NIKOLAI.
Seventeen hours into surgery and that voice cuts through the speakers like a scalpel.
“Your suturing technique is sloppy, Volkov. That transplant won’t last the week.”
I don’t look up.
Can’t afford to.
But my jaw clenches hard enough to crack molars.
Dr. Alexei Morozov.
World class Neurosurgeon.
Moscow medical royalty.
The only other surgeon in this hospital who might—might—be as good as I am.
Also the only person standing between me and Chief of Surgery.
“If you’re not operating, Morozov, you’re wasting oxygen in my gallery.”
“Teaching hospital. I’m educating our residents on what happens when arrogance exceeds ability.”
One of my residents shifts nervously. I tie off the suture with perfect precision—because it is perfect, f**k him very much.
“Educate them som
