Chapter 1
In the vibrant halls of Brookstone, Gideon Flint's voice resonated softly, calling her name, “Wendy...” with a tenderness that wrapped around her like a warm embrace. "He is renowned," people often whispered about him, "Master Gideon, the man of radiance, so elegant and captivating." However, they had not witnessed his demeanor under the stark lights of the surgery room, where his eyes—once bright—were now saturated with crimson, inheriting the desolation of his work. His real name was Cassian Brookstone. It was in an elevator of her apartment complex where Gideon first encountered her—Yvette Riverglow. “Your hands are beautiful,” she marveled sincerely, her gaze fixed on his. “May I... touch them?” Caught off guard, he paused. “I apologize,” she explained, blushing slightly, “I have a mild case of hand fetishism.” After a moment of contemplation, he replied, “I’m sorry, but I have a mild case of obsessive cleanliness.” After a pause, he added earnestly, “Would it be alright if I only let you touch them once?” Gideon Flint, the rockstar with a secret fascination for hands, found himself intrigued by his new neighbor, who possessed a pair of hands he was reluctant to let go. Later, in the sterile confines of the surgery room in their new home, chaos unfolded. Gideon stood with his back to her, a scalpel in hand, blood splattered across the floor and all around him. It appeared as if he had dismantled the broken remains of the stray dog they found just days prior, now a grotesque mass of sinews and bones. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice trembling as she took an involuntary step back. “Autopsy,” he responded flatly. Retreating further, she suddenly felt his grip, like steel, as he pushed her down onto the cold floor of the surgery room, tearing through her clothes. The dark, gruesome liquid soaked through the fabric, staining her porcelain skin with its malevolence. He whispered, “Yvette, you have the power to choose the kind of death I might have, and I wish for it to be under your embrace.” He continued, “Yvette, I am a man riddled with illness, drawn to crimson. My thirst for blood drives me to violence, and you—only you—are my source of life.” “Help me,” he pleaded, gripping her hand tight, “if you don’t hold on, after I slay every last woman that pulls me away, I will turn the blade upon myself.” Clenching his hand, she replied, “Cassian, there is blood everywhere, it will ruin my shoes. I need you to carry me.” For the first time in her life, she deeply loved a man enough to follow him into the depths of hell. And for the first time, he loved a woman enough to consider laying down the knife.
Chapter 2
In the cool months of March and April, a light drizzle fell, making the air feel a little damp. Outside the Infirmary, the operating room lights shone brightly, filling the sterile environment with the scent of disinfectant. The surgical lights above cast a steady, white glow on the operating table, illuminating the monitors that flickered with vital signs, data fluctuating rhythmically. Beep—beep—beep— In the hushed operating room, the rhythm of the monitor suddenly shifted, sounding an alarm. The patient's vital signs were experiencing rapid fluctuations, the readings accelerating unpredictably. “Doctor Yvonne, the patient's blood pressure has dropped suddenly!” a voice cried, interrupting the eerie stillness. “Doctor Yvonne, the heart rate is increasing!” The woman's tone grew increasingly frantic, spurred by the urgency of the situation. “Doctor Yvonne, oxygen saturation is declining!” “Doctor Yvonne—” Before she could finish, her voice slowed down, bringing an unexpected calm. “Quiet.” Her words were flat and devoid of emotion, yet they resonated with an unexpected softness, striking gently against the eardrums. Truly, she had a remarkable voice. Nurse Amelia found herself silenced, struck by her composure. The three or four healers clad in blue sterile surgical gowns appeared unfazed, moving methodically in conjunction with the focused doctor. The soft light graced the doctor's profile, highlighting her determined features under the sanitized mask. A fine sheen of sweat adorned her forehead, her skin pale and delicate in the operating room's illumination. Her brows were furrowed subtly, conveying a blend of grace and restrained authority, her eyes—deep, dark, and pure—were like ink that revealed not a hint of her inner feelings, carrying the depth of an infinite universe. This doctor held the stars in her gaze, like a cosmic winter night. She lowered her gaze, her thick lashes brushing against her cheeks, and commanded softly, “Suction.” The calmness in her voice was reminiscent of a gentle breeze, as if she weren’t performing a surgery with a success rate beneath fifty percent but was merely dissecting a model devoid of life. Composed, serene, and elegant, she moved with a grace that left a lasting impression on Amelia, who had moments ago felt lost amid panic. She maintained her cool composure. “Clamp.” “Forceps.” “Hemostatic forceps.” The sound of her voice was mesmerizing, inspiring an almost hypnotic sense of focus. Her gloved hands, slender and flawlessly agile, instinctively cut through the patient’s tissue with precision, layer by layer. In that moment, Dr. Yvonne barely chuckled—a sound tinged with satisfaction. “Found it.” Beneath the layers of the patient’s veins, the tumor became starkly visible under the surgical blade, grotesque in its own right. With careful precision, she lifted her hand, excising it smoothly. Beep— The monitor’s alarming shriek abruptly ceased, normal readings restored, quieting the tension. Nurse Amelia let out a sigh of relief, her previously furrowed brow now relaxed. “The patient’s blood pressure and pulse are stable.”
Chapter 3
In the operating room, Dr. Yvonne, the lead surgeon, glanced briefly at the monitors before deftly beginning the vascular procedure. Her movements were swift and precise; within a matter of ten minutes, she set down her scalpel. Wendy Frost's soothing voice broke through the tension in the air, her tone low and slightly scratchy. “Winston Crowley.” The assistant physician beside her responded with a smile, “I understand, just finishing up the suturing.” He continued with a chuckle, “Nice work, Yvonne. You’ve earned your keep today.” With a slight nod, he added, “Good job, Lancer.” As Dr. Yvonne placed the scalpel down, she turned to leave the sterile lights of the operating theatre. Her tall, slender figure was striking, and even in the ubiquitous blue scrubs, she exuded an unmistakable presence that was hard to ignore. Nurse Amelia, awestruck by Dr. Yvonne's poise, quickly averted her gaze and patted her chest, her heart still pounding. “That was nerve-wracking! I thought we were going to lose the patient.” The nearby blood transfusion specialist, Amelia Oswald, looked up and asked, “Is this your first time in Ashford’s surgery room?” “Yeah,” replied the young nurse, Ye Lan, who had been with the outpatient department for three years but had only recently transferred to the surgical ward. This indeed was her inaugural experience in the operating room at Ashford. As Amelia Oswald continued to clear up the workspace, she made it a point to guide the newcomer. “Don’t get flustered next time. Dr. Yvonne doesn’t like it when there’s too much noise during surgeries,” she advised, recalling, “It affects her concentration.” Ye Lan blinked, momentarily confused. Could it really be that the renowned surgeon, Dr. Crowley, made decisions based on her feelings during surgery? “But seriously,” Ye Lan muttered, “the patient was in real danger just now.” “Dangerous? You haven’t heard the rumors around the Infirmary,” Amelia Oswald responded with a small laugh, as if sharing an inside joke. The Royal Hospital of Kent was the largest public hospital in H City, with all its departments across seventeen towering buildings. There was just no way for Ye Lan to be up to date on all the whispers floating around between the floors. Being new, she cautiously leaned into Amelia, eager to learn. “What rumors?” Before Amelia Oswald could respond, Winston Crowley, wrapping up the closing stitches, interjected. “I’ve been a surgeon for five years, performed 672 operations, with a less than 95% success rate on 43 of those— and a zero percent rate of fatal mistakes,” he emphasized, enunciating each word with care. The young nurse was taken aback. His track record was nothing short of extraordinary. Amelia Oswald added, “You could say, once Dr. Yvonne nods, it’s as good as done. Even if the patient’s on the brink of death, she can bring them back.” Indeed, it spoke volumes about Dr. Yvonne’s reputation at the Royal Hospital of Kent; her surgical skills were legendary. With wide, starry eyes, Ye Lan couldn't help but exclaim, “Dr. Yvonne, you’re amazing!” Winston Crowley shook his head and replied, “You’re still too naive. You don’t yet understand the difference between Dr. Crowley and ordinary surgeons.” He had spent fifteen years in the field and this was the first time he truly understood what made Dr. Crowley stand out. Just then, the door to the surgery room swung open, and Dr. Yvonne stepped out with a calm demeanor. Waiting in the hallway was a woman from the House of Lancer, appearing to be in her sixties with a shock of white hair framing her face. She rushed forward, grasping Dr. Yvonne's wrist with urgency. “Dr. Yvonne, how is my son?” With a gentle smile, Dr. Yvonne removed her mask and replied, “The operation was a success."
Chapter 4
A strikingly beautiful doctor, Dr. Yvonne, stood confidently in the operating room. Behind her mask, her features were exquisite— perfectly proportioned, delicate, and more refined than any model. Yet her lips were a soft shade, lacking the boldness that contrasted with her expressive eyebrows and bright eyes. A woman from Lancer was momentarily taken aback, her gratitude overflowing as she clutched Dr. Yvonne’s hand tightly. “Thank you, Dr. Yvonne! Thank you so much!” she repeated, her voice shaking with emotion. “You don’t need to thank me,” Dr. Yvonne smiled gently. “It’s my duty.” The woman’s gratitude faltered into tears as she continued, “Thank you, thank you... If it weren’t for you, my son...” The strain in her voice made Dr. Yvonne softly pat the back of her hand in comfort, murmuring, “I still have patients to see,” before she turned to leave. The woman stood frozen for a moment, realizing just how cool Dr. Yvonne’s hand had been. Ambrose, her husband, processed this and recalled that Dr. Yvonne was their son’s attending physician. He had heard nothing but praise for her remarkable skills and compassionate nature. She was known for being a truly caring professional. Her gentler name, like a delicate flower, was Jade. The corridor leading deeper into the surgical ward made a sharp right turn into the sanitation room. Low evening sunlight flooded in, illuminating a row of stark, sterile lights, casting a muted glow on the cleaning space. Dr. Yvonne stood with her head bowed, half her face enveloped in shadow as she furiously scrubbed her wrists, repeating the motions over and over. Her hands worked the antiseptic foam vigorously, applying soap and scrubbing with a soft brush until her skin flushed red. Running water cascaded over her hands, washing away the remnants of disinfectant before she carefully dried them with sterile cloths. As she looked up, her reflection gleamed in the polished metal cabinet— a visage of focused elegance, framed by the soft, shadowy contours of the room. Downstairs in the surgical newsroom, it was prime time for the evening news. The flat-screen TV blared with raucous footage— it resembled a live concert, a frenzy of screams and applause vibrating throughout the room. At the reception, two young nurses, Amelia and Zoe, stole glances at the television, captivated. A spotlight illuminated a woman on stage with vibrant lights flickering around her; she wore smoky eye makeup, shorts, and a leather jacket, her hair pulled back stylishly. With a confident tilt of her head, she belted out the final notes of her song, clutching a wooden guitar. “My glory is with you all!” she shouted, her voice resonating through the arena. As the sound faded, a fresh wave of ecstatic screeches and clapping erupted from her fans. Outside the screen, a similar frenzy of cheers erupted. “Ah— ah— ah—!” Nurse Amelia, overwhelmed, held her head with one hand and clutched her colleague, Zoe, with the other. “I’m going to faint. Please, hold me up!” Zoe stole a quick glance back at the TV, watching the electrifying performer. “She’s impressive, isn’t she? Stunning, fierce, the perfect mix of glamor and mystery. But,” her eyes flicked back to Amelia, who was all but swooning, “do you really have to make such a scene?” Amelia shot Zoe a look, her eyes wide with disbelief, before returning her gaze to the screen, utterly smitten. “You wouldn’t understand. Every loyal Brookstone fan dreams of marrying one of the leading stars! Cassian Brookstone serves to upstage all other ordinary beings.”
Chapter 5
In the entertainment world, there's only one woman known as Cedric—he's the enigmatic rock star, Gideon Brookstone. With an alluring yet chilling demeanor, his smile always carries a hint of detachment. Amelia Zhao, a young fan, couldn't help but think of the infamous twins from her high school, Ambrose and Anderson, who found themselves at odds with her. It was the first time she had felt so out of her league—falling fervently for none other than Gideon Brookstone. How could a woman like that have such an unassailable presence? While Amelia’s heart fluttered, she was distracted by the mesmerizing beauty of a woman who stepped into the room. She looked as if she had walked straight out of a delicate watercolor painting, exuding a serene charm. “Yvonne!” Amelia called out, unable to suppress her excitement. Yvonne nodded slightly, her gaze fixated on the television screen, completely absorbed. “So, you’re a Brookstone fan too,” Amelia mused, her surprise palpable. Yvonne shook her head, the channel changing as a new woman took over. She grabbed the clipboard lying about and turned to leave. Amelia stared at Yvonne’s elegantly crossed legs and contemplated, “Could Yvonne also be affected by your idol?” Her best friend, who often remarked that seeing Brookstone Cedric made them feel like their lives were nothing but a series of unfortunate events, would agree. “Not possible! Other women might not stand a chance, but Yvonne is at the top of the food chain!” Amelia said, feeling her heart race. “But, honestly, I can’t help but notice that her gaze at Brookstone is way more passionate than mine!” Amelia playfully shoved her friend. “Don’t think all women are like you!” Yvonne was a rare gem indeed; seven out of ten nurses were definitely after something more when it came to him—and the last one was married. “I’m not a delusional fan! I’m just interested in having a child with Brookstone Cedric,” Amelia protested. Then, she glanced back at the retreating figure of Yvonne, gossiping seriously, “Last time I visited Yvonne’s office, I caught a glimpse of her desktop wallpaper—just an ultra-high-definition photo of my idol! I wonder if it means she's been a devoted fan for five hundred years. Could she be a secret admirer?” Amelia slapped her friend’s hand away. “Come on, Yvonne is a class act! Don’t drag her down from her pedestal.” In her mind, she mused, “Honestly, I doubt she even likes men.” Oh, what a juicy secret that would be. Amelia sniffed the scent of a scandal in the air. “Remember that incident at Lancer where Headmaster Oswald desperately yanked at Yvonne’s sleeve? I heard she just stood there, taking it slow, exuding elegance—before, of course, she spilled a bottle of medical alcohol on him, igniting a flame of embarrassment and saying with all the politeness in the world, ‘I still have some alcohol left. Need to wash my hands?’” One could imagine how furious Headmaster Oswald must have been. Nobility is indeed something else. They slay with beauty! “Yvonne is beyond what we lowly mortals can even begin to fathom!” Amelia exclaimed, as she jumped up to grab the remote, switching back to the concert channel, lost in daydreams again. “But really, I think Yvonne and my idol would make a perfect couple—the ethereal beauty and the devilishly handsome heartthrob!” she gushed. “Tsk, tsk,” Amelia shook her head in mock disapproval. “Your expression is downright scandalous.” And she owned it. With thirty million Brookstone fans, not a single one didn’t dream of the same thing! “I relish my fantasies!” she declared, proud of her affection. “But seriously, I’m curious what kind of woman would catch Yvonne’s fancy,” Amelia wondered aloud. “I really can’t imagine it.” As Amelia’s mind raced with the fantasy of an unattainable beauty and her idol colliding, she knew it was futile. Every person who’d laid eyes on Yvonne had the same thoughts. This man, a true gentleman of the late twentieth century, upheld his dignity remarkably. Unlike Benedict, who was far too flamboyant, Yvonne was just right. Dr. Yvonne. Outside the office door, the nameplate simply read: “Dr. Yvonne Oswald.” Sitting at her computer, Yvonne shrugged off her white coat, rubbed her temples, and gazed at the screen, her thoughts consumed by a singular muse. “Brookstone… Brookstone…” Her pale lips whispered the name reverently as her deep-set eyes glimmered with emotion. “Brookstone… Brookstone…” Leaning in, she pressed her lips against the cool surface of the screen, tracing the outline of his lips in the photograph before her. Her gaze became entranced, almost haunting in its intensity.
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