Chapter 1Refused to Save My Brother

A bullet had torn through my brother’s heart on his last peacekeeping tour. A ruptured artery. Massive bleeding. He had three hours to live, tops.

But as they wheeled him into the OR, I was calmly watering my plants.

A minute later, the door to my office flew open, kicked in by my wife, Lena. Her voice was a blade. "That's your brother in there, Elias! Are you just going to let him die? How can you even wear that uniform?"

I knew, with cold certainty, that I was the only surgeon who could save him.

I just murmured, "Oh," and continued tending to my flowers.

The next second, a sharp sting exploded across my cheek. My mother's slap.

"Elias Thorne! You ungrateful monster. You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for your brother!"

My father ripped the service ribbons from his own uniform and threw them at my face. "Get in that operating room and save your brother. Now."

I simply raised a hand to wipe the blood from the corner of my mouth, then coolly rolled up my sleeve, revealing the tapestry of horrifying scars that covered my arm.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice flat. "This hand is useless. I can't operate anymore."

* * *

The air in the office seemed to crystallize. Every eye was fixed on my right hand.

This was the hand that had performed countless impossible surgeries. The hand they once called "The Hand of God" at this military hospital.

But now, it was a grotesque ruin, twitching uncontrollably. It trembled so violently I could barely hold the watering can steady.

I was, for all intents and purposes, a cripple.

Lena shook her head wildly, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Stop acting, Elias. You were in surgery just yesterday. How could your hand be 'useless' today?"

"You'd really sink this low? You'd lie about this just to avoid saving him?"

I met her accusation with a faint, chilling smile and held my arm out closer for her to inspect.

"Believe what you want, Lena. My hand is finished." I let the smile widen. "Perhaps fate has decided it's Clark's time to die."

The dark, swollen veins looked as if they were about to burst from my skin. The sight made her recoil, but her indignation quickly returned. "You're a medical genius! I bet you did something to your own hand, used some obscure technique to make it look like this. I don't believe for a second it was ruined in just a few hours!"

Beside her, my mother’s composure finally broke. Tears streamed down her face. She reached for me, not to strike me again, but to clutch at my sleeve, her voice pleading.

"Elias, I'm begging you. As your mother, I am begging you. Please, just go operate on your brother."

Her voice cracked. "Have you forgotten who saved you when you were being torn apart by those wild dogs?"

A phantom pain shot through me, the old scars on my back burning as if they were fresh.

I was eight years old, a Boy Scout on a camping trip in the countryside. A pack of feral dogs appeared out of nowhere, lunging for me. Their teeth sank into my back, ripping flesh from bone. I was moments from death when he appeared.

Nine-year-old Clark, brandishing a heavy branch, driving the dogs away before carrying me home.

He saved my life.

My parents were overwhelmed with gratitude. When they learned he was the victim of horrific abuse at home, they decided to adopt him.

My injuries were severe. I spent a full year bedridden, missing the selection trials for the elite military academy. Clark, naturally, took my spot. I could only watch from my sickbed as he dazzled the recruiters, earning the praise that should have been mine.

Everyone lauded my parents for gaining such a brilliant son. No one seemed to remember that I had once been even more brilliant.

My body healed, but it was never the same. The rigorous training of a soldier was now beyond me. For my parents, both decorated battlefield commanders, having a son who was a true, hardened soldier was everything.

A dream only Clark could fulfill.

From that day on, the scales of their love tipped, never to be balanced again.

Clark got the first pick of everything. Clark's needs always came first. In my own home, I started to feel like the one who had been adopted. I was jealous, but I swallowed my bitterness and accepted it.

Hoping to win back their approval, I became a military surgeon. But it changed nothing. Their eyes still followed Clark, their pride swelling only for him. Their cold indifference nearly drove me into a deep depression.

I pushed the memories away. I didn't answer them. I just went back to my flowers.

My father strode forward and swatted the planter from my hands. It exploded on the floor, a shower of terracotta and soil.

"Your brother is lying on a gurney, bleeding out, and you have the heart to play with these damn flowers? Are you even human?" He wasn't finished. He brought his boot down, grinding the delicate petals into the dirt.

A sharp pain lanced through my chest. My grandmother had given me the seeds for those flowers.

Still, I said nothing. I knelt, carefully picking up the broken shards and ruined blossoms.

My mother completely unraveled. Her hair was a mess, her face streaked with tears as she sobbed. "Please, Elias! I'm begging you! Do you want your father and me to get on our knees? Just go look at him! Please, just one look!"

She bent her knees, as if she truly was about to prostrate herself before me. I had never seen her lose control like this. Not even when I was a child, mauled and bleeding, had she shown a hint of panic. A commander, she always said, must remain impassive in any situation.

Why was it so different for Clark?

My father's voice boomed with the authority he used on the battlefield. "I don't care if you're crippled. You will perform this surgery, and you can fall apart after!"

A sharp edge of a broken pot sliced my palm. A thin line of red welled up.

A mocking smile played on my lips. "Are you sure about that? If Clark dies on my table, whose fault will it be then?"