469-471

Chapter 469: Disaster of the Mad Python Medical Center. Emergency Room. 

Adam was patching up Ross’s injuries. 

The wounds on Ross’s face looked pretty bad, but thankfully, they were mostly surface-level. Of course, the emotional bruising from that fancy French restaurant? That’s not something Adam could fix with a bandage. 

“OMG! What happened?!” Monica and the gang rushed in, jaws dropping when they saw Ross all banged up. 

Adam chuckled and filled them in on the story. 

“That’s outrageous!” Monica snapped. He’s her big brother, after all—she can slug him, but no one else gets a free pass. “We’ve got adults in the family, you know. I’ll go sort this guy out!” She rolled up her sleeves, ready to march over and give someone a piece of her mind. 

“Whoa, easy there,” Adam said, calming her down. “It’s not like the guy meant to do it. Ross kinda brought this on himself—single as a pringle but still waltzing into a couples-only spot. He’s not totally innocent here.” 

“So this is my fault now?” Ross threw his hands up, incredulous. 

“You’re saying it’s not?” Adam grinned. “Your daughter’s about to pop into the world, and instead of being there for her mom, you’re reminiscing at your ex’s favorite restaurant. Then, when it feels off, you don’t leave—you stick around, flirting with a cute waitress over a couples’ meal. Getting clocked by her boyfriend? Yeah, you had that coming.” 

“You—!” Ross sputtered, fuming. “You’re still taking Rachel’s side! I’ve said it a hundred times: I asked her. She didn’t want to get back together. It’s not like I refused her!” 

“Oh, really?” Adam gave him a long, knowing look. “Sure, you’ve explained it a hundred times now. But back then? You asked her once, half-heartedly, like ‘Oh, if Rachel hesitates even a little, I’m out.’ Ask Monica and Phoebe—if they were Rachel, would they have said yes?” 

Rachel, pregnant and living alone in Ross’s apartment, hadn’t been called, so she wasn’t there. 

“No way,” Monica and Phoebe said in unison, shaking their heads. 

Women pick up on that stuff—whether a guy’s sincere or just going through the motions. And whether they fall for it? That’s up to them. Rachel, clearly, has her pride. 

“And don’t forget Mona,” Adam added. “If I remember right, you asked Rachel, and that same night, you hooked up with Mona. How do you know Rachel didn’t swing by later to talk after saying no?” 

“What?!” Ross’s brain short-circuited. “Rachel came looking for me?” 

“Who knows?” Adam shrugged. “If she did, and saw you already cozying up with Mona right after asking her, she probably just slipped out quietly.” 

“Rachel…” Monica and Phoebe sighed sympathetically, feeling her pain. 

“Here’s the thing,” Adam said with a shake of his head. “You move way too fast.” 

“…” Ross had no comeback. 

And no, Adam wasn’t just ribbing him about his stamina (though that was fair game too). Emotionally, Ross was a speed demon. Asking Rachel one minute, jumping to Mona the next? It wasn’t even the first time. Back when he and Rachel broke up, he’d stormed off that night and brought home some random woman from a bar. Talk about seamless transitions.

“Ross, you’re in your mid-thirties, man,” Adam said, laying it on straight. “Even Joey’s toning it down these days. How long are you gonna keep playing the field? You used to gripe about Ben being raised by a pair of lesbians—now you’ve got a shot at giving Emma a normal, happy family from day one. But you just brush it off, barely trying. Is that really okay?” 

“I…” Ross opened his mouth, but nothing came out. 

“Adam’s right,” Monica said, slinging an arm around Ross’s shoulders. “You need to think hard about this.” 

“Totally,” Phoebe chimed in. “You two are each other’s lobsters—meant to be!” 

Ross’s lips twitched into a small smile. That lobster bit? It started way back when the six of them first got tight—him crushing hard on Rachel, and Phoebe tossing out that line to cheer him up. 

“Give it some thought,” Adam said, clapping Ross on the shoulder before heading off. The ER wasn’t exactly short on patients. 

“Mr. Harold, what bit you?” Adam asked, flipping through a chart as he stepped into the next room. 

“Oh, my pet snake,” replied a chubby, goofy-looking white guy sitting there with a dopey grin. 

“Pet snake?” Adam blinked, startled. “What kind?” 

Americans are wild—keeping all sorts of crazy pets just for kicks. And pet snakes? A lot of them aren’t harmless little garters. Nope, people go for the venomous ones—cobras, you name it. Stuff normal folks run from, they keep as houseguests. Oh, and here’s a fun tidbit: pat-reon:belamy20—support some cool creators if you’re into that! Anyway, back to the snake guy… 

“Golden eyelash rattlesnake,” the dude said, still grinning like an idiot. 

“…” Adam’s mouth twitched. Forget the fancy “golden eyelash” part—rattlesnake? That’s a big, bold, venomous name right there. This guy got bit and was still chipper? Total goofball. 

“Mr. Harold, are you feeling weak, nauseous, or shivery?” Adam asked, getting down to business. 

“Nope,” Harold shook his head. 

“Where’s the bite?” 

Harold stuck out his arm. “Wanna see my little baby?” he asked, all giddy. 

“Huh?” Adam’s eyes narrowed. “You brought it here?” Then he spotted the paper bag by Harold’s side and instinctively took a few steps back—old-school snake fear kicking in. 

“Yup!” Harold beamed, lifting the bag. “Snakes are cold-blooded, so I kept it under a heat lamp. Huh, it was just here a second ago—where’d it go?” 

“How big is it?” Adam asked, scanning the room like a hawk. 

“Three feet,” Harold replied casually. 

Holy—! That’s a meter-long beast!  

“Carol, call animal control now,” Adam barked, cursing under his breath. “Tell all staff to stay alert, and get Mr. Harold some antivenom, stat.” 

“Yes, Dr. Duncan,” Nurse Carol said, already dialing. 

“Hang tight,” Adam told Harold, forcing a tight smile before ducking out of the room. That goofy grin was not helping. 

“Monica, Chandler, take Ross and get outta here,” Adam said, tracking down his friends and spilling the news about a loose venomous snake slithering around the hospital. 

“OMG!” Ross and the gang were ready to bolt, but Phoebe lingered, looking worried. “What are you gonna do with the pet snake?” she asked, genuinely concerned for the critter. 

“Don’t worry,” Adam said with a laugh, used to her soft spot by now. “Animal control’s on it—they’ll handle it properly.” 

“Good,” Phoebe nodded, finally letting Monica drag her off. 

After seeing them out, Adam returned to chaos—hospital staff were already hunting for the snake. With so many people in the ER, including kids, waiting for animal control could be a disaster. 

Chapter 470: Dark Humor 

Medical Center. Emergency Room.  

Adam was about to head off to find Matthew and the others when another ambulance screeched in.  

Well, so much for that plan.  

He figured Matthew, Lilly, and the crew had probably already left anyway.  

“Dr. Duncan!”  

A nurse called out from across the room.  

“What’s the situation?”  

Adam hurried over, all business.  

“12-year-old male, multiple gunshot wounds to the legs and abdomen. We rushed him here—IV drip’s at max flow.”  

The paramedics wheeled the stretcher in, rattling off details as they went.  

“Two liters of fluid in, but we can’t get a pulse.”  

“Move fast—get him to Trauma Room 1!”  

Adam jogged alongside, eyeing the kid’s condition while barking orders.  

“Prep O-negative blood! Hang the IV line!”  

“Run a hemoglobin and hematocrit check!”  

“Oh my God!”  

A nurse darted into action, but when her peripheral vision caught the boy on the table, she couldn’t hold back a gasp.  

“Drive-by shooting?” another nurse muttered, half to herself.  

“No!”  

One of the paramedics, catching his breath after handing off the patient, shook his head. “Drug deal gone bad. Blacklist-style mess.”  

“But he’s only 12?”  

The nurse’s voice cracked with disbelief.  

“They found him with a 9mm submachine gun in one hand and a Ruger in the other.”  

The paramedic shrugged, then bolted off. In their line of work, every second counted—volume was the name of the game.  

Adam overheard it all. Glancing at the boy’s dark skin, he let out a quiet sigh in his head.  

The welfare system here in the States? It’s a wild ride.  

You’ve seen it laid bare in shows like Shameless. Got some quirky condition—like agoraphobia or whatever—that keeps you from leaving the house? Get a doctor’s note, and boom, you’re on the dole. Live off that check without lifting a finger, no problem.  

Then there’s the kid thing. Have a baby, adopt a kid—doesn’t matter—you get a monthly stipend. A real Shameless type could rack up enough kids to live pretty cushy off their welfare checks alone. Homeless folks? Charities keep them fed and clothed. Might not be gourmet, but they won’t starve.  

Those deadbeat parents? They just cash the welfare checks and barely glance at the kids. If the kids hustle and earn a buck young, guess who swoops in to snatch it for a night of fun? Dear old Dad.  

Now, that’s usually the old white guy playbook. But when it’s a Black family? That’s where the weirdness kicks in.  

A normal Black family, even with a bunch of kids, doesn’t qualify for squat. Unless it’s a single-parent setup—and it’s gotta be the mom raising them. Dad can’t even fake leaving; there’s folks who’ll pop by unannounced to check. If they spot him, the checks dry up.  

Emmm.  

It’s almost like the system’s nudging Black guys to hit the streets and stay gone. “Don’t worry, bro, we’ll take care of your wife and kids.”  

But a single mom, even with welfare, still has to hustle a job to give her kids a decent shot. Meanwhile, those kids—left to fend for themselves—grow up running the streets. They might not bump into their dad, but they sure as hell meet his buddies: the uncles and cousins.  

And what do those guys do? The kids follow suit. What’s there to do on the streets, anyway?  

It’s a vicious cycle, locked tight. Rare as hell for a Black kid to break free from it.  

The one Adam was trying to save right now? Clearly didn’t make it out.  

Twelve years old, packing a submachine gun and a Ruger. When’s there room for a pencil and a book? Even if they wanted to hit the books, where’s the cash for that?  

Hard work takes years to pay off. Falling into the streets? That’s just one gun away.  

Most adults can’t stick it out that long—let alone a kid.  

All this churned in Adam’s head, but his hands didn’t stop. He was in full-on rescue mode. Stabilize the kid, then rush him to the OR. Sure, they could operate here, but the sterile setup and equipment? Nowhere near what the operating room offered. Still, for an ER, it made sense.  

Outside the Trauma Room.  

The ER had a new visitor.  

“Hey, you got something going on?”  

John Carter had just changed out of his scrubs, ready to head home and tackle some serious business: braised pig trotters! While signing out at the nurse’s station, he noticed the newcomer and couldn’t help but ask.  

Not that he was nosy—he just wanted to lend a hand.  

The visitor? A Black kid, maybe ten or so, rocking a red cap and a ratty, oversized sports jacket—probably scavenged from some adult. The thing was so bulky it practically dragged on the floor.  

The kid was wandering around, peeking here and there, like he was looking for someone.  

Carter saw him and figured he’d help out.  

But the kid didn’t seem to hear him, just kept scanning the place.  

“You looking for your parents?”  

Carter raised his voice a bit.  

Still no answer. The kid tugged open a curtain between the main ward’s beds, glanced in, then moved on.  

“Hey!”  

Carter jogged over and tapped the kid’s shoulder.  

Big mistake.  

He froze.  

Instead of a smile or a confused look, he was staring down the barrel of a gun.  

The kid had whipped out a pistol from that ridiculous jacket, aiming it right at him.  

Worse? The blank, emotionless stare on the boy’s face. Pure, chilling indifference to life.  

Carter didn’t dare twitch.  

He had zero doubt this kid would pull the trigger.  

“Oh, God!”  

“Move it, punk… ah!”  

The kid dropped the act, waving the gun as he marched forward.  

Anyone in his path? One flash of the barrel, and they either clammed up or flinched hard. Same deal either way—no one moved, no one even yelled.  

The kid strutted through, checking trauma room after trauma room.  

Finally, he hit Adam’s.  

“Who let you in—”  

An ER nurse started to snap, then stopped dead.  

The second the kid barged in, Adam’s instincts kicked into overdrive—bullet time, courtesy of his reflexes.  

One glance, and he clocked it: the kid was ready to shoot.  

The gun was aimed at the patient on the table, sure, but Adam wasn’t taking chances.  

In that split second, he hurled the forceps in his hand with everything he had.  

Under bullet time, the armed kid’s finger was just brushing the trigger.  

But Adam’s amped-up throw? The forceps rocketed like a cannonball, smashing into the kid’s gun arm.  

“ Ngh!”  

A grunt slipped from the boy’s mouth.  

For a ten-year-old, the pain tolerance was unreal—his blank face barely flinched, just a slight brow twitch.  

Didn’t matter. The gun slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor as his hand spasmed. That arm? Smacked so hard it twisted—definitely broken.  

Adam lunged from the table, grabbing the kid’s other hand as he still tried to snatch the gun back.  

His grip locked the boy down, strength overwhelming.  

But those defiant, icy eyes stared back. Adam didn’t hesitate— a precise chop to the neck, just enough force to knock him out cold.  

“Call security.”  

Adam kicked the gun under the table and hustled back to the patient.  

“Let’s keep going.”  

Chapter 471: This Scene Hits Hard 

Medical Center. 

Emergency Room.  

The scene was straight-up unreal—like something out of a fever dream.  

Even the action movies these days wouldn’t dare pull off a stunt like this.  

No wonder half the room was still processing what just went down.  

Adam yanked off his contaminated gloves and waved at the nurse to grab him a fresh pair.  

But she just stood there, frozen like a deer in headlights.  

Oh well.  

Adam shrugged it off, grabbed some new latex gloves himself, and swapped them on in record time before diving back into the rescue.  

This was a life on the line, after all! 

Saving it would net Adam an extra 0.01 years of lifespan—that’s 3.65 days. A little more than the three days Helen Keller once wished for, by a cool 0.65-day margin. 😎  

“Clamps!”  

That tiny breather snapped the nurses—seasoned pros who’d seen it all—back to reality. They kicked into gear, jumping on Adam’s orders like a well-oiled machine.  

Not long after, hospital security rolled up, armed to the teeth.  

Word had obviously gotten around. Those staffers in the hallway, held at gunpoint by that African-American kid, must’ve tipped them off. They’d been too scared to even scream.  

“It’s safe now! Come in and clean up—er, I mean, take him away!”  

The nurse shot a glance at the security guards peeking in like nervous cats, clearly prioritizing their own hides. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes.  

“Huh?”  

The guards finally dared to sneak a few more looks inside and spotted the knocked-out hitman sprawled on the floor. “What the heck happened here?” one blurted, jaw practically on the ground.  

“Dr. Duncan took care of the hitman, no biggie,” the nurse said with a proud grin. “Now hurry up and haul him off—don’t mess with Dr. Duncan saving this patient!”  

“WTF?!”  

The guards all froze, then shouted the classic American exclamation in perfect sync, like a choir of disbelief.  

“Where’s the gun?”  

The security captain snapped out of it first, zeroing in on the important stuff.  

“Dr. Duncan kicked it under the table,” the nurse said, pointing. “Wait till the surgery’s done, then send someone to grab it.”  

“After you tie him up, get someone to check his arm,” Adam added without even looking up from his work.  

“Right!” the nurse chimed in. “This guy’s a total psycho! Dr. Duncan smashed his arm with the clamps, and he barely grunted—just went for the gun with his other hand. Be careful with him!”  

The guards exchanged looks, half-convinced they were hearing a tall tale.  

“Look, just keep him under control. I’ll handle the treatment stuff once I’m done here,” Adam said, catching their skepticism. He glanced up at the captain. “Don’t let any other staff near him—he’s the type who’d kill with his teeth if he had to. Don’t underestimate how ruthless he is!”  

Hiss!  

The captain locked eyes with Adam, saw the dead-serious look in them, and realized this was no joke. He sucked in a sharp breath.  

“Everyone, stay sharp!”  

The guards nodded, cranking their usual caution from 95% to a solid 99%. They moved like they were handling a live bomb—slow and steady. Even Tai Bai Jin Xing or Han Pao Pao would’ve tipped their hats at that level of care. No sneak attacks here—just a quick retreat if things got dicey.  

No choice, really! 

Being a security guard in the U.S. meant mastering self-preservation like it was an art form. Otherwise, you’d have cash in your pocket but no life to spend it with.  

Once the guards cleared out, the team kept at it. After a tense stretch, they finally stabilized the vitals of the 12-year-old African-American boy who’d been chased into the hospital by that hitman.  

“Is the operating room ready?”  

“OR 3’s all set,” a nurse replied quick. “Dr. Green’s there too.”  

“Good. Hand the gun off to him,” Adam told one of the nurses, nodding at the lone guard sticking around. He started wheeling the patient toward the OR. “We’re heading to OR 3.”  

OR 3. Prep Time.  

Adam and Leonard were scrubbing up, disinfecting like their lives depended on it.  

“Damn it, another shooting!” Leonard grumbled. “Heard Ross and the crew were here earlier too. Good thing my Rachel didn’t show up!”  

“Ross got…” Adam smirked, spilling the tea on Ross’s latest blunder.  

“Hahaha!”  

Leonard—aka “the old father-in-law”—lit up like a Christmas tree hearing his “cheap son-in-law” took a beating. Couldn’t have been happier if he tried.  

“Serves him right! Knocking up my Rachel and still refusing to tie the knot? Beat that jerk to death, and I’d call it justice!” 

“But not too dead,” Adam teased. “Emma still needs her dad. I’ve got a hunch this mess might finally push Ross and Rachel to sort things out. Your granddaughter Emma might not end up a ‘you-know-what’ after all.”  

“For real?”  

Leonard’s hands sped up, scrubbing with that disinfectant soap like he was racing the clock. Ten passes per spot? More like twenty now.  

Don’t get him wrong—he wasn’t Ross’s biggest fan. But that was only because he compared him to Adam. In the eyes of old-school Americans, Ross wasn’t half bad. Middle-class roots, young PhD, university professor? Solid creds.  

Rachel wasn’t getting any younger, and finding a guy with that kind of resume—plus real history and feelings—was no small feat. Especially with granddaughter Emma already on the way.  

Oh, and here’s a little plug: pat-reon:belamy20—give it a peek if you’re into it! 😄  

As a dad and granddad, Leonard just wanted Emma to dodge the “illegitimate” label. That’s all he asked.  

Ross couldn’t hold a candle to Adam, sure. But compared to the string of losers his other daughters dated? Ross was a catch. If Leonard dwelt on it too much, he’d have keeled over from stress years ago.  

“Hmm.”  

Adam nodded, wiping down with the soap. “Just my guess, though. No telling if they’ll actually go for it.”  

“I trust your gut!” Leonard beamed. “When the time comes, you’ll have to help Rachel jump the line for a venue, yeah?”  

“Heh, don’t worry,” Adam chuckled. “I’ll make sure Rachel’s thrilled with it.”  

The two bantered their way through the scrub-down, then half-raised their hands and bumped the OR doors open with their bodies.  

Surgical nurses swooped in, slipping gowns over them, tying them up in the back, and sliding on latex gloves—standard stuff to keep everything sterile.  

Leonard took the assistant spot with a grin, giving Adam a nod.  

Adam shot him a grateful look and stepped up to the lead surgeon position without hesitation.  

Everyone was used to it by now. The old debates from Adam’s intern days? Long gone.  

“Let’s get started.” 

“Scalpel!”  

Adam called the shots, and the OR sprang to life.  

The surgery cruised along smoothly, hitting the halfway mark. Naturally, the team slipped into chit-chat mode.  

The topic? That insane hitman chase that’d rocked the hospital.  

Everyone was still shaken by how cold and brutal that African-American kid had been. Then came the group vent session.  

“The hospital’s security is a joke! We had a shooting last time, and now a bunch of us get held at gunpoint? What’s next—someone just shoots us dead?” 

“They’ve got all this budget for patients every year, but if it were up to me, I’d slap a metal detector at the entrance first thing. How are we supposed to save lives if we’re not even safe?” 

“Right? Totally!” 

“Don’t worry, it’s coming soon!”  

Adam piped up with a small smile.  

“Dr. Duncan, you’re gonna talk to the dean?” a nurse asked, eyes sparkling.  

“That’d be awesome! If Dr. Duncan says it, the dean’s gotta listen,” another cheered.  

“Maybe,” an older nurse said, shaking her head. “But this year’s budget’s already toast. Next year’s got that backup generator eating up funds. Even if the dean says yes, we’re probably looking at the year after.”  

“No need to wait that long—I’m donating one,” Adam said with a grin.  

“…”  

The room went dead quiet. Everyone stared at Adam like he’d just strolled in wearing shades, a gold chain, a cigar, and a crooked smirk.  

(End of Chapter)