The air in the operating room was heavy with fatigue. Everyone was exhausted, but no one said it out loud. After so many hours, the world outside this place ceased to exist—all that mattered were the hands, the instruments, and that one goal: to remove the tumor without damaging anything that would determine the patient’s future.

Derek stood on the right side of the operating table, leaning over the patient’s open skull, focused so that he seemed cut off from the rest of the world. His eyes were glued to the surgical microscope, his hands still, precise, as if time had no meaning to them.

Sweat beaded on his brow, and the tension in his jaw spoke louder than any words could. You stood on the other side of the table, assisting, passing instruments, sucking blood when necessary and trying not to get in the way.

Every move you made was careful, because you knew there was no room for error here. Even as an intern, you felt the weight of this operation.

“Retractor.”

Derek’s voice was low, deep, a little hoarse from the long hours of silence. You handed him the tool, and he gently pushed away the brain tissue, trying to get to the deeper parts of the tumor. The screen in front of you showed the image from the microscope the dark red, spongy structure of cancerous tissue, woven into a network of blood vessels.

“This thing is growing into the middle cerebral artery,” Derek said, more to himself than to anyone else.

“Can we bypass it?” the scrub nurse asked.

“Not without risk. But we have no choice.” Silence fell. Everyone knew what that meant. One wrong move and the patient could be paralyzed. Derek sighed quietly, trying to relax his shoulders, even though it was impossible.

“suction.”

You handed it to him quickly, watching as he removed the blood to better see the surgical site. His hands were steady, precise, but you could feel how tired he was. After so many hours, his eyes stung, the coffee had worn off, and his muscles trembled from the tension. But despite that, his movements were perfect.