Chapter 11: John Wick is Injured
Hearing David's request, Chase smiled:
"The ER? You want to work nights in Emergency? It's possible.
But can you physically handle it?
Your current internship requires you to be in Diagnostic Medicine for at least eight months.
Which means even if you worked all night in the ER the previous evening, you still have to show up on time for morning rounds in Diagnostics the next day.
Otherwise it counts as an unexcused absence. So if you want to maintain good standing, you're looking at 24-hour shifts.
Still want to moonlight in the ER?"
David shook his head and decided to call it a day.
Was he kidding? Twenty-four-hour continuous shifts?
David wasn't a machine!
Strictly speaking, he was a terminal patient!
Sleep deprivation would only tank his immune system and accelerate his condition.
According to the five-year survival statistics, he still needed over 1,500 days to outlive his glioblastoma prognosis.
Since there was a possibility of earning those 1,500+ days, David couldn't afford to meet his maker early just from exhaustion.
However, he had another serious problem.
The symptoms from his brain tumor were relentless.
Although he'd briefly return to a healthy state whenever he gained a life extension, as time passed, the effects would inevitably return.
To prevent the tumor from interfering with his work performance, he needed to find a way to earn money for targeted therapy drugs before his first intern paycheck arrived.
Unfortunately, his predecessor—certain he was dying—had blown nearly all his savings on his final "bucket list."
Currently, David was flat broke, and the studio apartment he was renting was facing daily visits from an increasingly aggressive landlord demanding overdue rent.
He couldn't go back to that place.
For a moment, David stood at the hospital entrance feeling utterly lost.
The world was vast, but he seemed to have nowhere to go.
While David was contemplating his options, a guy clutching his abdomen suddenly approached him.
He barely opened his mouth before asking:
"You a doctor?"
David looked at the man who bore a striking resemblance to Keanu Reeves and froze for a moment, then instinctively replied:
"I am..."
"Come with me."
The Keanu Reeves lookalike suddenly moved close to David, and something hard pressed against his lower back.
Simultaneously, a wet, sticky sensation transmitted through his clothes.
David, who dealt with bodily fluids daily, immediately recognized what it was.
Continuously seeping blood!
This made David feel utterly surreal.
Wasn't this supposed to be the House M.D. universe? Why was John Wick here?
David immediately realized this world was probably far more complex than just a medical drama.
Could there actually be a Continental Hotel in this reality?!
However, surprised as he was, seeing that John was actively dying, he was still willing to help.
Besides, what John was pressing against his back wasn't a gun at all—just an umbrella handle.
John had always been known for repaying debts—both grudges and favors.
David wasn't worried at all about dying at John's hands.
Soon, John—effectively holding David "hostage"—arrived at a shuttered underground clinic.
John expertly retrieved a hidden key, unlocked the door, and pushed into the operating room inside.
He threw himself onto a worn operating table and, with his hand still in his pocket, made a gun gesture, signaling David to begin.
"I need you to remove the bullet and stitch the wound. If you try anything else, I'll— Ah!"
Before John could finish his threat, David's finger had already pressed directly into the bullet wound in his abdomen.
The searing pain from the wound instantly caused John's body—which had been tensing to spring up—to collapse heavily back onto the operating table.
Looking at the now-incapacitated John on the bed, David smiled:
"Hey, I'm the one holding your life in my hands right now, John.
I think we should discuss compensation first, then treatment."
John's pupils contracted sharply.
How did this person know his name?
How did this person know he didn't actually have a gun?
Could it be that the doctor he'd randomly grabbed from the hospital entrance was also connected to the underworld?
That would be one hell of a coincidence.
But it sounded like this guy still operated by the organization's rules—using gold coins as currency?
Testing the waters, John cautiously said:
"One gold coin?"
David shook his head:
"Your life's worth more than one coin. I want twelve."
John managed a pained grin:
"Heh, ambitious. Fine. Deal."
David nodded:
"This is going to hurt like hell. Try to bear it."
Then David grabbed the nearby alcohol burner and sterilized the surgical instruments on the tray with high heat. He roughly tore away John's blood-soaked shirt stuck to his skin.
Then, while John hissed sharply through his teeth, David did a cursory alcohol swab before using a scalpel to make a cross-shaped incision over the entry wound in his abdomen.
He precisely clamped the bullet with surgical forceps and extracted it, then debrided the surrounding necrotic tissue.
Finally, he sutured the continuously bleeding wound and covered it with sterile gauze.
By the time David looked up, John had passed out from the intense series of procedures.
However, the notification in David's mind clearly confirmed that John had survived.
[Successfully saved a life. Lifespan extended by one day. Current lifespan: 4 days, 2 hours.]
David peeled off his disposable gloves and found a crumpled pack of Marlboros in John's jacket.
He expertly used the alcohol burner to light a cigarette, took a deep drag, then pressed the butt against the concrete floor to extinguish it.
Feeling the smoke fill his lungs, the pounding headache he'd had while operating on John eased considerably.
John's appearance had given David unexpected options.
He could potentially moonlight as a professional underground doctor at the Continental Hotel at night.
The risks were high, but it could drastically reduce the time needed to reach those 1,500+ days.
However, the immediate priority was figuring out where John was in his timeline.
If John was currently being hunted by the High Table, then David wouldn't have any peace either.
The assassins coming one after another—whether hunting John or eliminating witnesses—would choose to kill him first.
If that were the case, he'd be tied to John's sinking ship.
Just as David was considering the cascade of consequences from meeting John, the man on the operating table suddenly opened his eyes. Upon registering David's presence, his body instinctively launched upward, throwing a punch toward David's face.
But before he could make contact, he felt his ankle caught and went down in a face-plant right in front of David.
John immediately realized what had happened.
This bastard David had actually restrained his feet with surgical straps while he was unconscious!
Son of a bitch!
Looking at John sprawled on the floor, David had no intention of approaching. Instead, he took several steps back to maintain distance:
"Hey, John, you're not trying to welch on our deal, are you?
I busted my ass for an hour saving your life, and this is the thanks I get?"
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