CHAPTER 1: THE RULES OF STERILIZATION
Part 1: The Prism of the Past
Torrential rain poured outside the Lam estate.
Inside a pristine, white room, a seven-year-old child sat motionless. No teddy bears, no building blocks—nothing bore the colors of childhood. Only the glint of stainless steel trays and moth specimens, pinned in ruthlessly straight lines.
Young Lam Ninh held a pair of medical forceps; his hands did not tremble as he adjusted the fragile, fractured wing of a moth.
In the adjacent room, his parents were debating a surgical case. Their voices were monotonous and dry, as if reading a report. No one asked if the child was hungry, if he was sad, or if he feared the dark.
Lam Ninh didn't need them to.
He didn't cry. He didn't fear. He was simply busy establishing order for his own world—a world where everything was clean, regular, and controllable.
Click.
The sound of the forceps being placed onto the stainless steel tray rang out sharply, solitary, like a proclamation.
Part 2: The Surgical Incision
Snap.
The sound of latex stretching taut before pressing firmly against the skin.
The boy Lam Ninh vanished, giving way to long, powerful hands donning size 7.5 surgical gloves.
The scent of ozone from that childhood room was now amplified, merging with the sting of antiseptic in the emergency department corridors.
The present-day Lam Ninh stood there, his white lab coat immaculate, without a single wrinkle.
The world outside was a chaotic mess. And he was the one chosen to sanitize it.
Part 3: The Encounter
The city's central hospital, 7:42 PM.
Bach Duong leaned against the corridor wall of Sector B, eyes tightly shut.
The first shift had lasted fourteen hours. The smell of antiseptic clung to his hair, his skin, every breath.
Then, another scent seeped in.
Not alcohol. Not povidone. It was clean, pure, and so frigid that it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
Ozone.
Bach Duong opened his eyes.
Three meters away, Lam Ninh stood with his back to the window. At his feet, a stray cat lay flat, letting out a weak cry.
Lam Ninh did not touch it. He simply looked down.
The cat shuddered. Then, it fled for its life, as if realizing the figure before it was not a "Savior," but a butcher contemplating the first incision.
Lam Ninh shifted his gaze from the cat's shadow and slowly approached Bach Duong.
The distance narrowed.
The scent of ozone besieged him, pinning him against the cold wall.
"Yes... Dr. Lam..." Bach Duong tried to steady himself, but his voice hitched for half a beat.
Lam Ninh did not answer. He raised his hand, placing it on Bach Duong's collar. His fingers, encased in sterile latex, brushed against the skin as he adjusted the crooked nametag.
"Do you know?" he said, his voice low and unhurried. "Every time I see something out of place, I feel the urge to return it to where it belongs."
He looked directly into Bach Duong's eyes. The pale brown gaze behind the lenses held no warmth, yet no threat. He looked like a doctor assessing a potential case.
"Your heart rate is at 105," he stated. "A bit fast. But it's no matter. You will get used to it."
He didn't say, "You will get used to me." But Bach Duong understood.
Lam Ninh turned and walked away. The hem of his white coat fluttered in the cold air.
He didn't tell him that he had memorized the frequency of his breathing ten minutes prior.
He didn't tell him that in his pocket lay a vial of anesthetic.
And Bach Duong never saw it—a silver suture, thin as a ghost's breath, clinging silently to his collar after Lam Ninh's touch.
The thread shimmered under the fluorescent light.
Beautiful. Fragile. Invisible—like a promise that would slowly tighten.
