Oscar's voice was completely shot. "The recipient is already on ECMO! But he can't hold out much longer! His liver and kidneys are starting to fail!
"A surgical team of 30 people has been waiting here for four hours! Just tell me exactly when the heart is going to get here!"
I opened my mouth, but not a single syllable came out.
What was I supposed to say?
Was I supposed to tell him that the heart was sitting on a tray in an interrogation room, already reduced to a discolored piece of dead tissue?
"Dr. Hooper…" My voice trembled. "The heart… It's already…"
I couldn't finish. I covered my face and broke down sobbing.
The other end of the line went dead silent for a long time. So long that I thought the call had dropped.
Then, Oscar spoke, his voice tightly strained. "Conner, do you have any idea who this recipient is? Do you know how long the entire hospital has been preparing for this surgery? Do you know—"
Before he could finish, the rapid beeping of equipment alarms blared in the background.
Then came a nurse's panicked shout, "Blood pressure is unmeasurable! Heart rate is zero! Dr. Hooper! The ECMO can't hold him anymore!"
Oscar didn't say another word to me.
The phone was filled only with a chaotic mess of footsteps, machine alarms, and shouting.
After about two minutes, Oscar picked the phone back up. His voice had gone flat, completely devoid of any emotion. "Conner, the recipient suffered heart failure at 11:51 am. He has been pronounced dead. You're on your own now."
The line went dead.
I slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor.
My tears had run dry, leaving my eyes burning and raw. Every single joint in my body ached.
That was a human life.
A 72-year-old man who had waited eight months to find a matching heart was gone just like that.
The interrogator kept his head down, not daring to look at me.
Right then, a cold sneer came from the side. Edward set down his cup of coffee and clapped his hands. "Done with the show?"
He stood up from his chair and stretched. "Conner, your acting skills are honestly wasted at the operating table. Dead recipient? Heart failure? I bet every single one of those people is an actor you paid. Even the voiceovers at a funeral home aren't this professional."
He walked over to me, crouched down, and tapped my forehead with his finger. "Stop playing the victim, Conner. You think crying a little is going to fix this?
"Let me tell you, half a million people watched the live stream today. The hashtag 'DrugSmugglingDoctor' is already trending on social media. Your career is officially over."
I finally snapped back to reality.
I looked up and stared him straight in the eye. "Edward, that was a life. A living, breathing human life is gone because of your single kick. How does your conscience handle that?"
Edward blinked, then burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that he bent double. "Conscience? How much is a conscience even worth? Don't try to scare me with dead people, Conner.
"People die in hospitals every single day. What difference does one more or less make? Besides, who knows if that old guy is actually dead? For all I know, he's perfectly fine, and you're just trying to guilt-trip me."
He straightened up, pulled out his phone to check something, and clicked his tongue. "But look, Conner, let's not make things uglier than they need to be. After all, Sara is still waiting at home for news."
He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "You know very well that in the three years you've been married to Sara, that resettlement property has always been under your name.
"The 300 thousand dollars my dad's treatment cost came out of that property, too. Now that he's gone, shouldn't that apartment be handed back to our family?"
My eyes widened as I stared at him. "Y-you pulled this whole stunt at the train station today just for that apartment?"
Edward nodded. "Why else? You think I have nothing better to do than follow you all the way out here?"
Edward continued, "Sara told me if you wouldn't listen to reason, we'd have to do it the hard way. You're suspended, and your reputation is completely trashed. That apartment is useless to you now.
"Just sign the papers, transfer the deed over to my name, and I'll withdraw the report. I'll even help you clear your name online. If you don't…"
He flashed his phone. On the screen was a screenshot from his earlier live stream, capturing me kneeling on the floor, my face covered in dirt and tears.
"If you don't sign, these pictures go straight into your hospital's group chats. When that happens, you won't just be banned from surgery. Public backlash alone will drown you alive."
I clenched my fists so hard that my fingernails dug deep into my palms.
So that was it.
From the very beginning, Edward never cared about reporting drugs. His target was never the cooler. It was the apartment I had spent ten years of my salary saving up for.
In his eyes, that 72-year-old man and the heart that would've saved his life were nothing but leverage to force my hand.
"Edward, do you have any idea that you killed someone today? Do you have any concept of how important he was?" I asked.
Edward rolled his eyes, utterly annoyed. "Alright, cut the useless crap. Are you signing or not?
"If you're not, I'm leaving. Before I go, I'll start another live stream. This time, I'll say you don't just smuggle drugs; you take bribes under the table from patients' families—"
Suddenly, the heavy iron door of the interrogation room was violently thrown open. The hinges let out a piercing screech.
Down the hallway, the sound of dense, synchronized footsteps thundered toward us.
Those weren't dress shoes. They were combat boots.
The noise grew closer and louder, deafeningly intense. The very walls of the interrogation room seemed to vibrate with the force of it.
Startled, Edward dropped his cup of coffee. The liquid splashed all over his pants. "What the hell is going on out there?"
An instant later, a dozen special forces operators burst into the room, fully equipped with body armor and night-vision goggles, their weapons loaded.
Tactical flashlights mounted on their rifles swept beams of piercing light across the walls.
"Nobody move! Hands behind your heads!"
The interrogator and Edward were immediately slammed face-first onto the ground.
A soldier quickly shielded me, moving me to the corner of the room.
The commanding officer strode in behind them. He wore a pristine military uniform, a single gold star gleaming on his shoulder epaulet.
A brigadier general.
His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, and his lips were pressed into a thin line.
His gaze swept across the interrogation room and locked onto the metal tray on the desk.
As he stared at the heart—now a dull, dark purple and completely ruined—his spine went stiff.
Then, he turned around. His eyes scanned the people in the room, finally landing dead on Edward.
"Was it you?" His voice was low, vibrating with suppressed fury.
Pinned to the floor with his face pressed against the tile, Edward's eyes darted around frantically. "W-who the hell are you guys? What kind of stunt is this? Let me go! I'm calling the cops!"
The general walked over to him and crouched down. He spoke through clenched teeth. "Are you the one who kicked the cooler?"
Edward craned his neck, still defiant. "Yeah, I kicked it! So what? There were drugs in that box! I did you guys a favor by reporting him!"
The general closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, they were rimmed red.
He stood up and faced the entire interrogation room. Every single word he spoke struck like a hammer.
"The recipient of that heart was Professor Michael Ellis. He was a professor at Calenor Academy of Engineering, a recipient of the National Merit Medal for his contributions to our nuclear and satellite programs, and a winner of the nation's highest science and technology lifetime achievement award.
"Professor Ellis dedicated his entire life to this country. Yet, 15 minutes ago, he passed away on the operating table because this heart never arrived."
He turned around and stared at Edward's coffee-stained face. "It was you. You killed Professor Ellis!"
