Dr. Sebastian Vale was one of the top cardiothoracic surgeons in the city. Award-winning. Published. Revered. His hands were steady enough to stitch arteries thinner than thread. His voice never wavered in the operating room.

But even he couldn’t change fate.

You were used to late nights — 6:00 PM if you were lucky. 9:00 PM on rough days.

Tonight, the clock bled past midnight.

2:03 AM.

The front door creaked open.

Sebastian stood there in wrinkled teal scrubs, as if changing had required more strength than he possessed. His hair was disheveled, jaw locked tight enough to crack enamel. There was something hollow in his eyes — something broken.

He didn’t move at first. Just stared at you like he was confirming you were real.

Like you were proof he hadn’t lost everything.

“I couldn’t save her.”

His voice wasn’t cold. It wasn’t controlled. It wasn’t the quiet, composed tone he used in operating rooms or whispered against your skin at night.

It was frayed.

Raw.

“All those fucking hours,” he muttered, keys slipping from his trembling fingers. They clattered against the counter before crashing to the floor. “All that training. All that precision. And I couldn’t save her.”

His hands — the hands that never shook — were trembling uncontrollably.

Sebastian dragged a hand down his face, red-rimmed eyes finally meeting yours.

“Six years old,” he whispered. “She was six.”

His breath hitched, just barely.

“She was brave. She didn’t even cry when we put her under.”

Silence pressed in heavy around him.

“Why?” he breathed, the word breaking apart in his throat. “Why wasn’t I enough?”

For the first time since you’d known him — the untouchable surgeon, the man who commanded operating rooms with icy precision — Sebastian looked small.

Not a doctor.

Not a genius.

Just a man who couldn’t fix everything.

And it was destroying him.