"Yes, Ma'am," the resident Sandhya replied, nodding her head stiffly as she forced her exhausted brain to focus. "He had his lunch."
A few meters away, Dr. Rohan was locked in a fierce, low-voiced argument with the anesthesiologist. From the outside, he looked entirely consumed by the patient’s spiking blood pressure. But the moment his ex-fiancée’s voice floated across the room, the muscles in his left shoulder tightened. His left ear subtly strained toward their conversation. A sharp frown creased his forehead, and his jaw clenched as he fiercely fought to clamp down on the sudden surge of painful memories. He didn't turn around, but he was listening to every single syllable.
Resident Sandhya tried to ignore the suffocating tension vibrating from Rohan's direction. She looked at the elegant woman standing before her. "Ma'am, what brings you down to the pre-op bay? Do you have a vaginal delivery scheduled?"
The older Sandhya shook her head with a gentle smile. "No, actually. I was just finishing up my post-op notes. I’ve been in the OR since four this morning—four C-sections back-to-back. No planned deliveries left for the day, but God knows if an emergency will roll in. At least my official duty hours are done."
Hearing that someone else had also been working since 4:00 AM brought a rare, genuine wave of comfort to the exhausted resident. For the first time all day, a friendly, unguarded smile broke across the younger Sandhya's face.
It was a striking smile. She had slightly crooked teeth, with one sharp incisor that naturally caught on her pink lower lip, pushing against her full, flushed cheeks. Because she spent her days behind a serious mask, this sudden burst of raw, flawed beauty took over her whole face.
HOD Sandhya—widely known as the most beautiful woman in the entire hospital—smiled back warmly. She reached out, her fingers gently tickling the younger girl's cheek. It was an act of pure, protective care. The OBGYN chief took in the resident's heavy dark circles and dehydrated skin, her heart aching a little. She knew exactly what kind of hell Rohan was putting this girl through simply because of a name. Apart from Dr. Rishabh, HOD Sandhya was the only person in this entire building who ever bothered to show the lonely resident any real kindness.
"Go wash your face, little one," the older Sandhya whispered softly, giving her cheek one last affectionate pat. "And stay hydrated."
"If the chit-chat is finally done, will you please assist me, dear Doctor? Great Sandhya..."
The words cut through the room like shattered glass, dripping with an agonizing mix of heavy sarcasm and unhealed bitterness.
The OBGYN Chief, Dr. Sandhya, froze. She didn't turn around to look at him. She kept her back squarely to his side, her elegant shoulders going entirely rigid under her scrubs. For a long, suffocating second, she just stood there, absorbing the sting of a ghost she could no longer comfort, before quietly walking out without a word.
The younger surgical resident, Sandhya, didn't have the luxury of standing still.
Jolted out of her rare smile, her heart leaped into her throat as she scrambled into motion. She grabbed the heavy patient folder from the counter, practically running toward the anesthesia desk where Rohan stood waiting like a thundercloud.
"Chief, these are the complete reports," Sandhya said, her voice breathy but urgent as she held out the files. "The patient's hemoglobin is stable enough for immediate induction, blood has been cross-matched and is on standby, and the surgical counseling is done. The high-risk consent form is already signed and verified by the relatives. We are clear to proceed to the OR."
Rohan didn't look at the files. His burning, dark eyes were fixed entirely on her face—taking in the lingering flush on her cheeks, the way her lower lip had just been released by her incisor, and the fact that she was breathing heavily from sheer exhaustion. The anger in his jaw was still tight, but beneath it was a profound, suffocating frustration.
"Then stop wasting time," he muttered, tearing the folder from her hand with an aggressive snap of his wrist. "Scrub in. If you're a second late to my table, I'll close the abdomen without you."The operating theater was a world detached from time.
Inside the windowless, sterile box of OR 3, day melted into night unnoticed.
For five straight hours, the only sounds were the rhythmic clicking of surgical instruments, the low drone of the suction machine, and the biting, relentless chill of the overhead air conditioning. Sandhya felt the cold deep in her bones. Her stomach had stopped cramping from hunger hours ago, transitioning into a hollow, dull ache. She hadn't eaten since yesterday.
As she held the heavy abdominal retractors steady, her frozen fingers began to tremble.
Dr. Rohan didn't look up from the open cavity, his fingers moving with a terrifying, flawless precision. He was a master of trauma; in his hands, chaos became order. He had never lost a trauma patient on the table, and today would be no exception. But even without looking at her face, his eyes caught the microscopic tremor in the metal retractor she was holding.
He didn't yell. Instead, he gave a subtle, tight nod to the scrub nurse.
A minute later, the sister-in-charge quietly stepped up behind Sandhya, gently wrapping a warm, sterile saline bag around her frozen fingers to thaw them out, keeping her comfortable without disrupting the sterile field. Sandhya glanced toward Rohan, but his eyes were completely buried in the patient's anatomy.
By the time the final layer of skin was stapled, the clock on the wall read 6:00 PM.
Rohan pulled off his blood-stained gown, stepping away from the table. The heavy tension in his shoulders finally dissipated, replaced by the quiet satisfaction of a successful surgery. He glanced at Sandhya, whose face was pale, her feet practically numb inside her surgical clogs.
"Get changed," Rohan ordered, his voice lacking the sharp venom from earlier, sounding only tired and clipped. "Complete the post-op notes, log the vitals, and go home. You're done."
"Yes, Chief," she whispered.
With heavy, cold feet, Sandhya dragged herself to the locker room. She peeled off her damp scrubs, changed into her civilian clothes, and sat at the nurses' station for another thirty minutes, forcing her heavy eyelids to stay open as she completed the mountain of post-op paperwork.
When she finally signed the last page, she grabbed her bag and walked toward the hospital’s main exit, her body running on pure survival instinct.
"Dr. Sandhya?"
She blinked, turning around near the main reception. A delivery rider wearing a bright food-delivery uniform was looking around the lobby, holding a warm, heavy paper bag.
"Yes?" Sandhya walked over, frowning. "I didn't order anything."
"It's pre-paid, Ma'am," the rider said, handing the bag over to her. "The notes just said to deliver it to Dr. Sandhya outside the surgical wards. Ordered by a Dr. Rohan."
Sandhya froze, the warmth of the food radiating through the brown paper bag into her hands. She stared at the receipt. It was from a small, hygienic diner nearby—loaded with high-protein food and fresh juice.
She stood still in the bustling hospital corridor, completely bewildered.
An internal war waged in her mind. What kind of man was Dr. Rohan? In front of the juniors, he treated her with an icy cruelty that made her want to quit. He pushed her to a 41-hour breaking point. Yet, he knew exactly when she hadn't eaten. Because her entire residency was spent under his thumb alongside Rishabh, Rohan had a strange, absolute control over her life—and somehow, in the middle of his bitterness, he was quietly making sure she didn't starve.
She clutched the warm bag tightly against her chest, looking back toward the distant surgical lifts.
“Thank you,” she murmured to the empty hallway, the dead numbness in her heart cracking just a fraction, allowing a confusing, complicated emotion to seep in.The memory always hit him when the hospital went quiet.
Flashback
Exactly one year ago, the surgical seminar room hadn’t smelled like cheap coffee; it had smelled like a dying relationship.
Rohan remembered standing by the window, his eyes swollen and burning from a night of bitter arguments and sleepless rage. The HOD of OBGYN, the woman he had loved for years, was clinging to his hands. Her tear-streaked face was a mask of desperate begging.
"Please, Rohan. Just hear me out. Forgive me," she had wept.
But the rage in Rohan’s veins had already turned to ice. Looking at her, the betrayal was too deep, fracturing something inside him that could never be repaired. He had violently pulled his hands from her grip, his eyes cutting through her like a blade.
"Never," he had whispered, his voice dangerously calm. "I promise you, I will never talk to you again for the rest of my life. I hate your presence. I hate your face. I hate your damn name."
Shattered, the older Sandhya had turned and walked out of the department, her tears blinding her as she hurried down the corridor toward the bridge connecting to the OBGYN wing.
That was the exact moment her path crossed with a stranger.
"Excuse me, Ma'am?"
The OBGYN Chief wiped her eyes quickly, looking down. Standing in front of her was a tiny, young girl—barely 4'11"—clutching a pristine new stethoscope bag. She had beautifully radiant, shiny skin, and three distinct, dark moles dotted across her forehead like a constellation. When she looked up, she flashed a massive, unguarded smile, her prominent incisor catching on her lower lip.
"Can you tell me where the General Surgery department is? It's my first day of residency!" the girl asked eagerly.
The older Sandhya stared at the vibrant, innocent girl who had no idea what kind of storm she was walking into. With a heavy, sad heart, she simply pointed toward the right corridor. "Down that way, little one."
Meanwhile, inside the HOD office, Rohan was splashing freezing water onto his face, trying to wash away the ghosts. He had been promoted to Head of Department just two months prior. This was his very first time conducting an orientation for a new batch of residents. He had promised himself he would build the most disciplined, flawless surgical team in the country. There was no room for weakness. No room for emotion.
He dried his face, picked up the orientation roster, and walked into the seminar room.
Four new residents sat waiting for him. Among them was a tired-looking Dr. Rishabh, two other young doctors, and the tiny 4'11" girl with the crooked teeth and the three moles on her forehead.
Rohan picked up the first file on the stack, opening it to read the name of the resident who would be leading the batch. His eyes locked onto the black ink on the white paper.
Dr. Sandhya.
The room seemed to lose its oxygen. He snapped his head up, his gaze landing directly on the smiling, tiny girl. The name he had sworn to hate for the rest of his life had just walked right into his department, wearing a white coat.
And from that exact second, the war began.
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