Chapter 1

My mother died unexpectedly during surgery.

During my darkest time, my boyfriend Wright stayed by my side.

Later, I discovered that my mother's surgery was performed by Wright's childhood friend Chris.

Chris was just an intern with no surgical qualifications. Yet Wright helped Chris hide this from me.

I broke up with him and studied hard, becoming the nation's finest neurosurgeon.

Twenty years later, I received a surgical case.

When I opened the patient file, I discovered the patient was Wright's father.

I said to my assistant:

"I'm not doing this surgery!"

"Dr. Lester, what do you mean?"

My assistant Carlos was still frozen in place while I had already started packing up.

"Change my flight for me."

"But... there's not a second person in the country who can perform brainstem tumor surgery. If you leave, the patient will..."

"I know, but I can't take this case."

I pulled open the door and walked out of the conference room.

Neville from Central Hospital's neurosurgery department hurried over, forcing a smile onto his face.

"Dr. Lester, I'm Neville from neurosurgery."

He extended his hand. I didn't shake it.

He awkwardly withdrew it, rubbing his hands together.

"We've been preparing for this surgery for three months. It wasn't easy getting you here from New York, and the patient's family..."

"Neville," I cut him off directly, "I'll submit my recusal in writing."

He froze for a moment, then leaned in closer, lowering his voice.

"Dr. Lester, you may not understand the situation. This patient's son is our associate director Wright, and his daughter-in-law is the former director Anderson's daughter. If you just walk away like this, I won't be able to explain it."

"That's your problem."

I walked around him and continued toward the exit.

Behind me, Neville took two steps forward, his tone becoming urgent.

"Dr. Lester, at least give me a reason so I can respond to the family. Is there a problem with the surgical plan? Are you dissatisfied with our surgical conditions? Equipment, team, post-operative care—name your requirements and we'll fully cooperate!"

"I'm not dissatisfied with anything. The surgery itself is possible, but someone else needs to do it."

"Is it a cost issue then? The family said cost isn't a problem. Name your price!"

"It's not about the money."

Before he could continue, I cut him off.

"Neville, my decision won't change."

Just before the elevator doors closed, Neville finally snapped out of it and pulled out his phone to make a call.

Carlos followed me downstairs, jogging all the way to the parking lot.

"Dr. Lester, what's going on?"

He blocked the car door, his forehead covered in sweat.

"This isn't like you. What surgery haven't you taken on? You've encountered far more dangerous situations before. Today, just one medical record and..."

"Carlos."

I looked at him. He stopped talking.

"You've been with me for four years. Have you ever seen my hands shake during surgery?"

"No."

"What if I told you that for this surgery, I'm certain my hands would shake from nerves?"

Carlos frowned, hesitating to speak.

"Neurosurgery can't tolerate half a millimeter of error."

Twenty years. I spent twenty years making my hands absolutely steady.

Even after twelve hours of continuous surgery, my margin of error never exceeds three millimeters.

My colleagues all think I'm a precision instrument, unnaturally calm in any situation.

But today, when I saw that name and that face, my heart still couldn't remain calm.

Twenty years ago, because of a half-centimeter error, my mother was left there forever.

My phone vibrated. It was an unknown number.

"Hello, Dr. Lester. I'm the patient's family member. I heard you refused the surgery. Could we meet in person?"

I didn't know who sent this message, but I knew Wright must be among the family members.

I didn't reply. Soon, a second text came in:

[For a doctor, the worst thing isn't surgical failure—it's refusing to save a life.]