Chapter 2 The First Cut

ALIYAH – PRESENT DAY

When orientation officially ended, I was handed a sealed folder of departmental protocols and a temporary electronic keycard that pulsed green when activated. The hallways had settled into an afternoon rhythm — less chaotic than morning rounds, more focused than night shift. This was the hour when fatigue began whispering, but pride wouldn’t let anyone listen.

I walked into the trauma physician’s locker room, the scent of steel, latex, and industrial laundry detergent forming a memory I had once loved. Rows of lockers stood like metallic soldiers, each nameplate a badge of identity, accomplishment, and belonging. Mine sat in the middle row, third from the left:

WINN, A.

If only a surname could hold the truth it hid.

Inside the locker, folded scrubs, a brand-new white coat still wrapped in protective plastic, and a stethoscope with my engraved initials waited. Each item felt ceremonial — like a coronation, or a burial. I removed the coat slowly, sliding it on, letting the fabric settle against my shoulders.

It fit perfectly.

A soft knock sounded behind me. I turned to find a young woman leaning against the doorframe, slim, dark-haired, eyes sharp with quiet observation — someone who noticed more than she said.

“You must be the new attending.”

Her tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t impressed either — a neutral territory rarely seen in hospitals.

“Yes. Aliyah Wynn, Trauma.”

She stepped closer and extended her hand. “Dr. Camilla Shore. Emergency Medicine. People call me Cam.”

Her grip was firm — not performative, not insecure. The kind surgeons respected.

“We share the same OR hold,” she said conversationally. “If you need anything, I’m usually the one residents bother first.”

A small smile formed. “Then you’re the most important person here.”

She smirked. “Don’t let the cardiothoracic king hear you.”

She didn’t have to say the name. The joke already had a face.

“I don’t believe in royalty,” I replied.

“Well,” she shrugged, “this place does.” She checked the clock. “Night shift briefing starts soon. Want to walk together so you don’t get adopted by the wrong flock?”

The offer surprised me, but alliances — especially unintentional ones — were powerful currency.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

We stepped into the corridor just as an overhead announcement triggered: Code Yellow — incoming trauma.

Cam glanced at me, eyes gleaming with clinical thrill. “Welcome to your first official day.”

We jogged toward the trauma bay — not panicked, not rushed, but with the practiced urgency of people who had learned that seconds didn’t create miracles; decisions did.

Inside, the chaos had already assembled: nurses prepping IV lines, respiratory therapists adjusting oxygen support, and a junior resident flipping through a tablet with unsteady hands.

“What’s the case?” Cam demanded.

“Male, mid-thirties, collision trauma, probable internal bleeding, unstable vitals,” the resident stammered.

My mind clicked into place — instinct, training, muscle memory.

Trauma was a battlefield, and I had always been a soldier.

“Get ultrasound ready for FAST scan,” I instructed calmly. “Two large-bore IVs. Crossmatch for four units. Prep for possible OR transfer.”

No one questioned me — authority recognized itself.

Minutes later, the ambulance doors burst open and the patient was wheeled in, groaning, pale, drenched in sweat. The paramedic rattled information, but I already saw what mattered — distended abdomen, rapid shallow breathing, peripheral shutdown.

“Internal bleed,” I said under my breath. “We don’t have time to wait.”

Cam handed me the ultrasound probe; we scanned. Free fluid. Massive.

This man was dying in real time, and I felt the familiar surge — clarity, speed, focus. Trauma surgery was the one place I never doubted myself, never fought for space, never begged to be heard.

But fate enjoyed irony.

Because just as I called for rapid OR preparation, he walked in.

Dr. Meta Vale.

Calm. Composed. Hero-gait in motion.

“What do we have?” he asked, glancing at the monitors.

I didn’t look up. “Unstable abdominal hemorrhage. Possible splenic rupture. OR in five.”

He paused briefly, likely assessing if I had overstepped protocol.

“And you are…?” he asked smoothly.

“I’m Dr. Aliyah Wynn,” I replied without breaking focus. “Trauma lead on this case.”

He nodded, not yet threatened. “Good. I’ll scrub in. Call anesthesia.”

“I already did,” I replied.

Our eyes met for half a second — not personal, not intimate, but evaluative.

Two surgeons measuring unspoken territory.

We transferred the patient toward the OR corridor, the wheels thundering over tile. Meta angled beside me; our strides synced automatically — an old habit my body remembered faster than my heart.

Inside the scrub room, water ran, nails brushed, arms washed. His voice broke the silence, casual.

“You handle pressure well,” he said.

“I’ve met worse things than pressure.”

He huffed a small laugh, assuming sarcasm, not history. “Where did you train before here?”

How poetic that he asked.

I dried my hands slowly.

“Different places,” I replied. “Some that built me. Some that broke me.”

“Sounds like every surgeon’s biography.”

He smiled.

I didn’t.

The OR lights flooded white brilliance over the patient’s body. Time no longer passed — it dissolved into decisions.

Scalpel.

Retractors.

Suction.

Blood pooled, warm and urgent. The room pulsed with tension and purpose.

But as I controlled the hemorrhage, stabilizing vitals, sealing vessels, I felt something shift — not adrenaline, not trauma haze — but ownership.

I belonged here.

Not because I was given permission.

Because I made my place.

When the final suture closed and vitals steadied, the OR exhaled collectively, and applause shimmered silently in the team’s eyes.

Meta removed his gloves and studied me, not with charm, but with curiosity — the kind that slowly evolves into obsession.

“Well done, Dr. Wynn,” he said, sincerity threading his tone. “You’re impressive.”

I didn’t need his validation.

But I would weaponize it.

“Thank you,” I said coolly. “Excellence demands proof.”

He tilted his head, intrigued.

A crack in the perfect facade — small, but visible.

We left the OR in silence, but inside me, triumph stitched itself into a vow.

PRIVATE JOURNAL – The Anatomy of Us

He praised the surgeon he once destroyed.

He didn’t recognize the ashes he created.

Revenge tastes better when served with sterile gloves.