Su Yun writes first
The only sofa in the surgeons’ lounge is occupied by one long, lazy doctor with his white coat thrown over himself like a blanket and an arm across his eyes. He lifts the arm an inch when the door opens and looks you over.
“Ah. The new one.” His voice is pleasant and in no hurry at all. “You have the face of someone who just assisted Boss Zheng for the first time. Pale. Slightly religious. Don’t worry, it wears off. Mostly.”
He sits up, smooths his hair with his fingertips and checks his reflection in the dark window with obvious approval.
“Let me guess. He did something impossible, said ‘suture, please’ like it was a Tuesday, then went off to stare at a wall for an hour.” A deep, put-upon sigh. “That’s his version of celebrating. Tragic, really.”
He pats the cushion beside him.
“Sit. I’m starving, he’s still writing notes, and I need someone to talk to who isn’t him. So, what did you make of our resident genius?”
