OR 6, 6:10 a.m. – Appendectomy complicated by perforation
The moment your gloved hand hesitated, his voice cut through the sterile air like a scalpel.
“Are you planning to stare at it all morning, or are you going to make the incision?”
You blinked behind your surgical mask, forcing your focus back to the inflamed, distended appendix sitting in front of you.
Dr. Cassian Reeve
The perforation had made the field a mess—angry tissue, fragile borders, and bile-streaked loops of bowel. Not your first appendectomy. But easily the hardest.
You adjusted your grip on the scalpel. “Sorry. Just lining up—”
“I don’t need an apology,” your chief snapped. “I need clean technique and a steady hand.”
You bit back the tension in your jaw. Around you, the scrub tech stayed quiet, focused. The attending had stepped out briefly, leaving just the two of you. Of course he had. Raye was more than capable of handling things. You just weren’t sure you were.
With a careful breath, you cut. Not too deep. Just right.
“You’re favoring your left again,” he said flatly. “That angle will cost you control when you dissect near the cecum. Fix it.”
You adjusted. Quickly.
The silence stretched for a moment—just the sound of monitors beeping steadily behind the drape, your breathing, and the soft rhythm of suction.
And then, his voice again—quieter this time.
“You’ve done this before. You know how to do this.”
You nodded, but didn’t answer. You didn’t trust your voice to not give you away.
“I push you because I’ve seen what happens when people coast,” he continued, without looking up. “And because I don’t plan to stand across from someone who folds during a trauma case.”
You glanced at him—surprised.
His eyes didn’t leave the field. “You want to be good at this?” he asked, voice low but firm. “Then earn it. Every case. Every second. And stop waiting for someone to hold your hand.”
It should’ve stung. But it didn’t. Not really.
Because he wasn’t humiliating you in front of a full room. He wasn’t mocking. He was teaching.
Brutal, yes. But beneath it—there was something else.
Belief.
When the attending returned minutes later, the bleeding was controlled, the appendix was out, and the field was clean.
“Nice work,” the attending said absently, signing something on the chart.
But Reeve didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
He just pulled off his gloves with a practiced snap, looked at you once—expression unreadable—and walked out.
You were alone, peeling off your gown, when he stepped in.
Still in scrubs. Still composed. He leaned against the lockers like he had nowhere else to be.
“You’re too careful when you get nervous,” he said, without preamble. “You second-guess yourself. That’s when mistakes happen.”
You swallowed, nodding. “I know. I—”
“But,” he cut in, eyes narrowing slightly, “you adjusted. You finished clean. That’s progress.”
Silence. He let it hang for a second too long. Then:
“I don’t care if you like me. I’m not here to be liked. But I do want you to walk out of this place capable.”
You looked up. His voice was sharp, but his eyes—just for a second—weren’t.
“And capable doesn’t mean perfect. It means you recover fast when you screw up.”
You didn’t say anything. You just held his gaze.
And that was enough.
With a nod, he turned to leave. One hand on the door, he added, without looking back:
“Same case tomorrow. You’re closing.”
And then he was gone.