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

"You could write Victoria or Julie..."

"I object."

The head of the surgical department slammed his hand on the table.

He was seventy-two years old, with completely white temples, and had performed thousands of surgeries. He was the only old man present who wasn't afraid to offend anyone.

"Surgical records are legal documents, not press releases."

"I've seen the video recording. It was Lynn who performed the chest surgery, Lynn who located the bullet, and Lynn who stitched up the blood vessels. You want me to sign a statement saying that someone else was the surgeon?"

He paused for two seconds.

"You can remove my name from the supervision section. But you can't make me sign a false surgical record."

The meeting room fell silent.

The council representative spoke up.

"No one asked for false documentation. We're discussing the presentation method. Dr. Julian Cabot performed crucial surgical field exposure and assisted procedures during the surgery, isn't that a fact?"

The head of the surgical department glanced at him.

"He did the hook for nineteen minutes."

"Retractors are also an indispensable part of surgery. Without proper exposure of the surgical field, even the most exquisite suturing cannot be performed."

The council representative smiled and said, "I believe that emphasizing teamwork in external communications is fair to every participant."

He did not mention the name "Cabot".

But everyone present understood.

Julian's great-grandfather donated the entire exterior wall of the east wing of this hospital.

His mother is the vice president of the board of trustees of New York-Presbyterian Hospital.

The council representatives were sent by the Cabot family.

The head of the surgical department did not speak again.

He knew how it would end up.

Surgical records cannot be falsified; the legal risks are too great.

However, the narrative focus will be carefully adjusted in press releases, hospital statements, and future academic papers.

Lynn will become "one of the team members".

Julian will be in the spotlight.

The vice president put his glasses back on and turned to page five of the surgical record.

"There's one more thing."

She pointed to a line of text: "Manual mediastinal probing, 27-second localization of a pulmonary artery branch tear. Can anyone here explain how an intern mastered this technique?"

The head of the cardiology department coughed again.

"Blindly probing with bare hands is not a new thing; it was even in battlefield surgical manuals from the last century. But modern cardiothoracic surgery no longer teaches it. We have CT scans, intraoperative ultrasound, and interventional navigation; nobody needs to use their fingers to feel inside the mediastinum."

"Who did he learn from?"

The head of the trauma department took over the conversation.

He was the one who blocked the cart last night, and he was less willing to talk about what happened last night than anyone else present, so he chose to muddy the waters.

"I've heard that this technology is still being used in some informal places."

He carefully chose his words, "Chinatown. Flushing. The South Side of the Bronx. Those unlicensed clinics, without imaging equipment, where most patients are undocumented immigrants and gang members."

"Those 'black doctors' in those places treat gunshot and knife wounds year-round. There are no CT scans available, so they can only rely on their fingers."

The atmosphere in the meeting room changed.

The subtext is clear: this kind of technique is only practiced in shady clinics. A doctor trained at a proper medical school wouldn't know how to do this.

Unless there's something wrong with his background.

The council representative tapped his fingers lightly twice on the table.

"Has a background check been done on Lynn?"

"Standard hiring process. NYU School of Medicine, above-average grades, no disciplinary record. Second-generation Chinese immigrant, parents deceased, $350,000 in student loans."

The council representative nodded without saying anything.

But his expression said a lot: a Chinese intern who had mastered techniques that even top surgeons couldn't.

The head of the cardiology department frowned and began to do some calculations.

Manual palpation for locating the mediastinum requires a level of familiarity with the anatomical structures that is akin to muscle memory.

Textbooks are insufficient, and so are cadaver labs; tissues soaked in formalin lack elasticity and temperature, making them completely different from living organisms.

Animal models don't work either, because the septal structure of pigs and sheep is too different from that of humans.

The opportunity to practice on a living person, and to practice many times, is very rare.

In the training standards for field surgery, at least fifty unarmed blind probes are required to qualify.

Lynn is twenty-seven years old this year, and he has explored the partitions of fifty living people.

"That's impossible."

Everyone looked at him.

"The learning curve is too steep. It's not a matter of talent, it's a matter of sample size. You need a lot of cases to build tactile memory, and I don't believe a 27-year-old has that capability."

The vice dean put down his pen.

"you mean?"

The head of the cardiology department glanced at the calculating faces around him and swallowed the rest of his sentence.

He was going to say: This young man has a problem.

But he realized that saying those words would be like handing a knife to the council representatives.

"It's worth paying attention to," he finally said.

The dean did not express any substantive opinions throughout the meeting.

"That's all for today. The surgical records will be filed according to the actual situation, and the public relations and legal departments will jointly draft and decide on the external statements later."

The dean stood up and glanced at the council representative.

"Give my regards to your client."

The council representative smiled and nodded.

At the same time.

Emergency Department Lounge.

Lynn was lying on a cot in the duty room when the door was suddenly pushed open.

Julian Cabot stood in the doorway, holding a tablet and a Starbucks.

"Here are four servings of concentrate for you."

Julian placed the coffee on the bedside table, sat down opposite him, and opened his tablet, which already displayed an outline.

"I checked your blind probing technique last night, and there are almost no case reports of the same level in the English literature. This is an excellent opportunity for publication."

His eyes were bright as he spoke, and he spoke very quickly.

She was a completely different person from how clumsy she was on the operating table.

Julian Cabot was indeed a genius in the academic field.

"I recently published a paper in The Lancet on the timing of ECMO weaning. Although yours may not be published in The Lancet, it is still a very impressive technique."

"You provide the technical details, I'll handle the rest."

His chin was slightly raised.

Julian sees it as an invitation for an intern to join him on the fast track to becoming the youngest attending physician in the metropolitan area.

It's like a windfall!

Lynn took a sip of coffee and frowned.

Who wrote it?

"I'm responsible for writing and submitting the articles, as is customary—"

"What did you do during the surgery?"

Julian stopped talking.

There was a two-second silence.

"...Pinky promise," he said, giving the answer himself.

Lynn raised his right hand.

The five fingers are held together, with the fingertips slightly bent.

It was exactly the same as when I probed the mediastinum last night.

"You write, but the original is mine."

Julian looked down at his hands.

Clean and tidy.

He spent four years at Harvard and four years at Johns Hopkins, publishing three articles in top journals and one in The Lancet.

He can build a complete framework for a case report in thirty minutes.

But his hands couldn't do what Lynn did.

He always knew that he was an academic genius but a technical idiot.

Previously, he admired Victoria, who was the most hardworking, proud, and skilled attending physician of the younger generation.

So he always wanted to have the surgery with her, and to do it as well as Victoria.

But even someone like Victoria was willing to condescend to be Lynn's assistant?

"...Okay. You write, I'll communicate."

Julian left helplessly.

Lynn picked up the iced Americano, four shots of espresso.

Pshaw, who are you trying to make miserable?

You bought such good beans, but you don't even know how to brew them yourself, and you even gave me Starbucks.

This young master has such low emotional intelligence.

The administration building has seven floors.

Most of the people in the meeting room had left, leaving only the vice president and representatives of the council.

The vice president locked the surgical records in a folder and stood up.

"Just a heads up: if Chief of Staff Grant's letter is about teamwork, everything will be fine. But if he mentions Lynn's name in the letter..."

"So, what do you say?"

"That means the Speaker's office has identified Lynn as their savior. If you try to shift the narrative focus to Julian, Grant will be the first to object."

The council representative fastened the clasp on his briefcase.

"I'm just conveying some concerns from the council."

"I know you're just relaying a message."

The vice dean interrupted him, walked to the door, glanced back at him, and said, "But what you convey is never just words."

The door closed.

The council representative sat alone in the empty meeting room.

He took out his phone and dialed a number.

"...It was me. The surgical records can't be changed; that old man in the surgery department won't cooperate. But the press release can be manipulated. Also, that Lynn."

He glanced out the window.

The Manhattan skyline shimmered white in the October sun.

"Check it out."