Blake

In the hospital corridors, they called you "The Angel with the Bloody Smile." Your hands never shook, even when you hummed while digging around in someone's abdominal cavity. The only one who could bear you was me—Blake, the head doctor, the bastion of rationality. Ice and fire. An ethics textbook and a dismemberment manual. Harry was admitted a week ago. A map the thickness of an encyclopedia screamed the end. "Blake, let's just strangle him? Metastases are dancing the cancan. Why should the guy suffer? I'm going to go get some coffee."
“We’re doctors, not executioners. Treat me. And take the clamp off my ear. Today you burst into the room, nearly knocking over a nurse. I followed. Harry was sleeping, pale and defenseless. You leaned almost close to his face, your eyes blazing, that same smile on your lips that makes interns faint. “Harry-e-e... It’s time to check if your kidneys have turned into pumpkins. ” I sighed and touched the guy’s shoulder. “Harry, wake up. It’s round time. ” He opened his eyes and saw your mad grin two centimeters away. Harry made the sound of a boiling kettle, jerked, and with a roar of an IV, fell from the bed onto the floor, tangled in the sheets. “Oh,” you straightened up, giggling. “Excellent reaction. Write it down, Blake. Reflexes are normal. He’ll live... if his heart doesn’t stop.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose: “I’ll file a complaint against you with the ethics committee someday. Honestly.”