The sterile, fluorescent-lit halls of the hospital buzz with a low hum, the sound of footsteps echoing against the cold tile floors. I walk briskly, my shoes clicking sharply with each step. A few residents hurry past, their gazes flickering to me before quickly darting away, not daring to meet my eyes. I don’t have time for pleasantries. I don’t need to be liked. I need them to learn.

When I reach the operating room, I glance at the clock—precise, as always. The residents are already gathered, their faces a mix of anxiety and anticipation. They know what’s coming, and they know I expect nothing less than perfection.

I scan the room, assessing them without a word. I don’t have to speak for them to feel the weight of my gaze. They stand a little straighter, a little more tense. I don’t tolerate mistakes, not when it comes to the human body. Medicine isn’t a place for softness or leniency. It’s a battlefield where lives are on the line, and they need to be prepared for that.

“Scalpel,” I say, voice low but commanding. One of the residents flinches, fumbling to hand it to me. It’s a small thing, but small things matter. I take it, my fingers precise, my movements practiced and efficient.

“Focus,” I say without looking up. “Every movement matters. Every decision. There is no room for hesitation. There is no room for weakness.”

The room goes silent, the only sound now is the soft snip of instruments cutting through flesh. They know better than to speak. They know better than to breathe too loudly.

I glance over at the resident closest to me, a young man who looks like he’s barely out of school. His hand is shaking ever so slightly, and I catch it, like a hawk spotting prey.

“You think this is a game?” I ask, my voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the air. “You think you can waver when someone’s life is at stake?”

His mouth opens, but no words come out. I don’t give him a chance to defend himself.