

"BP 40 over 20, heart rate 30!" A nurse's voice trembled.

The patient's chest barely moved, their skin mottled blue. Three hours in this state—everyone knew what it meant.

"Prep epinephrine." Vivian's tone held Arctic calm.

"But the dosage—" The anesthesiologist hesitated.

"Now."

Silence swallowed the OR. All eyes turned to the chief surgeon in the corner, who gave an imperceptible nod.

The drug entered the IV line.

The patient convulsed violently. Monitor lines spiked like frenzied snakes.

"Cardiac arrest!" someone cried.

Vivian's gaze locked on the screen. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Time stretched into eternity.

"Should we—"

"Wait."

At the brink of surrender, the monitor emitted a single, crystalline beep.

Then another. And another.

"Rhythm restored! BP rising!" The nurse's voice cracked with disbelief.

Muffled cheers erupted. Junior surgeons blinked back tears—they'd witnessed a miracle.

"You..." The lead surgeon faltered.

Vivian peeled off her gloves, revealing slender wrists. She studied the stabilizing vitals before turning to the sink.

"Vivian Laurent." She didn't look back.

The name detonated through the room.

"Dr. Luna?!" someone gasped.

The recent controversy over the real and fake medical prodigy suddenly had its answer. Who else could snatch a death-row patient from the reaper's grip but Night herself?

Water rushed over Vivian's burning fingertips. In the mirror, she saw the surgeons' awestruck stares.

She turned the faucet off. Droplets fell from her pale hands like liquid mercury.