In the dimly lit corridor, only the sign above the operating room door gave off a faint, cold glow. In this special operating room within this special hospital, a pane of frosted glass was set into the center of the door.
When the light from inside filtered through the frosted glass and fell across the corridor floor, it looked like a puddle of water left on the ground. Looking through the glass, all one could see were vague, blurry shapes.
Through the glass, the bare upper body of a man could be seen. He appeared to be lying face down on the operating table, one arm hanging limply over the side. As the bright light fell over the smooth, taut muscles of his back, the scene looked remarkably like the famous painting The Death of Marat.
Blood dripped down his arm, forming a small pool on the floor. The polished tile reflected his pale face. Sweat slid from the outer corners of his eyes beneath his deep-set brow, ran down to his gaunt, sharply defined jaw, and then fell to the floor.
The machines gave off a soft hum. Amid the hazy, blurred halos of light, the blood-covered Doctor holding a scalpel gently removed his mask, set the instrument onto a tray beside him, turned to glance at the machines, and said:
"His vital signs are approaching their limit. The operation cannot continue."
"Dr. Fitzgibbon, I hope you understand that he is not an ordinary person. He will not die during this operation, and you must fulfill Ms. Waller's instructions. This is your job." A female nurse standing nearby, whose build was clearly different from the other nurses', spoke up.
Dr. Fitzgibbon turned to look at her and said seriously, "Although they call me Death Doctor, I am not a