A jumble of messy memories belatedly flooded into his mind. He frowned for a while, racking his brains to recall what he did last night. It seemed he had a meal, got rejected by Laura Clark, and then what?

...Then he and Brian Sullivan went to a bar together.

Eric Bennett's gaze suddenly became a bit panicked.

He gingerly pinched the blanket around that head, gently tugged it up, and took a look.

Shit.

It really fucking was Brian Sullivan.

He was furious, kicked out with one leg, and sent Brian Sullivan—along with half the blanket—straight off the bed. Who knew how Brian Sullivan could sleep so soundly, not even waking up after falling off the bed.

But with that kick, Eric Bennett sucked in a sharp breath.

His whole body felt as if every bone had been taken apart and glued back together, the pain making him frown, especially a certain extremely sensitive spot that stung from the pull of his muscles.

What did he do last night? He couldn't have spent the whole night fighting with Brian Sullivan, could he?

He shook his head, trying to remember something, and then some fragmented, R-rated images suddenly forced their way into his mind.

Eric Bennett's eyes widened abruptly. After a long moment, he stiffly lowered his head to take a look.

Question: When you wake up in the same bed as your arch-nemesis, your chest and inner thighs covered in hickeys and bruised handprints, and a strange pain coming from behind, what is the most likely thing that happened between you?

A. You slept together.

B. You slept together.

C. You slept together.

Eric Bennett's face turned ashen: "I choose D."

D. You got slept with.

Fuck/son of a bitch.

Eric Bennett silently glanced at Brian Sullivan on the floor. Half the man's body was exposed—a very attractive physique, well-proportioned, no excess fat, sharp muscle lines, distinct bones, clear veins.

—Perfect for use as a model in an anatomy class.

Eric Bennett even felt he already knew exactly where to make the first cut.

After silently reciting the core socialist values ten times, the vein-popping Dr. Bennett barely managed to suppress his urge to kill and dismember.

The bed they’d tangled in all night was a complete mess: sheets wrinkled, pillows tossed everywhere, clothes scattered on the floor, the white shirt already crumpled like pickled vegetables. Everything at the scene seemed to testify to how wild and reckless last night had been.

Eric Bennett took a deep breath, deciding to leave this place of trouble as soon as possible, lest even the core socialist values failed him.

He had never gotten dressed so quickly—showering, washing up, ironing his shirt all in one go. When he looked in the mirror again, Eric Bennett was still the impeccably dressed Dr. Bennett, calm, self-possessed, and refined.

Except, it seemed like something was missing from his neck.

Eric Bennett's gaze fell on the black tie tossed to the side. It was newly bought, worn for the first time yesterday.

But just as he reached out to pick up the tie, a vivid scene suddenly flashed through his mind—a certain idiot had used this tie to bind his hands, pushing them above his head.

Some people are alive, but he’s already dead.

With a ripping sound, the unlucky tie, doomed before it even had a chance, was torn in two. The merciless Eric Bennett tossed it into the hotel lobby trash can without a backward glance.

He had a first surgery to perform that morning—an ovarian cancer case. Fortunately, the patient had caught it early, and all the pre-op assessments were ideal.

The strong smell of disinfectant filled the operating room. Eric Bennett, wearing a surgical mask and sterile cap, had only his eyes exposed.

Today, the operating room was unusually silent. From the moment they entered, aside from necessary instructions, Eric Bennett hadn’t said a single extra word.

Megan Young was assisting him, carefully watching Eric Bennett's expression, his heart pounding.

After exploring the patient’s abdominal cavity, the situation was even better than all previous assessments—almost no infiltration or metastasis, and the lesion wasn’t hard to remove.

The original surgical plan could proceed as scheduled, which should have made everyone feel at ease. Yet Eric Bennett stared at the laparoscopic view with a face like water, making Megan Young wonder if he’d missed some detail.

But apparently not—the surgery went surprisingly smoothly. Eric Bennett's technique was as deft and clean as ever. After removing the lesion and clearing the surrounding lymph nodes, he handed the operating table over to Megan Young for suturing, as usual.

He changed out of his contaminated gloves and stepped aside to watch Megan Young work. When not busy, Eric Bennett was always a strict teacher—he could spot even the slightest confusion or impending mistake in his students and stop it in time. That’s why every new young doctor who assisted Eric Bennett was always especially nervous.

Fortunately, Megan Young was getting more and more familiar with the procedures. Now, under Eric Bennett's supervision, he was starting to independently complete some less difficult surgeries, and wasn’t as afraid of him as before.

But today, Eric Bennett really did make him uneasy. Megan Young's eyelids kept twitching, and he had a bad feeling something was going to happen.

And as it turned out, his premonition was right. Halfway through suturing, the operating room’s sensor light flickered, and an uninvited guest strolled in. Megan Young looked up and met those familiar, fox-like eyes.

At the same time, he felt as if the air beside him had frozen.

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Author’s note: