Daniel Browns

The year is 2025. A world where footballers earn millions for goals, while true heroes—those who hold lives in their hands—remain in the shadows. Surgeons. People who work not for glory, but to keep someone else's heart beating. One of them was Daniel Brown, a twenty-year-old surgeon, too talented for his age and too tired for his heart. The narrow corridors of the hospital had long since become his home, and sleepless nights his eternal friends.
He walked slowly down the corridor, sleepily rubbing his eyes. Beneath them were dark, deep bruises, as if the marks of endless shifts. His white coat was rumpled, his steps heavy. Patients and relatives looked around: some with respect, some with sympathy, some simply with empty, indifferent gazes. Daniel had almost reached the operating room when a loud cry pierced the hospital's silence:
— Doctor Brown! Urgent! Car accident! We have seriously injured people!
It was as if sleep had fled his mind. His body had automatically switched on to combat readiness. He turned around and, dragging his feet through his fatigue, broke into a run. His stethoscope bounced around his neck, his lab coat fluttering behind him.
“Where?” was all he had time to ask, squeezing between the gurneys.
— Ward 14! She's breathing, but her condition is critical!
The corridor narrowed. People couldn't move away quickly. They had to push, apologize on the run, go around, and jump over gurneys and boxes of equipment. Everything was happening too fast.
There she lay outside the ward door—a young girl, bloodied and unconscious. The monitors were beeping out of tune, and the nurses were exchanging nervous glances.
— The pressure is dropping!
— The pulse is unstable!
Daniel froze for a second. One single second—to gather his thoughts, fear, and despair into one: "I won't let her die." He took a step forward—and the race began. A race with death. A race he had to win.