396-398

Chapter 396: Totally Pissed Off! 

Duncan’s Fancy Apartment. 

A phone call goes out.  

Before long, someone shows up. Who else but Alice?  

The two dive right into a warm, friendly chat.  

Things are rolling along nicely when Adam suddenly shifts gears. “So, were you the one egging Steven on to steal my surgery?”  

Alice shakes her head like a rattle. “Nope.”  

“Really?” Adam smirks, unconvinced.  

Alice stiffens, then lets out a quiet sigh. “Okay, fine—what if I did? If I hadn’t, would you even remember I exist? Tell me, how long’s it been since you last reached out?”  

“…”  

Adam’s got a mouthful of comeback stuck in his throat, but it won’t come out.  

Holy crap! 

So that’s the real story!  

Even if he’d suspected Alice was stirring the pot, he figured she was just playing both sides for some extra perks. Never in a million years did he think it was just her sulking in silence, too proud to say it outright, resorting to this roundabout way to drop a hint.  

“Ha!” Alice bursts out laughing at the dumbfounded look on Adam’s face.  

You forgot about me, huh? Two whole months without a peep! Well, I sicced my trusty backup on you. You can’t touch him—so what’re you gonna do about me? Mad? Don’t bottle it up—let it out!  

She knows how guys tick all too well.  

Honestly, even if Adam hadn’t pieced it together, she’d have dropped some breadcrumbs later—half-hidden clues to lead him straight to the “mastermind” behind it all.  

“No more next time!” Adam says, too drained to argue, settling for a stern warning instead.  

“Mm-hmm,” Alice replies, all sweet and docile now.  

This kind of stunt always risked pissing Adam off for real. She wouldn’t have pulled it if she weren’t genuinely fed up. All she wanted was to stay on his radar. One go was enough—now she’s pretty sure he won’t ghost her for months again.  

“You owe me a cutting-edge surgery,” Adam adds.  

“I’ll make it up to you!” Alice purrs, batting her lashes.  

The Next Day. Early Morning. Medical Center.  

Adam and Steven Murphy’s cars pull into the hospital lot one after the other.  

After hopping out, Adam nods with a smile. “Morning, Steven.”  

“Morning, Adam,” Steven replies, caught off guard but nodding back.  

It’s not the greeting that throws him. Last night, his dad laid into him, making it crystal clear he’d messed up. He’d already apologized to Adam, and Adam took it with class—something Steven respects. A hello like this? No big deal.  

What does weird him out is how genuinely happy Adam seems, like he’s not holding the slightest grudge. It leaves Steven with an odd vibe he can’t shake.  

At the Clinic.  

“Alice isn’t here yet?” Steven asks one of their team docs.  

“Haven’t seen her.” 

“I think she swapped shifts,” come the replies.  

That’s odd—why didn’t she tell him? Steven dials her up. When he hears the subtext about “Aunt Flo showing up early,” it clicks. He switches gears into full-on caring mode, asking how she’s holding up. A few sweet words from Alice later, and he’s grinning like a kid.  

Locker Room.  

“Adam, what’s got you so chipper?” George asks, voicing what everyone’s thinking.  

“Nothing much,” Adam says, in high spirits. “Cat eats fish, dog eats meat, Ultraman fights monsters—does happy need a reason?”  

“Ultraman?” George and the others exchange blank looks. “What’s that?”  

“Some superhero from island-nation culture,” Adam teases. “You guys should check it out. Sometimes that stuff’s actually pretty handy.”  

He leaves them scratching their heads and heads out of the locker room.  

Green Clinic.  

“Adam, how’d last night’s dinner go?” Bianca asks, genuinely curious.  

She’d heard about the surgery-snatching fiasco yesterday and wanted to swing by to cheer him up. But Adam brushed her off, citing his dinner with the Murphy family to hash things out.  

“All sorted,” Adam says with a grin. “Mr. and Mrs. Murphy are reasonable folks. They made Steven apologize, and we won’t have a repeat of yesterday.”  

“Steven Murphy apologized to you?” Bald Chris blurts out, shocked.  

“Why wouldn’t he?” Bianca snaps, glaring at Chris. “That still surgery yesterday was Adam’s to begin with.”  

“No, no, it totally was! I’m Team Adam all the way,” Chris says, throwing up his hands. “I’m just surprised—Steven’s the Murphy Pharma prince. I’d never back down if it were me.”  

“If it were you, he wouldn’t have to apologize,” Bianca scoffs. “Sure, Murphy Pharma’s a big deal, but don’t forget Adam’s the youngest billionaire around. Peter Murphy couldn’t hold a candle to Adam at his age.”  

“Duh!” Chris smacks his forehead. “Right! I keep forgetting Adam’s not just the best intern—he’s a freaking billionaire too.”  

“Alright, we’re all colleagues here, working to learn medicine. No grudge worth holding onto. Let’s keep the peace,” Adam says, wrapping up the chat.  

Steven’s apology’s already making the rounds, and that’s enough—face saved, respect earned. What more does he need?  

Yup, he’s the one who let the word slip. In a field like medicine, where authority and skill are everything, you’ve got to protect your rep. Getting your surgery jacked like that in front of everyone? If you don’t push back, people notice.  

How colleagues see you trickles down to patients. If you’re a patient, how much faith are you gonna put in a doc who’s the butt of everyone’s whispers?  

Adam played it right. The buzz spreads like wildfire through the hospital, and with Bianca and his fan club of female docs and nurses hyping it up, his cred’s not just intact—it’s soaring.  

Not buying it? Go chat up Peter Murphy, the Murphy Pharma legend, and get his kid to say sorry. Oh wait—you can’t even get a meeting with the guy! So quit griping!  

ER.  

“What’s going on here?” Adam stares, baffled, at two figures in real-life CS camo gear—one kid, one young guy—sporting paintball guns. The smaller one’s helping the bigger one hobble in.  

“Doc, my chest’s tight—hurts like hell—agh!!!” The older guy clutches his chest, gasping, before letting out a full-on scream.  

Adam rushes over, easing him onto his side and pressing a stethoscope to his chest.  

“Get him on oxygen! Order an X-ray and CT, stat!” Adam barks.  

A nurse swoops in with an oxygen mask for the guy.  

“Wahhh! It’s all my fault!” the little kid sobs. “Cousin, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have beaten you fifty-eight times in a row!”  

“AGH!!!” The guy’s scream ramps up.  

Adam’s lip twitches.  

Yup, no doubt about it—spontaneous pneumothorax.  

“Kid, zip it,” Adam says, turning to the boy, who’s probably just in elementary school. “The more you talk, the worse he’s gonna feel.”  

“Why?” the kid sniffles, eyes brimming.  

“Because your cousin’s about to explode from rage,” Adam says, half-laughing, half-wincing.  

A college guy getting trashed fifty-eight times straight by his grade-school cousin in a game? That’s a special kind of pain.  

“Sorry, Cousin! I didn’t know you sucked so bad. Next time, I’ll let you win!” the kid says, wiping tears.  

“AGH!!!” Another scream rips out of the guy.  

Adam: “…”  

Chapter 397: Men Should Be a Little Selfish 

Medical Center – Emergency Room 

Adam glanced at his little cousin, pretty sure the kid didn’t mean any harm, and said, “Mary, take him over there to sit for a bit.”  

“Yes, Doctor.”  

Nurse Mary quickly grabbed the kid’s hand and led him away.  

If she didn’t, his older cousin might’ve actually blown a gasket thanks to the little guy’s blunt honesty.  

By the time the X-rays and CT scans were done, the young man’s parents had rushed in.  

“Doctor, how’s Pride doing?” they asked, voices tight with worry.  

“Spontaneous pneumothorax,” Adam explained, sliding the X-ray and CT films onto the lightbox. He pointed at them. “Here’s the lung. Next to it’s a ruptured bulla—basically a weak spot that burst. That’s what’s causing his chest pain, tightness, and trouble breathing.”  

“What do we do now?” the father pressed.  

“The trapped air’s over 20% of his chest cavity volume—it’s a closed pneumothorax, so it won’t clear up on its own. We need to do a thoracentesis, drain the air, relieve the pressure on his lung and mediastinum, and help the lung re-expand to normal,” Adam said.  

“Then do it, quick!” the mother urged.  

“Alright.”  

Adam nodded and started prepping for the procedure.  

“Doctor, why’d this happen?” the father asked, unable to hold back.  

“A bulla’s like a bubble on an old car tire—push it too hard, and it pops,” Adam said casually while working on the thoracentesis. “The lungs are key for breathing. When you’re angry, excited, or stressed, your mind gets wound up.  

Your brain tries to calm things down, but it pumps out adrenaline instead, ramping up the tension even more. It’s a vicious cycle. Once it hits a breaking point, boom—the bulla ruptures.”  

After the procedure, Pride’s symptoms eased up fast.  

Adam told his parents to step out and let him rest.  

Otherwise, if they got into the whole story, the kid might spiral again and set himself off.  

Hallway  

“I told Pride to take his little cousin out to have fun. What the heck were they doing to get this worked up?” the mother griped.  

“It wasn’t excitement,” Adam corrected. “It was anger.”  

“Anger?”  

The parents blinked, totally thrown. “How’s that possible?”  

Adam laid it out for them.  

They exchanged a look, dumbfounded.  

That’s it?  

They’d just heard from Adam that a ruptured bulla could get serious—heart issues, brain bleeds, sudden death risks.  

And all this over losing a game to his little cousin?  

They couldn’t wrap their heads around it.  

“It’s rare, but it makes sense,” Adam said. “Pride took his cousin out to play, probably wanting to show off. But the kid’s a gaming prodigy. After Pride lost a few rounds, he couldn’t handle the embarrassment.  

He kept dragging the kid back for more, desperate to win at least once. Too bad the little guy’s a genius at it—Pride couldn’t beat him. Fifty-eight straight losses later, he hit his limit and blew up.”  

Getting owned by a grade-schooler after trying to flex isn’t that uncommon.  

Kids these days have a knack for games.  

Grown-ups getting smoked by a squad of tweens happens all the time.  

Like in the original timeline—Barney and Robin teaming up for laser tag, only to lose and curse out loud: “Damn it, we lost again! Those little punks!”  

Or in The Big Bang Theory, Sheldon’s gaming crew—online or IRL—getting absolutely wrecked by a pack of kids, leaving even smug Sheldon wondering if he’s just too old for this.  

Kids are that scary!  

“Doctor, could this happen again?” the parents asked, worried.  

“He’ll need to watch it—no big emotional swings,” Adam advised.  

Nurse’s Station  

“People these days, huh? Anything’s possible,” Susan said with a sigh.  

“Just wait—there’ll be more like this,” Adam replied with a grin.  

“Clinic Room 3,” Susan said, handing him a chart. “Check it out. Bet it’ll blow your mind.”  

“Heh.” Adam took the chart with a chuckle.  

After dealing with a gold-digger scam and a guy who rage-popped his lung over a game in the last two days, what could possibly surprise him now?  

He was basically unflappable at this point.  

“Don’t believe me? Wanna bet?” Susan teased. “Ten bucks?”  

“Sure,” Adam said, happy to play along.  

Every week, this homeless guy named Arthur would pass out drunk on the street and get hauled into the ER. The staff would place bets on his blood alcohol level while he slept it off.  

One veteran nurse got so good at it, she could sniff him from a foot away and nail the exact number—spot on every time.  

Over the years, betting on weird cases became an ER tradition.  

Clinic Room 3  

Adam stepped in and immediately wrinkled his nose.  

A nasty, fishy stench hit him hard.  

A middle-aged guy sat there, eyes darting, looking awkward.  

Adam gave him a once-over, his gaze landing on the man’s mouth.  

“Open your mouth.”  

“Doc…” The guy hesitated but complied.  

Adam’s lip twitched.  

He looked away, swallowing a sarcastic comment, and asked professionally, “Been, uh, balancing the yin and yang lately?”  

The man nodded.  

“You’re big on… giving, huh?” Adam said tactfully.  

“…Yeah.”  

The guy caught the drift, his face flushing. “Doc, is it bad?”  

He’d already Googled it before coming in—based on the symptoms, he had a hunch what was up. So he got it right away.  

“It’s a bacterial infection,” Adam said, shaking his head. “Metronidazole, twice a day for seven days. Keep your tongue clean, no spicy or irritating foods.  

Your partner needs to take the same meds and stay clean too.”  

“We split up!” the man snapped, a little heated. “I’m done giving! Men should just be selfish from now on!”  

Adam didn’t react.  

Stuff like this? Even regular folks talking about it could spark a fight or get shut down fast.  

A doctor? Forget it.  

You stay professional—cold, detached diagnostician and healer. No personal feelings allowed.  

After the diagnosis, he bolted.  

Metronidazole’s over-the-counter; the guy could grab it at any pharmacy.  

Back at the nurse’s station, Susan already had her hand out.  

Adam pulled out some cash, counted ten bucks, and handed it over.  

A bet’s a bet!  

PS: Thanks to BatmanJoker, BuddhaShow℡, and GaiIsPrettyCool for the tips!  

Chapter 398: Good Guys Don’t Live Long 

Medical Center. Outside the OR. Hallway.  

As Adam strolls over from the ER, he catches a classic scene unfolding.  

Meredith and Christina are huddled together, whispering and stealing glances at something nearby.  

A little further off, Dr. Shephard and Dr. Burke are locked in their own standoff.  

“We’ve got an organ donor coming in from Weeks Hospital this afternoon. We’ll harvest the organs, and we need OR 1 at four,” Burke says.  

“I’ve got OR 1 booked then,” Shephard counters.  

“Your surgery’s not critical.”  

“You can’t just cancel mine.”  

“As surgical chief, I can!”  

“Interim chief!”  

“Interim or not, I’m the chief! I call the shots now. You took the OR I needed, so your surgery’s been rescheduled!”  

Burke lays it down, and Shephard glares at him for a long beat before storming off.  

That’s power for you—me first, always.  

Not happy? Tough luck!  

Adam’s musing again about how the path to becoming a top doc isn’t just about skill—it’s about clout too—when Christina’s bombshell to Meredith hits his ears.  

“What the hell?”  

Adam’s jaw drops.  

What are they even talking about? Did those two attendings screw them over so bad they’re swearing off men entirely? They’re already sizing things up before even hitting the OR?  

And seriously, in their eyes, are guys really that petty?  

“Christina, you—”  

“What’re you thinking?” Christina cuts him off, rolling her eyes at Adam’s shocked face. “We’re talking about Burke and Shephard.”  

“Oh.” Adam blinks.  

Okay, that metaphor… uhh… kinda works, actually.  

“Men are all trash!” Meredith grumbles.  

“Damn right!” Christina agrees, locking eyes with Burke from across the way. She’s still bitter—he knocked her up in one shot, nearly killed her, then dumped her for a promotion.  

She used to be so cool-headed, but now her hormones are a mess, and she’s all over the place. “We don’t even need men. What’s a motorized prosthetic cost? Way better than those cold-blooded jerks!”  

“I’m with you!” Adam flashes a thumbs-up. “Stick to it, and I’ll cover all your prosthetics for life—buy as many as you want, I’ll foot the bill.”  

“Pfft!” Meredith spits.  

“Dream on,” Christina snaps, her冷静 kicking back in through the hormonal haze. She sees right through him. “You’re hoping we ditch them for good so it’s easier to snag surgeries from us, huh?”  

Meredith catches on too and throws him a massive eye-roll.  

Adam just grins, saying nothing.  

Beep! Beep! Beep!  

Their pagers go off one after another. They exchange a look—something big’s up.  

Christina glances at hers and bolts for the ER. Meredith’s right behind her.  

“Take it easy, you two—you just got back on your feet,” Adam calls after them, lingering where he stands.  

ER.  

“Male, 55, car crash victim. Coma scale 3, skull fracture, multiple internal injuries. We’ve started cardiac protocol—blood’s not circulating. We’re pushing meds through his nasal tube, but his heart’s basically stopped.”  

The ambulance screeches to a halt at the ER doors.  

Adam beats Christina and Meredith there, who stumble in panting behind him. Dr. Bailey’s already on scene with George and Izzie, ready to roll.  

This crash called for an ambulance, and en route, the paramedics radioed ahead with the basics—straight to the OR, no pit stops. So, no need for ER docs like Susan; surgery’s taking over.  

Car accidents rarely involve just one or two people. This time, it’s a family of three that slammed into another car—four victims total.  

Dr. Bailey’s rallied her top four interns, and Susan tagged Adam in, knowing he’s a surgery hound.  

“How long’s he been out?” Bailey asks.  

“We did CPR for 20 minutes. Firefighters took 20 to cut him out. He’s pretty much gone,” the paramedic reports.  

“No—only a doctor says he’s gone, and then he’s gone!” Bailey snaps with authority.  

She scans the group, landing on Adam. “Duncan, you’re on this—save him!”  

“Yes, ma’am!” Adam jumps in without hesitation.  

Truth is, this isn’t a prime case. If the paramedic’s right, this guy’s a lost cause. Bailey’s not doubting their call—she’s just upholding that doctor’s creed: fight to the last second.  

Paramedics might not have med school degrees, but running calls day in, day out? Their gut’s often sharper than a doc’s.  

Bailey had planned to toss this to someone like chubby George O’Malley for routine practice. But when she spotted Adam, she switched gears. Dead horse, live horse—give it a shot.  

If a miracle’s gonna happen, Bailey’s betting on Adam, not her usual crew. Yesterday, she called him the best intern in front of everyone—no fluff, straight from the gut.  

“I’ve got it!” Adam says, taking over CPR from the paramedic.  

“Alright,” the paramedic steps aside, helping push the gurney inside, exhaling hard.  

Nonstop compressions? It’s skill and stamina. This gig’s no joke.  

As he catches his breath, he can’t help but vent about the crash.  

“Poor guy. Driving along, minding his own business, passes a car like normal. Then the nutjob behind him starts chasing him down—swerving like a maniac, hell-bent on catching up.  

Get this: the psycho wasn’t even drunk—just pissed off. He was yelling at his wife on the phone, saw someone pass him, lost it, and floored it.  

Ended up ramming the guy—both crashed. The jerk’s just knocked out, but this dude? He’s toast.”  

“He’s not dead yet,” Adam says, still pressing on the guy’s chest. “Longest record for this kind of state is four hours—and they brought him back.”  

At first, Adam was just going through the motions, treating it like a long shot. But hearing this was another innocent victim? That hit him different.  

This is the fourth innocent near-death case he’s seen in two months. The first two, he didn’t get a chance to help. The third—a gunshot wound like a cannon blast—too far gone, dead despite his efforts.  

Now, this fourth one’s already got a death sentence from the paramedics. Adam’s not having it. He’s all in—won’t quit until the very end.  

They say, “Good guys don’t live long; bastards stick around forever.”  

That’s bullshit!  

“Push 3 mg of epinephrine!” 

“Intubate through the trachea!” 

“One dose of atropine!”  

The nurses snap to it.  

“Doc, want to set up the CPR machine?” one asks.  

She’d overheard Adam’s four-hour survival stat and figures he’s in for a marathon—worried he’ll burn out doing it by hand.  

“No need,” Adam says, eyes flicking between the monitor and his rhythm.  

In a moment like this, he trusts his own hands over any machine.  

A few hours? He can handle it.