Medical Center.
Adam saw that Chainsaw Guy wasn't out to hurt anyone. Once the guy put the chainsaw down, Adam grabbed it, handed it to the arriving security guard, and started checking the wound.
"Carter!"
"The tibial nerve's severed. There's no saving it—amputation's the only option," Carter said, stepping forward in a daze, staring at the gruesome injury.
"Thank you, thank you so much," the middle-aged Black man lying there said, raising an eyebrow at Carter with a relieved smile.
"…" Carter's mouth twitched. What kind of weirdo is this?
"He's my patient," Cristina finally snapped out of it, stepping up to the guy. "What's your deal?"
"I told you I wanted an amputation," the man said with a grin. "If you wouldn't help, I had to take matters into my own hands."
"But that was a perfectly good leg!" Cristina said, exasperated. "You're nuts!"
"That's your opinion," the man replied, sounding all philosophical. "It's like fate decided it for me. A body that won't obey, dragging me through life with powerless legs—that's the real madness!"
"On drugs?" Adam asked.
"Nope," Cristina shook her head. "I just gave him some morphine for the pain. His tox screen came back clean earlier."
"Call Dr. Torres," Adam said, glancing at the cleanly severed calf. "And get a psych consult down here too."
"I'm not crazy!" the man protested, shaking his head. "I work at a bank."
"Lots of crazies say that," Cristina quipped. "What, did your bank go bust? Get fired? Couldn't handle it, so you did this? Or did you lose big in the stock market? In this bull market, if you're still losing, you're definitely nuts."
Adam's mind stirred. He glanced around, catching the knowing smirks from the team, and shook his head internally.
It was almost 2000. His ever-polished mirror of insight gleamed brighter, especially with the stock market soaring lately—bullish vibes everywhere. In his past life, Adam wasn't a trader, but he remembered this feeling. When everyone's buzzing about stocks, dying to jump in and strike it rich, that's when the leeks (newbies) get roasted—crushed like spare ribs.
Bits and pieces of the 2000 dot-com bubble floated back to him. He wasn't a stock geek back then, so his memory was patchy—just scattered fragments. Plus, this was a drama-movie mashup world; the timeline was off. Still, when others got greedy, he got cautious. Couldn't go wrong with that.
So lately, he'd had his assistant, Ada, quietly cash out. Selling now meant leaving some gains on the table—it wasn't the peak yet. But he wasn't a pro at this. Unlike those time-traveling hotshots with custom cheats, buying low and selling high with pinpoint precision, his massive portfolio couldn't dodge that fast without a miracle. Better to take the win and bounce.
After the crash, once the foam settled, he didn't need to time the absolute bottom—he'd jump back in. Then dip out before 2008, rinse, and repeat. With his kind of capital, just riding the big waves would net him more joy than most people could dream of in a lifetime.
Meanwhile, these smirking doctor-leeks around him? They'd probably lose their minds when the market turned. One guy's thrill, a million meltdowns! That's the legal game in this drama world.
But human nature's a minefield. Adam wasn't about to chat stocks with them. If he bailed now and the market kept climbing for months, they'd whine that he cost them the peak. If he stayed in and they got trapped later, they'd blame him for not dragging them out when he "knew" it was coming. Even saying nothing, if word got out he'd cashed in big during the crash, they'd hate him—those profits came from their losses, after all.
No winning—up, down, left, or right.
His investment firm played the old capitalist game: offshore shells layered on shells. Pros could dig, but without serious resources and time, they'd be lost. Taxes in this drama world were a maze—most folks needed accountants just to file. It was designed to fleece the math-challenged masses while giving big shots like Adam room to dodge and weave.
Laozi said: The more laws, the more thieves. In this world, the crazier the tax code, the bigger the nation-level crooks. Good thing most leeks had some sense—only a few greedy fools bet the farm or mortgaged everything to play.
His colleagues here? Even if they got caught in the crash, it wouldn't break them. Still, post-bubble, Adam would need to keep an eye out—make sure their rattled nerves didn't lead to patient mishaps.
These thoughts zipped through his head in a flash.
Watching the grinning Black guy, Adam took Carter and left.
Outside the ER, another ambulance screeched in.
"What's the situation?"
"Erin Sholly, 26, severe head trauma. Brick smashed through the windshield. Level 3 coma," the paramedic rattled off.
"Erin?" Carter froze, rushing over. Sure enough, through the blurry face, he saw the black nose tip and three whiskers painted on each cheek. It was the Mickey Mouse girl from this morning, tail swaying and all!
"I can see her brain tissue—how'd a brick hit her?" Carter yelled.
"Halloween nightmare. Kids messing around on an overpass," the paramedic grumbled. "Oh, she's an organ donor, by the way."
"She's still savable!" Carter shouted, catching the paramedic's implication.
"Hey, I've said my piece—your job now," the paramedic threw up his hands and walked off.
"Quit freaking out. Book an OR, call Dr. Shepherd," Adam barked, jumping into action.
But the damage was too deep. She didn't have Mickey's cartoon immortality. In the end, they declared brain death.
Outside the OR, Adam started calling her family, then his own crew of friends, nagging them repeatedly to stay safe. Stay the hell away from reckless kids during Halloween! They couldn't help but laugh and groan—classic Adam.
It wasn't his first rodeo. Every time some freak accident case like this popped up, he'd go through the same routine.
Lu Xun said: The older you get in the game, the smaller your guts. Adam, seasoned by years in the hospital, had seen too many flukes. His courage shrank with every one, even knowing the odds of his loved ones hitting such bad luck were tiny. He couldn't stop himself from warning them over and over.
Take Erin. If someone had drilled that caution into her—watch out for kids on overpasses—she might've spotted the trouble from afar, stayed alert, or taken a detour. No accident.
So even when carefree Gabby, Old Three, mocked him for being a naggy scaredy-cat, he didn't care. He'd keep at it.
(End of Chapter)