When I Left, the Hospital Went Under

Chapter 2

The next morning, I printed three copies of the surgical instrument handover checklist.

The metal table in the sterile preparation room was loaded with hemostats, suture needles, suction tubes, and every other type of surgical tool imaginable.

Every single piece was laid out perfectly, following international cardiovascular surgery standards down to the last millimeter.

"Eunice, why all these extra checklists?" Ivy asked as she strolled in with a coffee cup in hand, her voice dripping with unmasked mockery. "Are you scared I'll pin the blame on you later?"

"It's just a bunch of instruments," she continued. "I could pass them to the surgeon with my eyes closed."

The head nurse followed her in, skimming over the thick stack of papers on the table.

"Eunice, there's no need to act like you're guarding against a thief here," the head nurse said.

"We're all coworkers in the same department. Let's part on good terms," she added.

I didn't bother responding to her. I just pulled out my phone and flipped open the camera app, switching it to record mode.

"I'm not recording anyone's face," I said. "Just the instrument table and the checklists."

I tapped the screen with my finger. "The handover process needs a full, documented trail. If a medical accident pops up later, I don't want any he-said-she-said," I explained.

Ivy's hand, already reaching for the instrument pack, snapped back like she had touched a hot stove.

"Eunice, this is downright insulting, don't you think?" she said.

She bit her lip and twisted toward the head nurse. "Head Nurse, look at her..." she whined.

The head nurse's face immediately darkened into a scowl.

"Eunice, what exactly are you playing at?" the head nurse demanded. "This hospital isn't your personal playground for office backstabbing."

"I'm just following the official protocol set by the Department of Health," I replied.

I slid a third-party witness checklist across the table straight to her.

"If you hate the hassle, you just need to sign here. That's it," I said.

"Starting today, full responsibility for instrument management and intraoperative coordination for Mr. Lane's surgery falls entirely to Ivy. I won't be stepping in for anything at all," I continued.

The head nurse let out a sharp, cold laugh.

"Oh, spare me," she sneered. "You think you're that irreplaceable? The world doesn't stop spinning without you."

She scrawled her signature across the page in a messy, sweeping flourish, then slammed the department quality control stamp down with a sharp c***k, hard enough to rattle the table.

"Here. Take it," she said.

I carefully tucked the stamped form into my purse, then saved the video to my phone's gallery.

The second Ivy got her copy of the confirmation form, she rearranged my perfectly organized order right in front of my face.

"Eunice, that stuffy old standard of yours is totally outdated," she announced. "I'm rearranging it my way, so it's easier for me to work with."

A few interns passing by poked their heads in the doorway, whispering to each other.

"Did Dr. Chappell really get Parkinson's?"

"What a bummer. That million-dollar bonus from the Lane family is totally gone."

I ignored their gossip completely and pulled out another supplemental liability waiver.

"Ivy, there's one more thing," I said.

She flicked a quick, annoyed glance at the paper. "What is this even for now?" she demanded.

"While the original attending physician is on leave, the department cannot, under any circumstances, demand that they come in to fix problems for free," I read out loud, slow and clear, word for word. "Now that we've finished the full handover, I expect clear boundaries for tomorrow's surgery. Your responsibility stays yours, and mine stays mine."

Ivy actually laughed out of pure anger.

"Eunice, you really think you're something special, don't you?" she scoffed.

"Who do you think you are? 'Fix problems'? You're just crossing your fingers, hoping I'll mess up, aren't you?" she added.

She snatched the waiver off the table, signed her name without even glancing at the text, and shoved it back at me.

"Get out of here already," she snapped. "You're just in the way in this sterile room."

I folded the signed waiver and put it away, then turned and headed for the locker room.

I changed into my street clothes, gathered all my personal things, and walked out of the department.

When I passed the nurses' station, I caught a glimpse of Ivy tapping furiously at her phone screen.

"Ivy, make sure you don't mess up the order of the instruments, okay?" a junior nurse murmured a reminder beside her.

"Relax," Ivy replied without looking up. "I couldn't mess this up even if I had my eyes closed."

"Eunice was always way too rigid about this," she continued, her fingers still flying across the glass. "I'm going to show Mr. Harbor what I can do this time."

Ivy never looked up from her screen, her fingers tapping across the glass at breakneck speed.

I tore my gaze away and stepped into the elevator.

I had just stepped through the hospital's front doors when a notification pinged in our main department group chat.

Ivy had boldly posted a photo of the instrument tray she rearranged.

Ditch the outdated rulebook, make a surgical workflow that fits our younger generation. Going all out tomorrow.

And she specifically tagged me right under it.

@Eunice Eunice, rest up well at home, and maybe learn a thing or two about new ideas while you're at it.

I stared at the photo, where the positions of the hemostats and suturing needles were completely scrambled.

If that abdominal aortic aneurysm ruptured mid-surgery, blood would burst out faster than water from a high-pressure hose.

Even one centimeter off in placement, one second wasted grabbing the wrong tool, and that was a disaster that could ruin lives and careers.

I quickly took a screenshot of the message, then muted the entire group chat.

"Fine by me," I said quietly. "I'll be waiting."