Stephanie didn't bother heading for Greenvale, where her biological parents lived. Instead, she fired up her motor scooter and made her way back to her real sanctuary.

Pineview Homes looked like any other residential block on the outside, but hidden behind its plain exterior was a world of old secrets. As Stephanie rolled through the entrance, the system scanned her face and let her in without a hitch. Just then, Hugh Curtis, lugging a fishing rod and smelling of river water, spotted her. "Hi, Stephie! I thought you'd vanished for good."

She offered a cheerful wave. "Evening, Hugh."

He caught her scooter by the handlebar, anxious to talk. "You've been gone almost three weeks. My wife's almost out of the medicine you prescribed, and the pills the experts gave me do nothing for my emphysema. But whatever you gave me works like a charm."

Stephanie gave a reassuring nod. "I've updated your treatment plan, so don't worry about a thing."

Everyone around here knew that, despite her age, Stephanie's medical knowledge was unmatched. She could cure ailments even the doctors from the best hospital couldn't handle.

But this was no ordinary neighborhood. Most of the residents had interesting pasts. Hugh, for example, used to be a high-ranking officer in the military.

Parking her motorbike, Stephanie called over her shoulder, "I'll be seeing patients this evening," before heading upstairs to her apartment.

The moment she arrived at her door, a gentle female voice greeted her, saying, "Welcome home."

Her place was a marvel of modern design, sleek and brimming with technology.

She had poured twenty million into making it exactly as she wanted—a masterpiece she was genuinely proud of.

After a quick shower, she was about to unwind with a mobile game when her phone rang. She answered without checking the caller ID.

"Word is you finally cut ties with the Claytons. Two massive orders just landed on our desk. Should we take them?" On the other end, Milly Wheeler, her right-hand woman and trusted assistant, got straight to business.

Stephanie snagged a cold can of cola from the fridge, popped the tab, and muttered, "Alright, let's hear it."

"First up, the Walsh family—richest folks in the nation—just posted a twenty-million-dollar reward for finding their granddaughter, who's been missing for years. They claim she's somewhere in Krarville. Easy money, honestly. It's not life-changing, but it would keep our base running for a month."

A wry smile tugged at Stephanie's lips. "Pass. I'm not interested. What else you got?"

Milly sounded more enthusiastic. "You'll want this one. You've heard the legendary Waylon Elliott, right? He is offering thirty million if you, as the legendary Dr. Clayton, take on a case. He wants the best medical mind, and that's you."

Stephanie's eyes brightened. "Now you have my attention. Give me the details."

"He is a major player in Krarville and has been seen lately with arms dealer Rory Sawyer."

That gave Stephanie pause. "So that's why Rory's been circling me all this time. There's no way I'll let our country's arms market slip into someone else's control. I need to meet this Waylon face to face."

"No kidding! This is a huge opportunity. Still, be aware—he's gathering all sorts of top-tier doctors at the Pearl Hotel for a joint consultation."

Curiosity flickered in Stephanie's eyes. "Why so many doctors? What's the story with the patient?"

"Details are hush-hush, but rumor has it someone close to Waylon is seriously ill. It must be a big deal for him to go this far."

Stephanie took a long drink, savoring the cola's chill. "Count me in. Set it up."

The tougher the case, the more it fueled Stephanie's curiosity. She loved a real challenge—plus, she needed to meet Waylon in person and reclaim her arms business.

The next day dawned bright and early as Stephanie left home on her scooter.

Nearly an hour later, she pulled up at the Pearl Hotel—the priciest address in all of Krarville.

Luxury cars lined up one after another, creating a parade of wealth and status in front of the entrance.

Inside, hotel staff bustled around, while the Elliott family security coordinated the arrival of renowned doctors, socialites, and politicians, all eager to win favor with Waylon.

Stephanie's scooter looked painfully out of place among the polished sedans and gleaming SUVs.

No sooner had she found a parking spot than the lobby manager stormed over, annoyance written all over his face.

"Hey! Who do you think you are, showing up at a place like this? Get lost, will you?"

Stephanie kept her cool, balancing with one foot on the pavement. "I'm a doctor. I'm here for a medical consultation."

"You? Don't make me laugh." The manager burst out laughing, pointing at her in disbelief. "You barely look old enough to vote. There's no way you're a doctor."

Turning toward the entrance, he shouted at the security team, "You two—escort this bumpkin and her scooter out of here right now!"

Both security guards closed in, each grabbing hold of Stephanie's scooter, looking ready to haul it out of sight.

Stephanie didn't bother putting up a fight. She'd lost count of how many times people had underestimated her just because of her age.

She calmly held out her phone, thumb poised over a digital screen. "Hold on. Show this to the Elliotts. I'm Dr. Clayton—I was invited for a medical consultation."

Dr. Clayton was the professional name she used at the National Biotechnology Research Institute.

The guards just shrugged, unimpressed. "Dr. Clayton? Never heard of you. Move along and stop blocking the entrance."

With a quiet sigh, Stephanie shook her head. No matter how far she'd come, there were always people eager to judge her at first glance.

Before she could try again, a familiar voice sliced through the commotion. "Stephanie? What are you doing here? Weren't you supposed to run back to the countryside?"

Turning, Stephanie found herself face-to-face with Aimee.

Aimee's lips curled in a sneer. "Places like this aren't for a nobody like you."

She had just started her studies in oil painting at Veridia University and had come to the hotel hoping to meet the celebrated painter Carl Russell. Bumping into Stephanie here was the last thing she expected.

Everywhere she looked, the lobby buzzed with well-known names. She felt her cheeks burn at the thought of anyone linking her to Stephanie, whose plain clothes and clumsy manner clashed with the glittering crowd.

Desperate to save face, Aimee tried to rush her away.

Stephanie barely gave her a glance, already turning on her heel.

In truth, she hadn't been invested in Waylon's consultation from the start, and she had no trouble walking away.

Suddenly, shouts broke out near the hotel's entrance.

"Help! Is there a doctor? Someone just collapsed!"

A crowd quickly formed around the commotion.

"Look at her lips—she's turning blue, and her face is so pale. She keeps shaking. Is she about to die?"

"She's drenched in sweat—her whole shirt's soaked..."

Without a moment's hesitation, Stephanie jumped onto her scooter' and sped toward the chaos.

"Stephanie, where are you going?" Aimee called after her, hurrying to keep up.

When Stephanie reached the scene, what she saw made her pause.

A girl lay on the ground, one side of her body noticeably larger than the other, her features oddly uneven. Violent tremors wracked her frame, and her limbs twisted at odd angles. Her mouth and eyes pulled sharply to one side, her entire expression contorted.

The condition was unmistakable—an extremely rare case of hemihypoplasia.

"Was she born this way?"

"She looks so strange..."

"Everyone, please move back. I'm a doctor."

Stephanie pulled out her stethoscope and began a quick but thorough examination, checking the girl's pupils and listening to her heart and lungs.

Aimee stood at the edge of the circle, stunned at how skillfully Stephanie worked. Finally, unable to hold back, she blurted, "Stephanie, what do you think you're doing? How can you possibly call yourself a doctor?"

Stephanie shot Aimee a steady look. "Shut up."

Unfazed by the girl's distorted features, she gently moved her out of the sun and into the shade.

Refusing to let Stephanie prove herself, Aimee raised her voice for all to hear. "Everybody, listen! I know her. She's not a real doctor! She's just pretending, and if we let her continue, she'll end up killing this poor girl. We have to stop her right now!"

"Honestly, she looks like she knows what she's doing," a woman in the crowd disagreed.

"She has a stethoscope and even a blood pressure monitor. For all we know, she really is a doctor. You shouldn't judge so quickly." A man nodded in support.

"You're all wrong. She can't possibly know medicine. She's going to kill this girl!" Aimee yelled even louder, refusing to back down.

She lunged forward, trying to drag Stephanie away. "Stop it already! Have you even studied medicine? Just step aside!"

Without missing a beat, Stephanie met her glare. "If you can't assist, at least stay out of the way. Don't make things harder."

Ignoring the commotion, she unzipped her backpack and unfolded a compact metal medical kit, its interior lined with neatly organized vials, syringes, and sterile tools.

She selected a white bottle, shook out a single blue pill, and carefully helped the girl swallow it.

Seconds ticked by. The convulsions slowed, then faded. The girl finally went still, her breathing even and calm.

The hush was absolute—until Aimee yelled, "Stephanie, what did you do? You've killed her!"

An older man in the crowd looked worried, his brow furrowed. "Miss, maybe it's best to call for an ambulance. That little one is in bad shape, and if you're not a real doctor, you shouldn't be taking risks."

A woman nearby gasped, clutching her chest. "Oh heavens, is she... is she dead? Young lady, do you understand what you've done? Do you have any idea what will come for you?"

Another woman, voice softer but full of concern, tried to reason with Stephanie. "Sweetheart, maybe you should just let her be. She isn't your responsibility, and she looks so sick. One pill can't fix a problem like this."

Stephanie's tone was steady. "You can all relax. I know exactly what I'm doing."

She reached into her kit, ready to give the little girl another blue pill.

Before she could, Aimee darted in and snatched it from her hand. "What is this even supposed to be? Who do you think you are, just giving random pills? You're no doctor!"

Aimee took out her phone and started recording. "Go ahead, keep pretending. I've got it all on video now. If anything happens to her, don't think for a second my family will protect you."

She waved her phone for everyone to see. "I have proof. If this goes wrong, you'll have to answer for it."

Stephanie's patience finally snapped. "If you want her to live, then stop interfering!"

Just then, a man in a crisp white coat stepped out from the crowd. Aimee latched onto him, hopeful. "Sir, are you a doctor? There's someone here pretending to be a doctor and risking this girl's life. Please do something!"

The man nodded calmly. "Yes, I am a doctor."

The man in the white coat turned out to be Aaron's personal doctor, one of the elite specialists brought in for Waylon's medical gathering.

With a sense of triumph, Aimee handed him Stephanie's bottle of blue pills, eager to see Stephanie proven wrong by a real expert.

The doctor took the bottle, examined it closely, then glanced at Stephanie in open disbelief. "Where did you get this?"

That was all Aimee needed to hear. She grabbed Stephanie's arm, gloating. "Did you hear that? Even a professional doctor doesn't recognize your so-called medicine. Stop pretending you have a clue what you're doing!"

She pulled out her phone. "That's it. I'm calling the police. You've killed someone, and you're going to pay for it."

The doctor turned a sharp look on Aimee, his tone cold. "Enough of that. This is a cutting-edge drug developed by a national research institute—an innovation in gene editing."

Aimee rolled her eyes, refusing to believe him. "A cutting-edge drug? How is that possible? Are you working with her or something?"

She lashed out, aiming a kick at Stephanie's medical kit.

Stephanie's patience snapped. In one smooth move, she struck Aimee's arm twice with practiced precision.

Aimee shrieked. Within seconds, both her arm and right leg went numb, pain shooting through her body. Her face crumpled as she slumped to the ground, shouting, "What did you do to me?"

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

With Aimee stopped interfering at last, Stephanie returned her focus to the patient. She drew a vial of clear liquid into a syringe, carefully disinfected the injection site, and administered it to the girl.

Just moments later, the girl blinked awake. Confusion flickered across her face as she looked up at Stephanie. "Pretty lady, did you help me?"

Stephanie smiled and nodded. "Yes. Rest for now—I'll take you home soon."

The crowd broke into spontaneous applause, their skepticism replaced with awe. "Incredible medicine!" someone exclaimed.

"Her medical skills are extraordinary!"

"We were so close to doubting her. Thank goodness we didn't."

Meanwhile, Aaron's personal doctor caught sight of a distinct emblem on Stephanie's medical kit—a symbol said to be reserved for Dr. Clayton alone.

His gaze sharpened as he studied the young woman standing before him. A wild suspicion sparked in his mind.

Before he could stop himself, he blurted out with excitement, "Miss, are you acquainted with Dr. Clayton by any chance?"