Sophia glanced at the wall clock—11:07 AM.
The surgery was scheduled for 1 PM. That gave her less than two hours to finish reviewing the patient's file, attend a brief board meeting, and coordinate with her surgical team. Everything had to run smooth. Precise.
She pushed open the door to the consultation room, where Dr. Rami and Clara were already waiting.
"You're late," Rami teased, flipping a page from the surgical notes.
"I'm three minutes early," she corrected, pulling a chair.
Clara handed her the updated chart. "Labs just came in. No allergic markers. BP stabilized after last night's meds."
Sophia scanned the results in silence. "Perfect. We'll move ahead with general anesthesia, standard protocol. Clamp and plate—nothing fancy."
"What about the old shoulder injury?" Clara asked.
Sophia tapped her pen. "It's healed, but I'll be careful near the capsule. If there's tissue fragility, we switch to the backup plan. I want sutures prepped, not just plates."
"Already flagged it with the OR nurse," Rami said. "Team A's ready. You want the intern observing?"
Sophia raised an eyebrow. "Do I want someone fainting in my OR again?"
Rami smirked. "She survived the last one."
"She didn't survive my patience." Sophia closed the file. "No interns today. This is a delicate job."
"Understood," Clara said, taking back the notes. "Board meeting in fifteen."
"I'll make it quick."
Rami stood as well. "Do me a favor, Sophia. Try not to terrify the board. It's still Thursday."
She gave him a look. "If they ask idiotic questions, I make no promises."
"Fair."
They stepped out into the corridor, the quiet shuffle of nurses passing by. Sophia's stride was firm, controlled. Her focus was shifting—locking in.
In exactly one hour and fifty minutes, someone's mobility would depend on her hands. There was no room for second-guessing.
She headed toward the conference room with her thoughts already halfway in the OR.
11:15 AM – Conference Room B, West Wing
The hum of conversation faded as Sophia entered the room. Seven pairs of eyes turned toward her. Some respectful. Some calculating.
"Dr. Harris," Chairman Densley greeted with a tight smile. "Always punctual."
She took her seat at the head of the table. "Time is the one thing I don't waste, Chairman."
A few members exchanged knowing glances. They were used to her tone—measured, no-nonsense.
The agenda was already projected on the screen:
1.
Orthopedic Wing Expansion
2.
Equipment Maintenance Funding
3.
Research Grant Allocations
4.
Senior Consultant Retention Plan
"We'll keep this brief," Densley said. "You have a surgery scheduled."
Sophia gave a nod. "Let's begin."
First Point – Expansion
"Your department submitted a proposal for another theater room," one of the board members began, "but it overlaps with cardiology's equipment upgrade."
"I'm aware," Sophia said. "Which is why I submitted a breakdown of surgical volume, case urgency, and waiting time projections.
Our average delay per patient has increased by 28% over the last quarter. That's not sustainable."
"Still—"
She cut him off, politely but firmly. "We cannot compromise critical care for logistical politics."
Silence.
Densley cleared his throat. "We'll review the numbers again. What about point two?"
Second Point – Maintenance
"Outdated monitors in OR-2," Sophia said. "They've malfunctioned twice in the last month. If this continues, it's not a budget issue—it's a lawsuit waiting to happen."
One of the older members nodded slowly. "Noted. Clara filed the report as well. We'll prioritize that."
Third Point – Research
"We're cutting two minor grants," said Densley. "Focus will be on trauma and pediatric."
Sophia didn't argue. She only leaned forward. "Fine. But give me final say on the research hires under trauma. I want fresh eyes, not recycled CVs."
"You'll have it."
Fourth Point – Retention
A pause.
"Sophia," said Dr. Mirren gently, "we've noticed you've declined two mentor pairing requests this month.
Younger consultants want to learn from you. We'd like you to reconsider."
"I don't train those who aren't willing to work twice as hard as me."
"That's... a high bar," another member mumbled.
She met his eyes without blinking. "It's called saving lives. Not a student club."
The chairman raised his hand to stop any further comment.
"We won't take more of your time. Surgery's in forty-five minutes."
Sophia stood. "Send me the minutes. I'll review them after."
She pushed away from the table, every step echoing resolve.
By the time her coat flared behind her in a practiced sweep, her mind was already in the sterile chill of the OR.
Time to scrub in.
11:50 AM – Pre-op Room, Surgical Wing
The surgical team was already prepping when Sophia stepped in, tying her hair back into a sleek, clinical bun.
Her presence brought an immediate shift in the room—conversation faded, movements tightened. She didn't need to speak to command attention.
"Vitals?" she asked briskly.
"Patient's stable. BP 123/82. Heart rate 78," replied Dr. Eliah, her anesthesiologist, flipping through the chart.
"Pre-meds administered?" she asked, already pulling on her gloves.
"Yes, thirty minutes ago. He's calm."
Sophia stepped closer to the table where the young man—early 30s—lay unconscious, prepped for surgery.
A motorbike accident. Compound femur fracture. Internal bleeding risk moderate.
She studied his chart one last time, checking the scan, the notes, then looked up. "What's our blood backup?"
"Two units O+, cross-matched and ready," Eliah replied.
Sophia gave a short nod. "Good."
Dr. Han, her second assist, looked up. "You'll be leading?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Do you plan to stop me?"
He smirked faintly, shaking his head. "Never."
The scrub nurse approached. "Dr. , would you like a last briefing?"
"I've written the book on this," Sophia replied dryly. "Just have the retractors ready when I say. No one guesses today."
They moved into the OR.lights bathed the room in sterile intensity, making the steel gleam and the patient's skin pale as parchment.
She steadied her hands—not from fear, but from the echo of a different surgery. One that hadn't ended this clean.
Inside her mind, everything narrowed to precision.
"Scalpel," she said, voice calm.
Steel met flesh.
Time melted into muscle memory.
"Retractor… suction… clamp."
The team moved as one. Sophia's hands—steady, graceful, exact—cut, retracted, sutured, sealed.
Her mind operated like clockwork, but her eyes stayed alert—every shift in pressure, every nuance in color, she noticed.
One hour in, the fracture was aligned, the internal bleed cauterized, bone secured.
"Eliah?" she asked.
"Vitals holding. No drop."
"Good."
She leaned in, placed the final stitch, and pulled back slowly.
"Close him up," she said softly. "Well done, everyone."
The team exhaled. Some smiled.
Sophia stepped back, stripped off her gloves, and looked at the clock.
1:26 PM.
The fracture held, the bleeding stopped—but tension gripped her shoulders like it never learned to let go. Victory never felt like triumph. Just another expectation met.
As she walked toward the scrub sink, Eliah joined her. "That was clean. You barely blinked."
"Don't need to blink when you've seen worse," she said, her tone even.
He gave her a look. "You ever plan to take a break, Sophia?"
She dried her hands, not looking at him. "Not today."
And she walked out.