Conan: What alias? That's my struggle!

The opening was right at the temple.

Dark red blood slowly seeped from the round hole, flowing down Gin's cheek, past his ear, and dripping onto the white pillow.

One drop, two drops, three drops.

The electrocardiogram on the monitor was still beating, the waveform wasn't very stable, but it was still beating. The blood pressure was dropping.

At this point, the beleaguered Gin's blood pressure had already dropped below 90 and was still falling. His heart rate was accelerating: 110, 115, 120.

He is still alive.

But they won't live long.

"Someone come quick!" Lin Ye's voice boomed in the empty ward. "The patient has a gunshot wound to the head and needs immediate medical attention! Someone come right away!"

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Shiratori arrived first. He stood at the door and his expression changed when he saw Gin on the hospital bed.

"Is this person still alive?"

He had seen many corpses and many people on the verge of death, but he had rarely seen a person with a gunshot wound to the head still having an electrocardiogram.

I really think the situation is strange.

"Wait a minute!"

Kogoro Mouri was the second to arrive. He was panting heavily and kept shouting "Don't run!" But when he saw Gin on the hospital bed...

The sound got stuck in my throat.

"There was a shooting here... I knew it." Shinichi Kudo followed behind, his expression calmer than Shiratori and Kogoro Mouri, but his brows were furrowed. His gaze moved from Gin's face to the monitor, and then from the monitor to Lin Ye.

At this point, Shinichi Kudo didn't know Gin yet, so his emotions wouldn't change drastically.

"Make way! Make way!"

The nurses rushed over pushing the emergency cart.

Someone turned on the ward lights, the blinding white light illuminating every corner. Someone began tearing open the dressing packaging, someone started preparing IV drips, and someone else was calling for anesthesiologists and neurosurgeons. Everything proceeded in an orderly fashion amidst the chaos.

It was like an emergency drill that had been rehearsed countless times in advance.

Lin Ye stood beside the hospital bed, looking down at Gin's pale face. Blood was still seeping from his temples, and the dressing was soaked through in less than a minute.

The numbers on the monitor continued to drop: 82 systolic blood pressure, 130 heart rate. He reached out and pressed on Gin's carotid pulse. The pulse was weak, like a nearly dried-up river struggling to keep flowing forward with its last trickle of water in its deepest part.

The wheels of the stretcher rolled rapidly over the paving stones.

A nurse ran alongside with an IV bag in her hand, while another nurse pressed her hand against the gauze on Gin's temple—the gauze was already red and raw.

Blood seeped from between her fingers, dripping onto the white sheets, drop after drop. The anesthesiologist ran ahead, shouting, "Make way, make way!"

The sound echoed back and forth in the corridor several times.

Lin Ye followed beside the stretcher, the hem of her white coat fluttering around her knees. The operating room door was kicked open, and the stretcher slid inside. The instant the operating lights were switched on, the white light illuminated Gin's face, making it appear completely bloodless.

"Vitality signs?" The anesthesiologist had already begun connecting the monitor.

"Blood pressure 60, heart rate 148, respiration rate 30."

"Blood oxygen?"

"Undetectable."

Lin Ye stood by the operating table, looking at the wound on Gin's temple. The bullet had entered from the right side; the entrance was small, the edges clean, and there were no burn marks around it. Blood was still seeping out, not gushing, but slowly, steadily, like the seepage from a spring. He turned to look at the circulating nurse.

"Where is Dr. Fujita, the neurosurgeon?"

"He's already on his way," the circulating nurse replied. "He just got home when I called, he should be—"

Before he could finish speaking, the operating room door opened. A man in his fifties walked in, his hair graying, wearing black-rimmed glasses, and dressed in casual clothes under his white coat, with sneakers on his feet—clearly he had come directly from home. He was the head of neurosurgery at Beika Hospital, surnamed Fujita, and had worked in this field for nearly thirty years.

"What's going on?" Fujita walked to the operating table, took the gloves handed to him by the scrub nurse, and looked down at Gin's wound as he put them on.

"Gunshot wound, right temporal approach, bullet lodged in the frontal lobe. Preoperative CT showed intracranial hematoma and midline shift of more than one centimeter." Lin Ye handed over the CT scan, speaking quickly but clearly. "Blood pressure dropped as low as 35, and I received two units of red blood cells. It's currently stable at around 90."

Fujita took the film, glanced at it under the operating light, put it down, and held out his hand. The scrub nurse handed him the scalpel.

Under the operating lights, everyone's eyes were focused on Fujita's hands. His movements were slow, but each one was precise, like something out of a textbook. The scalpel cut through the scalp, the drill made holes in the skull, the bone flap was lifted, and the dura mater was cut open. Every step was fluid and seamless, without any unnecessary procedures.

Lin Ye stood in the corner, leaning against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his white coat. He saw the bullet embedded in the cortex of the frontal lobe, and the hematoma pushing the brain tissue to the side. Fujita's fingers moved through Gin's brain, as if defusing a bomb, each touch as light as could be, as precise as could be.

Halfway through the surgery, the monitor suddenly screamed. Blood pressure dropped to 40, and heart rate surged to 160.

"The bleeding has increased!"

Fujita didn't even look up. "Attractor."

"This guy's really tough, but his blood pressure is still dropping." The anesthesiologist's voice was a little louder than before. "Norepinephrine didn't work either."

"Push it again."

"I tried pushing it, but it still didn't work."

Fujita stopped, looked up at the anesthesiologist, then lowered his head and continued. His tweezers found the bleeding point, clamped it, and applied electrocautery to stop the bleeding.

The blood pressure remained at 35 for about 40 seconds.

No one spoke in the operating room except for the screeching of the monitors and the hissing of the suction device. Forty seconds later, the blood pressure began to rise: fifty, sixty, seventy.

The monitor's beeping stopped and was replaced by a regular beeping sound.

When the bullet was removed, the scrub nurse held it with tweezers and placed it on a tray. It was a nine-millimeter bullet, flattened by the skull, its surface stained with blood, and it gleamed a dark, leaden gray under the operating lights.

Fujita completed the entire surgery in forty minutes. When he finished the last stitch, he placed the needle holder on the tray, stepped back, and took off his blood-stained gloves.

"Skull closure complete!"

He glanced at the monitor.

"Vital signs are stable, transfer to ICU."

This is perhaps the true mark of a great physician; Lin Ye has certainly broadened his horizons.

The bewildered intern, Lin Ye, walked over from the corner and looked down at Gin's pupils. They were about the same size and reflected light. He turned to Fujita and nodded.

"Thanks for your hard work."

Fujita removed his mask, revealing a face slightly tired from prolonged concentration. "Who is this guy? Gunshot wound, and the police haven't even arrived?"

"Still under investigation."

Lin Ye didn't explain further.

He was inwardly marveling at Gin's incredible luck.

It is a legendary, durable king.