Chapter 5
1050 Words
A message popped up on Mr Hawston’s phone. DONE. Then he smiled broadly, “let's see how warm your blood has become, Octavia,”
He walked out from his office, to the theater. Throwing his coat over his shoulders and flashing everyone he met in his way a smile. One that made them adore him.
The heavy metal doors to the operating theatre swung open with a soft hiss as Dr. Octavia stepped in.
Inside, the junior surgeons were already in position, standing at their stations in anticipation. Their gazes shifted toward her the moment she entered, some with admiration, others with quiet intimidation. They straightened up instinctively.
Above, seated behind the observation glass that stretched along the upper wall, were the dignitaries of the hospital, the new director, the chairman, and beside them, Gerald.
Octavia’s eyes didn’t linger on them, but she felt Gerald's gaze. It was sharp, judging, bitter. He sat leaned back, arms folded, lips twisted into a scornful smirk. His posture reeked of resentment, of barely-contained pride in the hope that she might stumble under his watch.
She didn’t give him that satisfaction.
Octavia scanned the theatre, nodding once with crisp precision. “Good morning, everyone.”
The chorus came back, almost in unison. “Good morning, Dr. Malone.”
Without wasting a moment, she turned to the nurse. “Scalpel.”
The sterile metal instrument was placed in her gloved hand. Light gleamed off the blade as she held it steady, eyes fixed on the woman lying unconscious on the table before her. The patient’s abdomen rose and fell gently with each breath, oblivious to the delicate work about to unfold. The anesthesiologist gave a quiet nod, indicating all vitals were stable.
Then, Octavia made the first cut.
The scalpel pressed into the skin without an effort. Flesh parted beneath its touch. And with it came the blood, warm, dark, rich. It flowed slowly at first, a gentle stream sliding across the surgical drape.
And Octavia froze for half a second.
The scent hit her like a drug.
Even under the mask, the iron sweetness coiled into her senses. Her pupils dilated sharply, and her breath faltered for just a heartbeat.
Hunger.
Not the hollow ache of an empty stomach, but the craving.
Her suppressant. She had taken it. She had always taken it before any surgery, right from her volunteer work at Niga. But something, something was wrong. The scent was too vivid. The desire too sharp. Her throat tightened, and her fangs itched beneath her gums, threatening to emerge.
Above, Gerald watched her intently. His smirk widened.
Her eyes flicked once toward the glass to behold their gazes on her. It was too obvious, “Miss Octavia, are you ok?” Mr. Hawston called out. Concern laced in his voice, but beneath, his heart leaped for joy.
“I'm…I'm good..just—
Immediately, she felt her claws shoot out from her nails, threatening to cut through her gloves, she backed everyone with an immediate speed, before they could notice anything, but the director had seen it all.
She shut her eyes to control her hunger.
“I guess you haven't even concluded your internship before you applied to be a surgeon, Miss.. Octavia?” Gerald mused, and chuckled at his own words.
But she ignored him, rushing out of the theater with almost a blurred vision, she headed for her office. She walked to the safe, taking out the vial, she scanned her eyes over the container. Then two a capsule.
More. Then four, she threw everything into her mouth.
Something was definitely wrong and her heart rate confirmed it. It was beating hard, threatening to jump out of her chest.
“Not today..please..” she begged no one in particular when she wasn't still steady.
She rushed over for her suit, reaching out for the pocket, she brought out another vial. Opening it, she emptied two more into her mouth.
Then came that instant peace.
She walked back to the theater hastily.
Apologies,” she said, voice steady but softer than usual. “Just a strong migraine. It passed.”
“If you're not really ok, you can leave the surgery for Gerald,” Mr Hawston said in concern.
“I can,”
A few of the junior surgeons exchanged confused glances. One nurse nodded sympathetically.
She picked up the scalpel again, this time with swift certainty. The hesitation was gone, replaced by calculated momentum.
Her hands glided over the patient’s open body with inhuman grace, every incision precise, every command sharp. Her mind raced ahead of her fingers, already three steps into the next maneuver. The assistants scrambled to keep up, barely handing her the next tool before she was ready for another.
“Clamp. Suction. Retractor. Suture.”
Her voice was cool and clipped, slicing through the room like a conductor leading a symphony.
Above, even the chairman leaned forward, whispering something to the new director. Their eyes were fixed on her.
Mr Hawston watched her, his signature smile, cleared entirely from his face, covered now with what he couldn't explain.
Because Octavia was performing a surgery, despite feeding her with the wrong suppressant. And with a mastery none of them had ever seen. A procedure that should’ve taken three hours was halfway done in less than one.
The air in the theatre was thick with awe. Even the junior surgeons were beginning to realize they weren’t just assisting, but they were witnessing. The theatre had become her domain, and they, spectators to something almost unreal.
By the time she placed the final suture, wiped the last streak of blood, and stepped back with a low nod, it was done.
“Vitals?” she asked.
“Stable,” the anesthesiologist confirmed, still blinking in disbelief.
She removed her gloves slowly, methodically, peeling away the blood and silence with them. Her eyes flicked once again toward the observation glass, Gerald’s expression unreadable now.
She gave him a dangerous smirk.
“Like seriously uncle, a migraine? And you believe that?” Gerald questioned the chairman angrily.
“All still the same she did extremely well,” then he turned to the director, poin
ting at Gerald, “you should pair him into her team, he needs to learn a lot from her,”
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