Four hours had passed since we entered the surgery and emergency room. Four hours of intense work, quick hands, precise decisions, and a tension that seemed to hang in the air like lead. We managed to stop the hemorrhaging, repair the internal damage, and stabilize his vital signs. His body responded, but it was a fight minute by minute. When we finally finished, he was taken to the intensive care unit, where he remained motionless, connected to machines that tracked every beat of his heart, every movement of his lungs, keeping him in a medically induced coma—necessary so his body could fight to recover.
I washed my hands, swapped the stained apron for a clean one, and took a deep breath, feeling the exhaustion hit but also the certainty of a duty fulfilled. Beside me, the two doctors who'd led the team—experienced professionals who'd seen everything at that clinic—were visibly shaken. Their faces were pale, sweating, and they exchanged nervous glances, as though they were about to deliver war news.
I watched them, intrigued.
Who is this man?* I thought, for the tenth time. What kind of power does he have to leave two doctors—who don't flinch at gunshot wounds or horrific accidents—so frightened and unsure?*
We walked together to the reserved waiting room, where his family and the men who'd come with him were gathered. The moment we opened the door, silence fell completely. Every pair of eyes turned to us, filled with expectation, fear, and anxiety.
There were the two young brothers I'd seen before: one, the youngest, with red eyes and still-ragged breathing from all the desperation; the other, Lorenzo, the older of the two, with straight posture, a sharp and intelligent gaze that analyzed every detail, every movement we made.
But there were more people now.
In a corner, seated in an armchair, was an elderly man with gray hair, a hard face, and cold, vacant eyes that didn't seem to convey any emotion. While the young men were visibly shaken, he remained motionless, controlled, with an expression that revealed nothing—no pain, no relief, no concern. Just an air of superiority and calculation that sent a chill through me.
And beside him, standing, was a woman.
She was stunning—the kind of beauty that seemed made for magazine covers: tall, blonde, flawless skin, an elegant and expensive dress, impeccable hair. She had the appearance of a famous model or a movie actress. But something was off about her. While everyone there waited for news with their hearts in their hands, she stood still, motionless, with an almost imperceptible smile on her lips, showing no emotion whatsoever. No sadness, no anguish, no joy. Nothing. It was as if the man fighting for his life in there meant nothing to her.
The doctors stepped forward, ready to speak, but before they could say a single word, the youngest brother raised his hand, asking for silence, and pointed directly at me.
"No. We want to hear from her," he said firmly, his voice still hoarse from all the crying.
The lead doctor looked confused, glanced at me and then at them.
"Gentlemen, she's just a nurse. I'm the one responsible for the case—I can explain..."
Lorenzo interrupted, with that serious and authoritative look so reminiscent of his ailing brother:
"We saw everything. We saw how she acted, how quick she was, how she kept her composure when everything seemed lost. We saw that she was the one truly in control of the situation. So we want her to explain."
Every pair of eyes turned to me. I felt the weight of their attention, but I didn't back down. I pressed my hands together, straightened my posture, and took a step forward, my voice clear and firm, the way I'd learned to speak in every difficult moment of my life.
"His condition was critical when he arrived. Two gunshot wounds to the chest, one very close to the heart, and extremely heavy hemorrhaging. He lost a great deal of blood rapidly, and his vital signs became unstable to the point of imminent risk of death. We worked for four straight hours to stop the bleeding, repair the internal damage, and stabilize his body." I paused, looking directly at them without averting my gaze. "We succeeded. The hemorrhaging is under control, the wounds have been treated, and his life has been saved. He's alive."
A collective sigh of relief rose from the brothers and the other men present. But I continued with the same gravity:
"However, due to the severity of the wounds and the impact on his body, he's been placed in a medically induced coma. It's a necessary measure to allow his body to rest, recover, and fight off any infections or complications that may arise. The next few days are critical."
Lorenzo studied me closely, as if weighing every word, every gesture. Then he moved a bit closer.
"You were essential to this. We could see that. That's why I want you to be directly responsible for his recovery. To care for him personally, day and night, if need be." He pulled a card from his pocket and held it out to me, his expression serious but grateful. "I'll double, triple whatever they pay you here. Whatever you want, whatever you need, just ask. But I need him to have the best care possible. And after what we saw, I know that care comes from you."
Before I could respond, the blonde woman, who hadn't said a word until then, opened her mouth. Her voice was thin, sweet, but it sounded fake—as though she were reading a rehearsed script.
"And how long is he going to be like this? We have commitments, trips, events scheduled... how long does this coma last? When does he wake up?"
I looked at her, feeling a strange revulsion. There was no concern in her voice—only impatience. I took a deep breath and answered with complete clarity:
"Ma'am, there's no exact prediction. The timeline depends on how his body responds, whether complications arise, whether the wounds heal properly. It could be days, it could be weeks. No one can give you a date or a time. He's fighting to live, and time is what he needs."
She rolled her eyes slightly—a gesture almost imperceptible, but one I caught. And the elderly man, who still hadn't spoken a word, merely watched me with a heavy, calculating gaze, as if measuring how useful or dangerous I might be.
I didn't know it yet, but in that moment, by agreeing to care for that man, I had just stepped into a world of secrets, power, and dangers I could never have imagined. And the worst part: the people who should have loved and waited for him were exactly the ones waiting for the right moment to make sure he never woke up again.
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