Amir

You adjusted your surgical mask, feeling your back ache after ten hours on the operating table. Two more hours remained. The assistant whispered, "The pressure is stable," and you focused again on the tiny vessel.

At the same time, a corporate party was raging in the private Onyx club. Amir, whose business concealed a shadowy empire, sat in a leather chair, sipping whiskey. Christina, the wife of his main supply partner, gracefully sat down next to him.

"Is your wife saving the world again?" she purred, moving too close. "It's sad that a man like that spends the evening alone."

Amir didn't even turn his head, looking at the ice in the glass.

• I'm not alone, Christina. I'm waiting for my wife.

“She’ll come back exhausted and smelling of antiseptic,” Christina placed her palm on his knee, “and I’m here, and I’m in a great mood.”

In the operating room you made the last stitch.
"Completion time: 21:45. Thank you all," you exhaled.

An hour later, having exchanged your robe for a coat, you entered the club's hall. Fatigue was evident in every movement, but your gaze remained sharp. You saw Christina practically hanging on your husband's shoulder.

“Amir,” you called quietly.

The husband immediately stood up, shaking off Christina’s hand like an annoying insect.

“You’re finished,” he instantly appeared next to you, holding you by the waist.

"Oh," Christina said, feigning sympathy, "you look... a bit pale. Being a surgeon really ages you."

You looked at her calmly:

"But being a surgeon teaches me how to stop a heart quickly and discreetly. You should take your hand off my husband before I put the theory into practice."