AMIRA
12- August 2025, 19:21 pm
It was yet another one of those rainy monsoon days in Bombay where there was an own gloominess about the day.
I trudge up the stairs of St. Matthews Hospital. I reach the 10th floor, which is where my cabin is. I prepare myself to start this new internship here. The air here smells as sweet as cinnamon. The peace didn’t seem to last quite long as I heard the emergency button going off. I get a text on my phone saying there’s a critical patient coming in and I have to be ready in the Operation Theatre.
I hurry to the operation theatre. I see a man with bullet wounds near his right arm and the left part of his upper abdomen.
The surgical team is already scrubbed in. The anesthesiologist is at the head of the table, checking vitals on the monitor- heart rate 140, blood pressure dropping, oxygen saturation struggling at 88.
“He’s tachycardic and hypotensive,” I hear the senior doctor, Anurag, mutter. “Possible hypovolemic shock.”
The scrub nurse calls out, “Scalpel!” The attending surgeon slices down the midline in a swift, practised movement. Blood wells up immediately, and suction is thrust into my hands.
“Check the spleen first.” the attending nurse barks. “These left upper quadrant injuries usually tear the spleen or stomach.”
I lean closer, trying not to breathe too loudly under the mask as the suction tube slurps away the pooling blood. Dr. Anurag’s gloved hands are fast, precise, moving aside loops of intestine.
“No major vascular hit here,” he announces. “But we’ve got a perforation in the stomach wall. Prep for repair.”
Across the table, another resident is controlling bleeding in the arm wound, clamping a small artery. The words, “ligate that vessel” float through the air like something out of a foreign language, but I find myself catching on.
“Keep the pressure up,” the anesthesiologist calls. “He’s still unstable.”
The atmosphere in the room is taut, every beep of the monitor like a metronome counting down a final note.
After about half an hour more of suction, stitching and taking out the bullets, the surgery was over. The attending nurse finished stitching up the abdomen then the arm.
The 3 hour surgery finally ended.
All of us walk out of the operation theatre breathing a sigh of relief. One more successful operation.
“Good work everyone! You all did a great job.” Dr. Anurag appreciates.
“Sir, due to all our residents and nurses busy with either monitoring shifts or in surgeries, we have run short of staff to monitor Mr. Rehman.” A nurse hurries.
“Dr. Vyas, could you please take the day shift for him, I will arrange someone else for the night shift?”
“Of course, doctor.” I nod and give a smile.
The nurse gives me the patient’s room number and details.
I reach room number 73. I look around and for a moment I thought that I was in a hotel suite. This patient clearly must be filthy rich for spending this much money on a hospital room.
According to the reports, our patient here is Azaan Rehman. I take in the sight of him and I have to admit I forgot to breathe for a second. He is effortlessly the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
He has edge sharp features, silky black hair and he is lean and muscular has hell. He also has a black tattoo tracing the veins of his good hand.
It’s been about an hour after the surgery. I sit down in the chair next to his bed and read a book to pass my time as our patient here will at least take a solid 3 hours to recover from the heavy anesthesia.
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20:12 pm
The door to the room opens and shuts with a swift click. I see a man walking towards me. He is tall, well-built and wearing a suit. He seems Russian.
“Are you a relative of Mr. Rehman?” I ask politely
Within a few long strides he crosses over the room and stands in front of me. He grabs me by my throat and lifts me in the air. I feel as if all the air in me left.
“Now, girl, when he wakes up you tell him, I need my men and I need my artillery. If I don’t receive them by tomorrow night, you’ll die, he’ll die, they’ll all die.” He growls in his Russian accent.
I’m coughing, struggling for air.
“Is that understood?” He lowers me a little bit.
I nod my head vigorously.
He takes out his knife and makes a cross on the drywall.
And then he suddenly lets go off my throat and I fall to the ground, gasping for air.
I feel numb as my world fades to black.
