"Security!" Sloan roared, turning the charged paddles toward Ophelia. "Get her out!"

Dr. Yates, who had been cowering in the corner, suddenly stepped forward. He grabbed Sloan's arm. "Wait! Look at the pressure! It's 40 over 20! She might be right!"

"Let go of me, you incompetent-" Sloan shoved Yates backward.

But the distraction bought three seconds.

Dr. Zayne grabbed the ultrasound probe and slapped it onto Silas's chest. His eyes widened. "Fluid. Massive fluid accumulation. It is tamponade."

Sloan froze. The paddles hummed in his hands, a deadly sound.

Ophelia didn't ask for permission. She shoved past the stunned security guard. She walked right up to the crash cart.

"18 gauge spinal needle," she snapped at the nurse. "Now."

The nurse, terrified by Ophelia's absolute certainty, handed her the needle.

"You have no privileges here!" Sloan yelled, stepping in front of the patient. "This is assault! I'll have you arrested!"

Ophelia looked him in the eye. "You can call the cops. But in ten seconds, he's dead. Do you want to explain to the Sterling family why you let their heir die because of protocol?"

The monitor began to whine. A slow, dying tone.

Ophelia didn't wait for him to move. She placed her hand on Sloan's chest and shoved. It wasn't a polite push. It was a strike. Sloan stumbled back, tripping over a wire.

Ophelia stood over Silas. She didn't look at the ultrasound. She didn't have time.

She placed her fingers on his sternum, finding the xiphoid process. She angled the long needle.

The room went silent. Even the security guards held their breath.

She thrust the needle in.

It was a violent motion, deep into the chest.

She pulled back on the plunger.

Dark, red blood filled the syringe.

Beep.

Beep... beep...

The monitor found a rhythm. The heart rate stabilized.

Dr. Zayne let out a breath that sounded like a sob. "He's back."

Ophelia unscrewed the syringe and emptied the blood into a basin. Clang.

She pulled the needle out. She tossed it onto the tray.

She reached up and pulled off her baseball cap. Her long, golden hair cascaded down her back. She looked at Sloan, who was picking himself up off the floor.

"Next time," she said, her voice dripping with ice, "check the pupils before you try to fry the heart."

Slow clapping started from the doorway.

A tall, imposing man walked in. The Chief of Surgery.

"Impressive blind stick," the Chief said. "Who the hell are you?"

Ophelia ignored him. She pointed at the IV bag hanging above Silas. "Who ordered the Dopamine?"

"Standard protocol for shock," Sloan spat, trying to regain some dignity.

"For cardiogenic shock, maybe," Ophelia said. "But look at his eyes."

She reached down and pulled Silas's eyelid open. A faint yellow ring circled the iris.

"Digitalis toxicity combined with a neurotoxin," Ophelia announced. "Dopamine would have accelerated the heart rate and killed him faster. You were pouring gas on a fire."

The Chief stepped closer, looking at the eye. His face darkened. "Poison?"

"Someone tried to murder him," Ophelia said calmly. "And Dr. Sloan almost finished the job."

The silence in the room was heavy, thick with the realization of what had just happened.

The conference room on the top floor was thick with cigar smoke and tension. The Board of Directors sat around the mahogany table like a jury of executioners.

Ophelia sat in a chair in the corner, scrolling through her phone, looking bored.

"She has no license!" Sloan slammed his fist on the table. "She assaulted a senior physician! It was luck! Dumb luck!"

"She saved his life, Sloan," Dr. Zayne said quietly. "The toxicology report just came back. She was right. Digitalis and... something else. Something synthetic."

Mr. Black, the chairman of the board, leaned forward. "The Sterling family is demanding answers. If Silas dies here, our stock crashes. We lose everything."

The Chief of Surgery turned to Ophelia. "Miss Vance. You seem to have an opinion. What is the treatment?"

Ophelia stood up. She walked to the whiteboard. She picked up a black marker.

In three swift strokes, she drew a heart.

"The toxin has bound to the myocardial tissue," she said. "Dialysis won't touch it. You need to perform a myocardial lavage under cardiopulmonary bypass."

The room erupted.

"Lavage?" Sloan laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Washing the heart? That's theoretical! It's never been done successfully on a human!"

Ophelia capped the marker. "You can't do it. That doesn't mean it can't be done."

"It's too risky," Mr. Black said, shaking his head. "We can't authorize experimental surgery."

"Fine." Ophelia tossed the marker onto the table. It bounced and hit the floor. "Then wait for him to die. And get your lawyers ready, because the Sterlings will own this building by Monday."

She turned and walked toward the door. "My time is expensive. I'm leaving."

"Wait!" The Chief stood up. "How confident are you?"

Ophelia stopped. She didn't turn around. "One hundred percent."

Sloan scoffed. "God doesn't give one hundred percent."

Ophelia looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were green fire. "In the OR, I am God."

The double doors swung open.

Six men in suits walked in. At the front was an elderly man with a scar running down his cheek. The Sterling family butler. He held a document in his hand.

He scanned the room, his eyes landing instantly on Ophelia.

"You are the woman who intervened?" he asked. His voice was gravel and steel.

Sloan jumped up. "She's leaving! We were just escorting her out! She's a fraud!"

The butler ignored him. He walked to Ophelia and bowed.

"Master Silas woke for a moment," the butler said. "He gave a description. He demands you perform the surgery."

Sloan's jaw dropped. "What?"

The Chief's face transformed instantly into a mask of ingratiating smiles. "Well, Miss Vance, it seems we have a consensus."

Ophelia looked at the butler. "Tell Silas my fee is astronomical."

"The Sterling family pays its debts," the butler said.

Ophelia nodded. She turned to Sloan.

"I want him scrubbed in," she said, pointing a finger at Sloan's chest.

Sloan blinked. "Me?"

"Yes. You're going to be my second assistant. You're going to hold the retractors. And if you speak, I'll have you removed."

Sloan's face turned a deep, bruised purple. To be demoted to a glorified intern? In his own hospital?

"Do it," Mr. Black ordered.

Sloan swallowed his rage. "Yes, ma'am."