Leonard Brooks drove straight to St. Mary's Regional Medical Center, the largest hospital in the city. On the way, he called the hospital director, an old colleague, and asked for an immediate full neurological workup.
Being the president of Westlake University still carried weight, and by the time he arrived, a team was waiting. He was ushered directly into the diagnostic wing, no waiting room, no forms.
The scans came back quicker than he'd expected.
"President Brooks," said Dr. Thomas Lang, a respected neurosurgeon recently brought in from Boston. His brow furrowed deeply as he studied the MRI results. "I'm afraid the news isn't good. You have a tumor in your brain—and it's not small."
Brooks stared at the scans, his mind blank. "This… this can't be right. Are you sure?"
Dr. Lang nodded grimly.
Leonard's voice dropped to a whisper. "Is it life-threatening? If I get surgery, what are my chances?"
Dr. Lang exhaled slowly. "The tumor is already pressing against key neural pathways. You'll need surgery as soon as possible. Without it, I'd give you a year at most before symptoms become unmanageable."
He leaned back, weighing his words. "Here in the States, with my team, I'd estimate a 30% success rate for complete removal without severe complications. At one of the top-tier neurosurgical centers—Mayo Clinic, Johns Hopkins—you might get up to 50%. If you went to one of the elite international teams, maybe 60%. But if you'd waited even another month before diagnosis, I'd say less than a 10% chance anywhere in the world."
Brooks's face went pale. "So even with the best doctors on the planet, there's a high chance I won't survive the surgery?"
"That's the truth," Lang said, his tone careful. "And even if the surgery succeeds, there's no guarantee you won't have lasting neurological effects. You understand how delicate brain surgery is."
Brooks hesitated, then asked quietly, "What about alternative therapies? Experimental treatments?"
Lang gave a thin, skeptical smile. "Look, I'm a surgeon. I believe in data. Alternative treatments can sometimes help with pain or slow progression, but they don't remove tumors like this. Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling you hope, not medicine."
But Leonard couldn't get Ryan Carter out of his mind—the way the young man had spotted the issue in seconds, without a single machine.
"My tumor," Brooks said slowly, "was first spotted… with the naked eye. By someone outside the hospital."
Dr. Lang actually laughed at that. "Impossible. You can't see a brain tumor without imaging—period. Whoever told you that was guessing. A lucky guess is still just a guess."
"Maybe," Brooks muttered, but he didn't believe it himself anymore.
Ten minutes later, he was back in his car, driving straight toward The Copper Lantern. The whole round trip had taken just twenty minutes.
The private dining room was still buzzing when Brooks pushed open the door.
"Dr. Carter," he said, his voice unsteady, "I'm begging you… help me."
Every conversation in the room stopped. Catherine Pike's expression tightened. Like Leonard, she hadn't exactly believed in Ryan's supposed diagnostic gift earlier—but the change in Brooks's demeanor was undeniable.
Leonard's words tumbled out in a rush. "I went to St. Mary's. MRI confirmed it—a tumor in my brain. They want to operate. Here in the States, my odds are at best forty percent. Abroad, maybe sixty. I don't want to die yet. I'm sorry for the way I acted before—please, help me."
Tears threatened, his voice cracking. The man who had run Westlake University with steely authority was suddenly reduced to pleading.
Catherine stared at Ryan in shock. Could he really be better than George Holland himself?
Ryan didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned to George. "Could you treat a tumor like this?"
George shook his head. "If we're talking standard medicine, I can prescribe drugs to slow the growth or manage symptoms. But it won't be enough. Surgery's the only thing that can physically remove it, and even then…" He let the sentence trail off.
Brooks's hope flickered and dimmed. If even George Holland, one of the country's best physicians, couldn't offer a cure, then what chance—
"I can treat it," Ryan said at last.
The room froze.
"But," Ryan continued, "with the level of precision I can apply right now, it would take three separate sessions to fully remove the tumor. If I had access to more advanced equipment or support, I could do it in one."
Leonard blinked, not sure he'd heard correctly. "Complete removal? You can really do that?"
"Yes," Ryan said simply. "The tumor itself isn't huge, but it's in a location that makes standard surgery extremely risky. What I do doesn't involve opening your skull—it's targeted, non-invasive, and precise."
George looked at him in disbelief. "Ryan… are you certain?"
Ryan met his gaze. "Yes. But it will push my limits. That's why I'll divide it into three treatments. It's safer for both of us that way."
Leonard's face lit up with hope, though tension still gripped him. "Then—thank you. Thank you."
"We should start tonight," Ryan said. "The sooner, the better. After we finish here, we can go to your home or the hospital, whichever you prefer."
"Yes, yes, of course," Leonard said, nodding quickly. "Anything you need."
He knew that without Ryan, he might not have lived to see another year.
The door opened again, and a couple entered—a man in his forties with a commanding presence and a square jaw, and a woman in her late thirties, sharp in a tailored blazer and black-rimmed glasses.
Frank Turner stood at once. "Daniel, Claire—good to see you. This is Ryan Carter, the man I mentioned earlier."
Daniel Turner and Claire Turner exchanged a look. Daniel was the mayor of the city. Claire headed the regional Department of Education. Both were used to being the highest-ranking people in any room.
Now, they were being introduced to someone barely out of college… as if they owed him respect.
They glanced at Ryan, curiosity in their eyes, but also a certain resistance.