Conan: What alias? That's my struggle!

Lin Ye stood in front of the mirror in the thoracic surgeon's office at Beihu Hospital.

He fastened the last button of his white coat.

The man in the mirror looked to be in his mid-twenties. His hair was neatly combed, and his eyes behind his glasses were slightly red from lack of sleep, but he still managed to present a smart and energetic appearance.

"When I encounter patients with uncertain conditions, I suggest they transfer to another hospital." Lin Ye blinked at the mirror to make sure he looked like a normal, professional, and trustworthy doctor, not a transmigrator who had just knocked the organization's number one henchman into the hospital last night and received a call from the Boss.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the office door.

Patients were already waiting in the corridor.

The Department of Thoracic Surgery at Beika Hospital is quite well-known throughout Tokyo, and the name Hashimoto Rinyo is the most prominent name in this well-known department.

Monday mornings are his specialist clinic days, and appointments are booked up a week in advance. The chairs in the corridor are filled with patients and their families who have come from all over the country.

"Come on, let me play the expert!"

Lin Ye sat down in the consultation room, turned on the computer, and opened the schedule.

The first patient was a 65-year-old retired teacher who complained of chest pain for three months. Lin Ye looked at the CT scan he brought; there was a two-centimeter-diameter nodule in the upper left lung with irregular edges and spiculated margins. As he looked at that shadow, the imaging knowledge he had learned in the training space came to mind—not something systematically taught, but something he had accumulated little by little through countless simulated diagnoses.

Spiraling at the edges of the lungs, lobulation, and pleural indentation are all typical signs of malignant tumors.

"Further examinations are required after hospitalization."

Lin Ye spoke, his tone calm and confident, "It's most likely early-stage lung cancer, but fortunately it was discovered early, and the prognosis after surgical removal is very good."

He did not use any subtle methods.

The old man's expression changed, and his daughter sitting next to him immediately teared up. Lin Ye looked at them, wanting to say something to comfort them, but the words stuck in his throat.

He is not the real Hashimoto Rinyo; he does not have decades of clinical experience, nor the warmth and depth that comes from years of navigating life and death.

Therefore, all he can do is tell the facts, without exaggeration, concealment, or false optimism.

"We will do our best."

Lin Ye made a guarantee.

The patient was speechless and could only accept it.

The second patient was a 42-year-old woman, an office worker, who complained of a mediastinal mass found during a physical examination. Lin Ye reviewed her scans and found a fist-sized tumor in the mediastinum, with clear borders, uniform density, and no surrounding infiltration. It was a thymoma, most likely a benign tumor.

However, surgical removal is still necessary because it will continue to grow and compress important surrounding structures.

"You need to be hospitalized." Lin Ye felt that his medical skills were decent. "But it's not an emergency. You can go back and arrange your work and family matters, and come back to be hospitalized next week."

The woman nodded, appearing calm.

But her hand was trembling slightly as she signed. When Lin Ye handed the pen back to her, she noticed that her nails were neatly trimmed and coated with a layer of clear nail polish, but a patch of polish had chipped off her thumb, revealing the pale nail bed underneath. She was nervous, but she didn't want anyone to notice.

The third patient was a 70-year-old woman with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease complicated by spontaneous pneumothorax, and her lung was compressed by 60%.

Lin Ye picked up the phone the moment she saw the video.

I called the inpatient department.

"Pneumothorax, you need to be hospitalized immediately and prepared for closed chest drainage." His voice was urgent, but not panicked; it was a calmness that showed he maintained a clear mind even in an emergency.

The old lady was taken away in a wheelchair.

The fourth, the fifth, and the sixth.

Lung cancer, esophageal cancer, mediastinal tumors, pneumothorax, rib fractures. Every patient enters this clinic with their own story, and every patient leaves with an admission slip or a prescription.

"My cooking skills seem to be alright."

Lin Ye sat in that chair, repeating similar actions over and over again—looking at the films, asking about the patient's medical history, writing the medical record, and issuing the hospital admission slip.

His handwriting was so messy that even he sometimes couldn't recognize it, but the nurse said that Dr. Hashimoto's handwriting had always been like that.

No one could understand it, but the pharmacy staff always could. At 12:20 PM, the last patient left the consultation room.

"Interns seem to be able to act as experts too."

Lin Ye leaned back in his chair, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Outside the window was the early autumn sky of Tokyo, a grayish-blue, with a few clouds drifting slowly by.

He looked at the clouds and suddenly felt a strong sense of unreality. Just a few hours ago, he was processing Gin's post-operative medical orders and wondering what Boss's phone call meant. Now he was sitting in an ordinary consulting room, facing a group of ordinary patients.

They were also writing ordinary medical records.

"I'm really developing a split personality."

Lin Ye sighed.

Two worlds overlapped within him.

He put his glasses back on and picked up the next patient's medical record.

A label with the patient's basic information was affixed to the cover. Lin Ye opened the medical record, his gaze falling on the name column on the first page, and his hand stopped.

He hadn't seen the name before, but that wasn't what made him stop. What stopped him was a small mark written in pencil next to the name. It was a circle with the letter B inside.

Lin Ye stared at the mark for three seconds, then looked up at the doorway. A man in a dark gray suit walked in; he was about fifty years old, of medium build, with an ordinary face—the kind of person you'd easily lose in a crowd. He carried a black briefcase, walked to the consultation table, and sat down.

"Dr. Hashimoto, hello." The man's voice was gentle, with just the right amount of respect. "I've been feeling some discomfort in my chest lately, and I'd like to ask you to take a look."

Lin Ye looked into his eyes. The eyes were ordinary, brown irises, normal pupils, showing no abnormalities. But Lin Ye saw something in those eyes—calm. A calm that wasn't ordinary, an almost perfect calm. A patient truly seeking medical help, upon seeing the doctor, will more or less reveal some emotions. Expectation, anxiety, tension, unease, even indifference. But this man's eyes were empty, like a stagnant pool.

"Where do you feel unwell?" Lin Ye asked, her tone exactly the same as when she asked other patients.

"Here," the man pointed to his left chest, "it hurts occasionally, not a sharp pain, but a dull, uncomfortable feeling."

Lin Ye took out a stethoscope and asked the man to unbutton his shirt. The stethoscope's chest piece pressed against the man's chest, the cool metal causing the man's body to tense slightly. Lin Ye listened carefully; the heartbeat and breathing sounds were normal, nothing unusual.

"Let's get an electrocardiogram and a chest X-ray," Lin Ye said, opening the examination form on the computer.

The man took the examination form, stood up, and bowed slightly: "Thank you, Dr. Hashimoto."

He turned and walked out of the consultation room.

Lin Ye watched his retreating figure, her gaze lingering on his right hand. That hand held a briefcase, and the way her fingers held it was different from how ordinary people carried briefcases.

This person.

Perhaps he's an assassin too.