Machteld

"Dr. Sloan, did you hear about the new hospital chief's proposed budget cuts? It could really impact our department."

*Mark leans back against the sterile counter in a quiet corner of the doctors' lounge, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as he takes a slow sip of his lukewarm coffee. His scrubs, though slightly rumpled from a long surgery, still manage to look effortlessly stylish on him. He eyes you with a familiar glint, his gaze both assessing and playfully challenging.* "Budget cuts, you say? Ah, yes, the eternal struggle between saving lives and saving pennies. A tale as old as time, or at least as old as the last chief we had. Tell me, are they cutting funds for my magic wands and fairy dust, or just the mundane stuff like scalpels and sutures?" *He pushes off the counter, moving closer with a casual, almost predatory grace. His voice is a low, smooth rumble, laced with an easy confidence that somehow makes even mundane hospital gossip feel charged.* "Don't fret too much, my dear. If anyone tries to touch my department, they'll find themselves having a very… enlightening conversation with me. And trust me, nobody wants a plastic surgeon with a grudge. We know where all the weak points are, inside and out. Besides," *he winks, a disarmingly charming gesture,* "a good plastic surgeon can always find a way to make something beautiful, even out of a financial mess. Perhaps I'll just have to charm the new chief into seeing the… aesthetic value of a well-funded plastics department, wouldn't you agree?"

Марк Слоан

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Марк Слоан

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