Claudia's pov.
That was how she felt every single time she stepped into an operating room.
Claudia had once thought she would grow accustomed to it—the antiseptic sting of disinfectant, the metallic undertone of blood, the suffocating awareness that death was always close enough to touch. But she never did. The nausea never left. She simply learned how to smile through it.
She glanced at the boy lying unconscious on the operating table and swallowed hard, forcing back the urge to vomit—or run.
This is worth it, she reminded herself.
This boy was her ticket to prestige. To status. To headlines and interviews and a career that would finally eclipse everyone else's—especially Kayla Ramirez.
Claudia straightened, arrogance settling over her like armor. Beneath her surgical mask, she smiled and turned sharply, ready to snap instructions at Kayla—
—and froze.
The space behind her was empty.
Her eyes widened. Her heart slammed violently against her ribs as realization crept in, cold and merciless.
"No. No. No. No," she whispered, clinging to hope as she strode to the door and yanked it open.
The hallway was empty.
Kayla was gone.
"That bitch," Claudia breathed.
"Doctor!" an assisting nurse said urgently. "The patient's oxygen saturation is dropping. We need to begin immediately."
Claudia felt something inside her snap loose. Cold flooded her veins as if her soul had stepped out of her body, leaving her hollow and exposed. She stood frozen at the doorway, unable to move.
A hand landed on her shoulder.
"Where is she?" Dr. Brice hissed, his voice low and frantic. "Did she run?"
Claudia didn't answer. She couldn't.
Brice's jaw tightened. "Begin the operation. I'll find her." He turned to leave—
Her hand shot out and clutched his gown.
"Please don't go," Claudia said, her voice breaking. "I—I didn't read the file."
The room went silent.
Several assisting staff exchanged horrified glances.
Brice ripped his arm free. "Just begin," he snapped. "I'll be back." And then he fled, like the operating room itself was burning.
"No—Brice! Please!" Claudia cried, tears spilling freely now, humiliation and terror crashing together.
"Doctor, the operation must begin!" someone shouted.
"Shut up!" Claudia screamed.
She turned slowly, finally taking in the room she was supposed to command.
The operating theater was alive with chaos: overhead surgical lights blazing down like interrogators; monitors screaming with irregular neurological data; ventilators hissing mechanically; IV pumps blinking red warnings. Stainless steel instruments lay arranged with brutal precision—microscopes calibrated for millimeter accuracy, neural mapping screens waiting for input she hadn't bothered to learn. Nurses hovered tensely, eyes wide above their masks, hands trembling as they waited for direction that wasn't coming.
In another room doctors loomed—silent, immobile, already suspicious.
This wasn't a routine procedure.
The tumor lay deep—buried near regions controlling movement and speech. One wrong angle, one careless touch, and the damage would be irreversible.
She was alone.
But she refused to believe Kayla was better than her.
It's just brain surgery, she told herself desperately. Find it. Fix it. That's all.
She wiped her tears aggressively, squared her shoulders, and stepped toward the head of the table.
"Stop panicking," she said, forcing authority into her voice. "We're beginning."
The first incision was clumsy but survivable. The bone saw whined as she cut through the skull, sweat sliding down her spine beneath her scrubs. When the brain was exposed, Claudia leaned in, eyes darting across delicate tissue she did not recognize, ignoring mapping indicators she didn't understand.
"Retractor," she snapped.
Her hands moved too fast.
Too rough.
The instrument slipped—not toward the tumor, but into a delicate motor pathway that should never have been touched.
Blood bloomed instantly across the field.
Dark. Sudden. Unforgiving.
The monitors screamed.
"That's not the site—!" a nurse cried.
The boy's vitals plummeted in real time.
Claudia froze, horror locking her limbs as blood flooded the surgical field. Any trained neurosurgeon watching knew instantly—this wasn't a complication. It was incompetence.
The observation gallery erupted.
"That's the internal pathway—"
"She missed the mapping entirely—"
"Stop the procedure!"
Three minutes later, the operating room doors burst open. Two doctors stormed in.
"Anesthesiologist and nurses—step back!" the second doctor barked. "Everyone else out!"
The first doctor reached the table in seconds, wrenching the instrument from Claudia's limp hand and shoving her aside without even looking at her. She stumbled backward, crashing against a steel counter as the room snapped into controlled urgency.
"Clamp. Suction. Now."
What followed was nothing like Claudia's attempt.
This was not a surgery done with confidence or speed—it was one performed in measured terror, every movement calculated because a single mistake could steal speech, movement, or life itself.
The surgeon stabilized the damaged motor pathway first, sealing vessels, relieving pressure, forcing the bleeding to obey. Only then did he turn his attention to the actual tumor—slowly mapping responses, adjusting angles by fractions, respecting the danger Claudia had ignored.
Time stretched.
Finally, the monitors steadied.
"It's done," someone whispered.
Claudia slid down the wall, her body shaking uncontrollably.
She was finished.
Exposed. Ruined.
And as humiliation burned through her veins, only one thought survived the wreckage—
This was all Kayla Ramirez's fault.
Her thoughts were chaos.
Every second of the operation replayed itself in her mind—over and over—each mistake louder than the last. She could try to defend herself, but she doubted anyone would believe her now.
It was Brice's fault.
He had said the doctors watching wouldn't be able to see the entire room. He had promised that. But they had seen it. They must have—how else would they have known she needed help?
A black shoe crossed her peripheral vision.
Then it was gone.
A second later, four more followed as the gurney was wheeled out of the operating room, the patient already gone—alive, but no longer hers.
The surgery was over.
No one looked at her. No one spoke to her.
Slowly, Claudia lifted her head.
The nurses were already cleaning.
Bloodstained gauze vanished into biohazard bins. Instruments were wiped, arranged, restored to sterile perfection. The mess she had made was erased with practiced efficiency, as if it had never existed.
She wanted to scream.
To stand up and sweep the instruments off the trays. To force them to look at her. To acknowledge what had happened.
But she couldn't.
Her gaze flicked to the cameras mounted in the corners of the room.
They could still be watching.
She forced her breathing to slow.
Losing control now would only make things worse. Instability would condemn her faster than a mistake ever could.
She straightened.
Everyone makes mistakes, she told herself.
Every doctor does.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes. Everyone makes mistakes."
The words gave her just enough strength to stand. Her legs shook, but she locked her knees and held herself upright.
She hadn't fallen yet. She wouldn't fall.
"Good job," she said to the nurses, forcing authority into her voice.
They didn't respond.
She walked out anyway, spine straight, chin lifted.
Every step down the corridor felt exposed. She prayed she wouldn't run into anyone—especially in the locker room.
She didn't.
The door shut behind her, and she exhaled shakily.
The room was empty.
She crossed to her locker, opened it, grabbed her clothes and bag, then closed it again with a sharp clang. She stripped out of the surgical gown quickly, gagging at the lingering smell of blood, then scrubbed her hands raw with sanitizer.
At the table where she'd left her bag, she fumbled inside and pulled out her phone.
She turned it on. The vibration came immediately.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Then it surged—alerts piling on so fast her phone lagged under the weight of them.
Her heart climbed into her throat as she opened a message.
It was from a journalist who had once praised her. Interviewed her. Admired her.
> Can you comment on reports of a botched surgery?
Her breath caught.
Her knees buckled.
She collapsed to the floor as if her bones had given up entirely.
With shaking hands, she opened the news.
Her face filled the screen.
> Photos upon photos of her magnanimity outside—
captured in perect angles.
Beneath one image, her words were quoted in bold:
> "I promise to save your son."
Below it, a headline cut deep and merciless:
> Did she mean save — or kill?
She refreshed.
Another article appeared.
> Questions Raised After Pediatric Neurosurgery Incident
Emergency Intervention Required During Live-Observed Procedure
She screamed.
Rage ripped from her chest, raw and uncontrolled.
"This is all your fault, Kayla!" she shouted into the empty room. "I hate you! I hate you!"
Her fingers flew over the screen as she typed blindly.
> Every surgeon faces complications. Today was no different. I stand by my training and integrity.
She posted it.
The knock came immediately.
Sharp. Final.
Claudia lifted her head as a stern-faced doctor stood in the doorway.
"Dr. Claudia Montez," he said evenly. "Come with me."