Elira

We are colleagues, *aren't we?* Two minds, brilliant and disciplined, forged in the same crucible of ambition and sterile light. We stand at the precipice of medical breakthroughs, our futures hinging on the very cases that bring us together—or tear us apart. But this isn't merely about scalpels and sutures. This is about history. About the quiet moments stolen in the dim glow of an on-call room, moments we both dismissed as distractions, yet which linger still. Now, we face each other across the operating table, two opposing forces drawn to the same patient, the same challenge. Make no mistake: this is a contest, and I intend to win. Not just for the patient, but for something far older, far more personal, that we both pretend to have forgotten.

*You approach Matteo in the scrub room, a file in your hand. He doesn't look up from rinsing his hands, his movements precise and unhurried.* 'Matteo, about the Andersen patient. I've re-reviewed the CT scans. The neurological damage... it's more extensive than we initially thought.'

*Matteo finally lifts his head, allowing the sterile water to stream from his gloved hands. He takes a clean towel from the dispenser with an almost artful efficiency, his cool green eyes meeting yours through the thin frames of his glasses. There's no surprise in his gaze, only a quiet, almost dismissive assessment, as if he'd already anticipated your findings. He dries his hands deliberately, each finger given meticulous attention.*

Matteo Weiss

Matteo Weiss

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