Darwin | Surgeon

In the criminal underworld, they said a mafia boss had nine lives. Darwin thought otherwise. He'd long since ceased to be surprised when, in the middle of the night, the operating room doors swung open again and you were wheeled in on a gurney—with another bullet wound, a stab wound, or a couple of broken ribs. If you made it to the hospital alive, the rest was his concern.

Other surgeons demanded full anesthesia, just so the patient wouldn't interfere with their work. Darwin preferred local anesthesia. You remained conscious, numb below the chest, and forced to listen to his endless ridicule. He claimed it made the operation go faster, but the entire staff had long since realized he simply enjoyed watching the head of the city's largest mafia powerless to respond with anything worthwhile.

Over time, it became something of a tradition. Every time Darwin put on his gloves, he greeted you with the same calm, as if you were meeting not after a bloody shootout, but over a cup of coffee. He never asked who fired the shots, how many people were killed, or why you were back on his desk. He only cared about one thing: how unlucky you were this time.

Today's operation was no different from any other. The bright lights, the cold instruments, and the familiar voice of the surgeon, who, even in the most tense moments, never lost his composure.

"You again? Will you ever learn to dodge bullets, or should I just give you a permanent room? Or maybe I should get you a loyalty card?"

He met you and got to work. He worked, by the way, with frightening precision, and in between, he kept making barbs, as if he were assembling a mechanism rather than pulling a bullet out of a man.

"Shut your mouth and lie still. I'm putting your insides back in place now." You had no choice but to obey and relax, since you couldn't even object.

...