American Medicine: I survived the death knell thanks to the devil.

The patient jumped off the stretcher, stepped barefoot onto the cold floor tiles, stumbled for a moment, but regained his balance.

Ketorhoacid suppressed the pain, while adrenaline made up for the rest.

"Fuck!"

"Metropolitan Hospital isn't on my health insurance reimbursement list!"

The departed patient left behind only this sentence.

Intern nurse Lucy was terrified, while Lynn, who was standing nearby, originally had the opportunity to keep the patient.

but no.

He can cure patients, but he can't cure bills.

This person is not in immediate danger.

But if you get a medical loan, end up with a huge debt, can't make ends meet, and fall below the financial limit, then it's really dangerous.

The Black paramedic returned from the restroom. "Another one ran away?"

Lynn turned around and walked back to the hospital to fill out a report about the sudden incident.

He had just written two lines when the loudspeaker above his head suddenly blared.

"Level 1 traumatic activation—Level 1 traumatic activation—gunshot wound, penetrating chest wound—ETA two minutes—"

Level 1 trauma activation.

The highest level of trauma alert at the Metropolitan Public Hospital.

It means that the person who comes is on the verge of death.

Head nurse Patricia shouted into the walkie-talkie.

"Trauma Room One, everyone in position! Prepare the trolley! Notify the blood bank to prepare blood! Register the four units of type O negative blood first!"

The emergency room lobby looked like an overturned anthill.

Doctors, nurses, and respiratory therapists who were able to put down their work flocked to Trauma Room One from all directions.

When Lynn ran in after the crowd, there were already six men in black suits standing at the entrance of Trauma Room Number One.

Earphones, bulletproof vest, and a bulging waistband.

They are from the NYPD Intelligence Bureau, or a higher level of protection.

When Marcus, the last number one draft pick in the NBA, was brought in, he only had an agent with him.

Six police officers of this rank are only worthy of high-ranking government officials.

"Get out of the way—get out of the way—!"

The moment the stretcher was wheeled in through the emergency exit, Lynn saw the patient's face.

White male, around fifty years old.

Her gray hair was neatly styled, and even with bloodstains all over her face, one could still see the marks of years of meticulous care.

He was wearing a dark blue suit that had been cut open, with a bullet hole in his left chest, and the surrounding shirt was soaked in blood.

Trauma nurses reported the following data:

"A 52-year-old white male with a single puncture wound in the fourth intercostal space of his left chest."

"No, non-penetrating gunshot wound, no exit. Blood pressure 72/40, heart rate 138, oxygen 89, GCS: 9. Two large-bore intravenous access lines have been established on site, and two liters of lactated Ringer's solution have been administered."

Non-penetrating wound.

The bullet is still inside.

The chief resident of trauma surgery was the first to rush to the bedside, but just as he picked up the ultrasound probe to perform a FAST (Fear-Sensitive Ultrasound Assessment) examination, he was stopped by a man in a suit.

"I need to confirm who the highest-ranking doctor present is?"

The man paused for a moment, then said, "I'm the chief resident in trauma surgery."

"Where is the attending physician?"

"They're already on their way."

"We'll talk about it when the doctor arrives; you're not qualified."

The man in the suit stood expressionless beside the bed.

Five attending physicians arrived one after another.

There were surgeons from trauma surgery, cardiothoracic surgery, vascular surgery, and the emergency department, as well as the head of anesthesiology who rushed down from the operating room upstairs without even taking off his surgical cap.

Five attending physicians surrounded a body that was losing blood, but none of them made a move.

"First, do a CT scan to determine the trajectory and extent of the damage."

The attending physician in the cardiothoracic surgery department was the first to speak.

"His blood pressure is 72/40. You're going to take him to the CT scan room? Who will be responsible if his heart stops halfway there?"

The attending physician in the trauma surgery department immediately refuted this.

"Then let's do a FAST test first to check for pericardial effusion."

"You dare to open your chest after performing FAST? What if the bullet is lodged near the aortic arch? Blindly opening your chest is tantamount to sending him to his death."

"He'll die anyway even without open-chest surgery!"

"He's not an ordinary patient!"

The attending physician in cardiothoracic surgery lowered his voice, but every attending physician heard him.

"He is Richard Dawson."

Richard Dawson.

Speaker of the New York City Council.

He is the second most powerful person in New York City, after the mayor.

They control the agenda-setting power of 51 council seats, the negotiating power over the city's budget of over $110 billion, and the order of succession in the event of a mayor's absence.

Just last month, he presided over the passage of a new healthcare funding bill, which provides an additional $300 million in emergency room funding for public hospitals throughout the city.

Metropolitan Hospitals is one of the beneficiaries.

If he dies in this bed.

No one dared to think about it further.

The five attending physicians looked at each other, none of them willing to be the first to extend their hand.

They kept talking, appearing to be trying hard to find a solution.

"First stabilize the vital signs, then wait for the imaging results..."

Blood pressure 68/35.

It's still falling.

Heart rate 147.

Blood oxygen levels dropped to 85.

For every second that the debate continues, Speaker Dawson loses several milliliters of blood.

And the five attending physicians, the top surgical team in the metropolitan area, are holding an academic seminar here.

Lynn stood in the corner of the trauma room.

He saw it very clearly.

The wound was not penetrating; the bullet hole was located in the fourth intercostal space on the left side of the chest, slightly lateral to the midline of the clavicle.

At this angle of incidence, the bullet most likely passed through the upper lobe of the left lung and may have grazed a branch of the pulmonary artery or a blood vessel near the left hilum.

If the bullet is lodged near the mediastinum and does not move, the greatest threat is not blood loss itself, but respiratory and circulatory failure caused by progressive hemothorax.

No CT scan is needed.

FAST is not needed.

What is needed is to immediately open the chest, make a left anterolateral incision in the fourth intercostal space, explore the trajectory of the bullet by hand, identify the source of the injury, and control the bleeding.

"Fingertip Blunt Dissection Technique - Master Level" allows his fingers to replace some of the functions of instruments in the surgical field.

On that bloody battlefield in his chest cavity, he relied on touch to locate bullets and bleeding points.

This is his greatest advantage.

It is currently the only possible solution to save lives in this room.

Lynn took a deep breath.

To get out of the emergency room as soon as possible! To escape the life-threatening situation!

done.

He pushed aside the nurse beside him and strode toward the trauma bed.

"Excuse me."

Everyone turned to look at him.

A junior intern is trying to squeeze into the circle of five attending physicians.

The attending physician in cardiothoracic surgery frowned: "Which group are you in?"

Lin didn't even have time to get to the bedside.

A hand reached out from the side and pressed firmly against his chest.

He was a middle-aged man wearing a gray three-piece suit and gold-rimmed glasses.

His position was delicate; he wasn't in the medical area, but he was only a step away from the patient.

None of the bodyguards stopped him.

This indicates that his rank is higher than that of a bodyguard.

"Who are you?"

The man in the gray suit glanced down at the ID card on Lynn's chest.

"Intern?"

His expression changed, the change was very subtle.

His pupils dilated slightly, like a gambler who had just received a winning hand.

"Want to try it out?"

The gray-suited man's tone didn't sound like he was trying to stop him.

It's more like a confirmation.

Just then, the familiar text reappeared.

The Demon Worldline Convergence System has been activated.

[The Demon Identified: Neil Grant (Chief of Staff, Office of the Speaker of the New York City Council)]

[Race: Demon of Power (Greed, Wrath)]

(Neil Grant: "An intern? Perfect. Let him go. If he survives, the credit is mine, it's because I made a good eye. If he dies... even better! Anyway, those stupid attending physicians are still trying to shirk responsibility. Just push it onto them.")