Chapter 314: The Doctor and the Woman
"I heard gunshots. Looks like something went wrong,"
the woman in the long dress said, turning her head as she heard the car door open. She looked at Doctor Zabo.
"Rena… where's the solvent I gave you earlier?" Zabo rasped. His voice was hoarse, as if he were struggling to suppress something inside him. "Mine shattered."
"You really shouldn't be using that drug so often," Rena replied calmly. "You look terrible. The side effects are getting worse."
"Enough talk. Give it to me—now!" Zabo snarled.
"I'm about to lose control. I feel like I could tear you apart right now!"
He slammed his fist into the car door. Metal buckled instantly, leaving a jagged hole as if the door were made of paper.
"Alright, alright. Take it," Rena said, unfazed, pulling out a small case.
Zabo snatched it violently. Inside was a syringe. Without hesitation, he plunged it straight into his neck.
"Hhh—!"
As the liquid flowed into his body, the savage expression on his face slowly faded. The bulging veins on his forehead and neck gradually receded, and his breathing steadied.
After a while, he opened his eyes, exhaustion written all over his face.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"It's fine," Rena replied, flicking ash from her cigarette out the window.
"But your formula needs to be adjusted again."
"I know," Zabo said, slumping back against the seat.
"The effect is obvious, but the side effects are still too severe."
"Next time, I'll add something else. I recently acquired a witch's formula. No idea if it's real—but I can try incorporating parts of it into the compound."
"A witch's formula?" Rena asked with mild curiosity.
"Mm. Stuff like mint… lizard tails… that sort of thing."
Zabo leaned back, closing his eyes.
"So, what now?" Rena asked.
"Johnny's operation failed. That has nothing to do with me. I've already repaid his favor."
"And I've stayed in Chicago long enough. There's no trace of my daughter here."
"We'll move on. Try somewhere else."
Rena tilted her head.
"You even know witches—couldn't they help you find your daughter? Some spell, curse, or divination?"
"You think I didn't try?" Zabo scoffed.
"Witches are no better than demons. Honestly, making a deal with the devil is more reliable than asking them for help."
Though he didn't elaborate, it was clear Zabo and witches shared a bitter history.
"Alright then," Rena said. "Where to next?"
"…New York," Zabo replied after a pause.
"As you wish."
She flicked the remaining half of her cigarette out onto the cracked asphalt. It rolled a few times, gathering dust and grime.
The black sedan roared to life—and vanished into the night.
Fiona and the others had already gotten into the ambulance and were on their way to the hospital.
Frank didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. Several hours passed before he finally began to wake up.
"Dad!"
Sammi, who had been keeping watch by his bedside the entire time, noticed immediately.
"What… happened?"
Frank's mind was still foggy as the effects of the full-body anesthesia faded. It took him a moment to remember what had occurred.
"Dad, I'm sorry…" Sammi said through tears.
"Those doctors were all liars. They didn't know anything about liver transplants—they were trying to take your kidney."
If it hadn't been for her reckless desperation, none of this would have happened.
If Johnny's group had succeeded, Frank wouldn't have received a liver transplant at all—he would have lost a kidney instead. Sammi didn't even want to imagine how guilty she would have felt.
"I'm fine, aren't I?"
Seeing the guilt and self-blame written all over Sammi's face, Frank gently patted her head.
"Dad!"
Sammi—already in her thirties and a mother herself—collapsed against him, crying like a child.
After her emotions finally settled, Sammi was sent to rest, and Fiona and the others stayed behind to look after Frank.
Only then did Frank learn the full story from them.
He wasn't surprised.
Aside from a few unexpected twists, everything had unfolded more or less as he'd anticipated.
From the very beginning, Frank had never planned to let Johnny perform surgery on him—especially not in a dusty, run-down warehouse. There was no way he'd let someone cut him open under those conditions.
Having Johnny operate on the "donor" first had been discussed with Old Man Milkovich beforehand.
Frank's original plan was simple:
Let Johnny extract the donor's liver first. Then Milkovich would make his move, signal the people waiting outside, and strike from both sides.
Whether Johnny's group was scared off or captured didn't matter.
What mattered was securing the donor's liver.
Frank could then take it to a legitimate hospital, have it tested, and—if compatible—undergo a proper transplant.
That had been the rough plan.
But reality moved faster than planning ever could.
No one had expected Johnny to be rotten from the start. The organ taken from the donor wasn't a liver at all—it was a kidney. And they'd intended to take Frank's kidney too.
"They took his kidney, not his liver?" Frank asked.
"What happened to the donor?"
"He's still hospitalized," Fiona replied quietly.
"His condition… isn't great."
The donor had lost a kidney. Although Milkovich managed to recover it before Johnny escaped, and it was brought to the hospital, the situation was grim.
The donor was an undocumented immigrant—no citizenship, no insurance.
The hospital, acting only out of basic humanitarian duty, provided minimal care.
Removing a kidney was a major operation. Reattaching it was another major operation—and an expensive one.
The hospital wasn't about to perform it for free. It simply wasn't worth the cost.
So the donor lay half-conscious in a hospital bed. Immigration authorities would eventually arrive, and the outcome would almost certainly be deportation—one way or another.
"Did anyone run tests?" Frank asked.
"Did they check whether his liver actually matches mine?"
The plan had gone off course, but the donor was still here.
If his liver turned out to be compatible…
They could continue.
Frank could pay to have the donor's kidney reimplanted, cover his recovery, and even give him a substantial reward.
All of that—
if the liver was a match.