Chapter 185: The Reluctant Surgeon

She drew in a shaky breath, trying to anchor herself but the man did not stop convulsing.

He convulsed violently.

The table rattled.

Lara stumbled back, horror flooding her face, her mind blanking in an instant.

“I—”

“Don’t panic.”

Yannis again. His voice firm and grounding.

“Look at me, Lara.”

She did.

“Breathe. Then continue.”

Her lungs burned as she forced air in, then out. Again. Again.

The chaos dulled at the edges.

Her hands steadied.

This time, when she moved, there was no hesitation.

The needle pierced skin cleanly.

In. Through. Out.

Each motion deliberate. Each stitch precise.

She worked faster now, but not reckless—controlled, just as she’d been told.

Guiding, not forcing.

Until finally she was done.

The last knot tightened.

The wound closed. The bleeding stopped.

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then the man’s body slackened.

Too still.

Lara’s stomach dropped.

“No—”

He wasn’t breathing.

In the background, Artemio’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze darkening.

Did I push too far?

That man was one of his best. A loyal spy.

Losing him would not be a small loss.

But Lara was already moving. No hesitation this time.

She climbed onto the side of the table, hands locking into position over the man’s chest.

Push.

One, two, three—

Her palms drove down with practiced force.

Again.

Then again.

“Come on…” she whispered under her breath.

She tilted his head back, sealed her mouth over his, forced air into his lungs.

There was no hesitation in her movement. No shyness, just pure determination.

Then back to compressions.

Rhythm. Pressure. Breath.

A cycle she knew too well.

A cycle she trusted.

Seconds stretched into something unbearable…and then the man jerked.

A ragged gasp tore from his throat.

He was breathing.

Lara sagged back, her strength draining all at once.

Behind her, both Yannis and Artemio released quiet breaths they hadn’t realized they’d been holding.

Relief. It was heavy and real.

But Lara barely registered it.

The adrenaline that had carried her through shattered, leaving her exhausted.

Her vision blurred. Her knees buckled.

She stumbled to the chair beside the metal bed and dropped into it, gripping the edge as if the world might tilt without warning.

If she hadn’t sat, she would have collapsed.

Her hands were still trembling.

Her chest was still tight.

But one thought cut through the haze, clear and undeniable.

She made it. She didn’t fail.

…

After that ordeal, there was no turning back.

Lara enrolled in medicine. Not as an obligation. Not as an expectation.

But as a choice.

She buried herself in anatomy, in surgical theory, in every discipline that would teach her how to hold a life in her hands—

and not lose it.

…

They broke past the last line of trees, and the world opened.

Cool wind rushed to meet them, brushing against Lara’s skin, lifting stray strands of her hair as if trying to wake her from something deeper than thought.

She inhaled sharply.

The present snapped back into place.

For a moment, she just stood there, letting the breeze steady her—anchor her.

Then, quietly—

“You were the one who taught me surgery back then.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Yannis stilled.

He turned to her, slow, deliberate, as if afraid the movement might shatter something fragile between them.

“You remembered?” he asked.

There was something in his eyes—sharp, searching, hoping.

Not the loud kind, but the dangerous kind.

Lara didn’t notice.

Or maybe she did, and didn’t understand it.

“Yeah,” she said, her gaze drifting past him, caught somewhere far behind the present. “That time… my first surgery.”

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, as if remembering the weight of a needle.

“I almost lost him. The man we pulled out of Fengsel Prison.”

The memory flickered behind her eyes—blood, panic, the suffocating pressure of failure.

“I thought he was going to die.”

A heavy silence followed.

Yannis’s expression darkened, the fragile light in his eyes snuffing out as quickly as it had appeared.

His jaw tightened.

Of all things, that was what she remembered.

Not the long hours. Not the quiet guidance.

Not the moments that had nothing to do with survival or desperation.

Just that night. Just the near-failure.

He looked away.

“So,” he said flatly, “that’s what stayed with you.”

Unspoken words hung thick in the air.

Not me. Not us.

Not the long nights after she healed.

Not the quiet victories.

Just a memory carved from someone almost dying in her hands.

Not the way she used to look at him every time he pulled her from the gates of hell, like he was something steady in a world that never was.

Yannis turned his gaze toward the horizon, but he saw none of it. The open sky, the wind, the distant stretch of land—it all blurred into nothing.

Because all he could see was her.

Not the woman standing beside him now, but the girl she used to be.

Stubborn and relentless.

Terrified of failing…hungry for familial love.

He remembered the way she would grit her teeth at every start of a procedure but push through anyway.

The way she would look at him after—not for praise but for reassurance.

Why could she not remember?

The hours he spent guiding her hands without touching them.

Not the nights he stayed awake, watching over her work, correcting every mistake before it became fatal.

Not the quiet moments when she would sit beside him, exhausted, and still refuse to leave.

A bitter thought crept in before he could stop it.

Was that all I ever was to you?

A lesson? A moment?

Something tied to a mistake you survived?

His jaw tightened.

No. That wasn’t fair. She lost her memories.

He knew that.

He had told himself—over and over again—that he would accept whatever pieces of him remained in her mind.

Even if there were none.

Even if he became nothing more than a stranger standing too close.

But knowing it…

wasn’t the same as feeling it.

His hand curled slightly at his side.

Because some part of him—weak, foolish, stubborn—had hoped.

That she would remember something more.

Something him.

The way she used to say his name.

The way she trusted him without question.

The way she chose to stay.

Yannis closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself.

He chided himself for losing control.

When he opened them again, whatever had surfaced was already buried.

As it always was.

“Then at least,” he said quietly, his voice even once more, “you remembered something useful.”

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