Chapter 2 — Rayne Clinic
Morning light filtered through the gaps in the blinds, scattering in pale stripes across a ledger stained yellow with old coffee.
The air carried the mixed scent of disinfectant and caffeine—stale, worn-out, like the clinic itself.
When Ethan pushed the door open, the bell rang with a crisp—
Ding—
Behind the counter, Mary Mason was bent over the desk, flipping through something.
She wore a grayish-white coat with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hair was tied up neatly, and her fingers were long and elegant. She didn't look like a doctor so much as an artist preparing to dissect the world.
Ethan greeted her with a grin. "Morning. No classes today?"
"Only free this morning." Mary didn't even look up. "Bad news: we owe the pharmacy three thousand dollars. And the electricity bill just came in."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "And the good news?"
"The clinic hasn't been shut down yet."
Ethan pulled two cups of coffee from the bag he was carrying and set them on the desk.
"A reward for coming to work even though you're only free half a day."
Mary accepted the cup and took a sip. "This is meaningless bribery. I'm still charging you eighty dollars."
Originally, they'd agreed on twenty dollars an hour. Ethan thought calculating hours was a headache, so he'd changed it to a simple system—morning shift, afternoon shift, evening shift, eighty dollars each.
It sounded like more than twenty an hour.
In reality, it was basically the lowest wage a med student could get for internship work.
"Eighty dollars for a beautiful morning," Ethan said cheerfully. "That's a bargain."
On the counter sat several case files, a few receipts, and a brand-new stethoscope.
Mary opened the ledger and slid her finger down the numbers.
"You've got five days until bankruptcy," she said flatly.
"That's two days more than I expected." Ethan laughed. "Don't you think that's a positive sign?"
"Positive? Last time you said something was 'positive,' the health department almost shut this place down."
"That just proves I'm a man of faith."
Mary rolled her eyes.
She never believed in God—
and she definitely didn't believe "faith" could pay rent.
The two of them sat down and drank coffee together.
"Before you got here, I treated two patients," Mary said, suddenly sounding a little more alive. "One cracked his head open in a fight. The other had his foot smashed."
Ethan looked impressed. "Wow. If you keep working this hard, I might be able to hire a nurse."
Mary stared at him. "You're barely able to pay me, and you're talking about hiring a nurse? Also—why is it my effort?"
"I'm working hard too." Ethan leaned against the doorframe, glancing up at the flickering ceiling lamp. "But if that light keeps blinking like that, I think you and I are going to need an eye doctor soon."
Right then—
Ding—
The bell rang again, cutting their coffee break short.
A young delivery guy walked in, clutching his arm with a grimace.
"Sorry… I got hurt. I heard this place is cheaper."
"Lie down." Mary stood up instantly, efficient as always.
Ethan pulled on gloves and walked over. "How'd it happen?"
"Opening boxes. I slipped and cut myself."
Mary examined the wound calmly. "Classic laceration injury. Shallow cut—no stitches needed. We'll just clean and dress it."
She cleaned, disinfected, applied ointment, and wrapped it up—all in one smooth sequence.
Ethan assisted quietly, handing her tools and cutting bandages, playing the role of a reliable nurse.
Five minutes later, the patient sat up. He lightly touched the tightly wrapped arm, his expression full of relief.
"How much do I owe you?" He pulled out his wallet, revealing wrinkled bills.
"Twenty bucks," Mary said, quoting a balanced price.
"What? Doctors are such good people."
Mary didn't even blink. "Is that so? Then feel free to come again next time."
The delivery guy thanked them and walked out in a noticeably lighter mood.
Mary slid the cash into the register. "See? This is our most common kind of case—the price of cheap labor."
Ethan chuckled. "Our reputation's growing. And didn't you notice? People actually trust us."
Mary snorted. "Or they're just poor."
"There's only one disease in this world," Ethan said, unconsciously recalling a line from his past life. "The disease of poverty."
Mary shot him a look. "If poverty is a disease, then we're terminal. And it's contagious too. Your sympathy is going to get us shut down!"
"Relax. I'll pay you severance before we close."
Mary glared at him… but couldn't stop herself from laughing.
They were just about to tidy the counter when the door suddenly slammed open.
A middle-aged man stumbled in, both hands clamped over his abdomen. Blood seeped through his fingers.
His voice was hoarse and ragged. "Doctor—help… help me…"
Before he could finish, he collapsed face-first onto the floor.
"Emergency!" Mary's voice and body moved at the same time. She dropped to check his breathing. "Weak pulse, low blood pressure—likely traumatic blood loss. Ethan! Lock the door. Get the sterile kit!"
"Got it!" Ethan threw on gloves, yanked down the blinds, and flipped the sign from Open to Closed.
The atmosphere snapped tight like a pulled wire.
The man's shirt was soaked dark red. Across his abdomen ran a clean fifteen-centimeter gash—straight edges, too neat.
Mary's breathing stalled when she saw it. "Knife wound… not an accident. He was slashed."
"Estimated blood loss—six to seven hundred milliliters," Ethan added calmly. "Mild shock response."
The stench of blood was so thick it tightened the throat.
Together they hauled him onto the exam table. The patient was barely conscious, breathing shallowly, his skin already drained pale from blood loss.
Mary checked his pupils fast. "Unconscious. BP eighty. Pulse weak—need to stop bleeding and stitch now."
"Understood." Ethan swung the surgical lamp down and handed her the forceps and sutures.
The harsh light fell across the patient's body—his pallor looked almost translucent.
Mary tore open gauze, movements crisp and practiced. "Iodine—"
"Here."
Mary bit her lip. Her fingers trembled slightly—but her hands stayed precise: cleaning the wound, applying pressure, clamping vessels, stitching the cut.
In the small clinic room, the sound of needle piercing flesh was unnervingly loud.
Ethan stood by, passing fresh tweezers, cotton swabs, alcohol pads—silent, efficient.
"Pulse is dropping." He glanced at the chart, brow tightening.
"He's not holding." Mary's jaw clenched. "I need to go faster."
Her stitching sped up. Blood still oozed, smearing the white latex gloves crimson.
"Breathing is weakening," Ethan reported. "BP is falling below eighty."
"Damn it—" Panic flickered into Mary's voice for the first time. "He's going into shock!"
The surgical light flickered once.
In that moment, Ethan's hand pressed down—quietly, subtly—against the man's chest.
He murmured something under his breath, like a prayer no one else could hear.
The air seemed to ripple with something unnatural.
A thin strand of warm light leaked from his palm—faint and brief, like the softest sliver of dawn.
Mary was too busy stitching to notice. Ethan simply lowered his gaze, expression calm.
The glow vanished instantly… yet the warmth in his fingertips remained.
A few seconds later, the heart rate crawled upward.
Forty beats per minute.
Fifty.
Sixty.
Mary froze for half a heartbeat, disbelief flashing across her face. "His blood pressure… it's rising?"
Ethan nodded smoothly. "Glucose kicked in."
Mary stared. "That fast?"
Ethan smiled. "Sugar is the strongest magic in the world."
Mary didn't have time to argue.
She finished the final stitches, tied the knot, wrapped the bandage—clean, fast, flawless.
"Bleeding's under control," she said, exhaling hard. "He's out of immediate danger."
Ethan steadied her by the shoulder and guided her into a chair. "Good work, Doctor Mary."
She tore off her gloves and let out a long breath. "Technically, he should be observed for at least six hours."
"The problem is," Ethan said lightly, "we don't have hospital beds."
He glanced at the unconscious man. "But luckily, I don't think he'll mind."
The air still reeked of blood and iodine, but the clinic fell silent again.
The patient's breathing grew steady. Color returned faintly to his face.
Mary checked him again, still slightly breathless herself. She murmured, "This is strange… he was barely breathing a minute ago."
Ethan said quietly, "Medicine always has miracles."
Mary checked his blood pressure once more.
Then—
The man's hand twitched.
A muffled groan escaped his throat.
Mary blinked. "He's waking up?"
The man struggled to open his eyes. A hoarse whisper scraped out.
"I… didn't die?"
"You almost did," Mary said coldly. "Five more minutes and you'd be trending on local news."
The man blinked, slowly regaining focus. He tried to sit up—
Mary shoved him back down instantly. "Don't move. You just got twelve stitches."
"…It doesn't feel that serious."
Ethan leaned in, voice calm but firm. "I should remind you—this wasn't a normal cut. Listen to the doctor."
The man shut his eyes and took a deep breath. "But I really… feel fine. No dizziness. I can move my arms and legs."
Mary frowned. "That's not scientific."
"Maybe he has a high metabolism," Ethan said with perfect seriousness. "Some people naturally recover faster."
Mary shot him a look. She clearly didn't believe it. She had watched the man unconscious, pulse fading—yet now he looked like nothing had happened.
After a few breaths, the man slowly pushed himself upright. His movements were careful but steady.
He looked down at the bandaged abdomen.
The gauze was fresh—and dry. No blood stains remained.
"You two… are incredible," he rasped with a laugh. "I need to go."
"Go? Don't be ridiculous!" Mary's voice rose. "A wound like this needs at least two days of observation!"
"I can't." The man shook his head. "They'll come looking. If I stay… I'll drag you into it."
As he spoke, he pulled out a wad of crumpled cash and shoved it onto the table.
"Here. Payment. And… thank you."
Mary was about to protest again—
But Ethan gently pressed a hand to her wrist.
"It's fine," he said softly. "Let him go."
Mary hesitated, watching the man's face… then his steady, almost unnaturally stable steps.
He really didn't look like someone who'd lost nearly a liter of blood.
At the doorway, the man turned and looked back at them.
"If I get the chance… I'll come here again."
"You're always welcome," Ethan replied.
The man grinned, then stepped out into the sunlight and disappeared.
The moment the door closed, the room fell silent again.
Mary stared at the empty entrance, frowning deeper and deeper. "This is insane. Twelve stitches and he just… walks out?"
Ethan leaned lazily against the doorframe and took a sip of his now-cold coffee.
"I told you," he said casually. "Sugar is the strongest magic in the world."
"Ethan. I'm serious."
"So am I." Ethan smiled. "But maybe… he's just a very lucky guy."
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Target status update: "Recovery" effect has ended.
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