Gangster's Paradise // Rio (Good Girls)

1. Plot

As the first light of dawn began to mellow the darkness outside, Isla arrived at the hospital, her weary eyes reflecting the toll of numerous sleepless nights. She let out a tired sigh as she opened the car door, her body aching from the strenuous hours she had put in. 4 years of residency exhausted her, Slipping into her white coat, the symbol of her profession, she made her way inside the hospital.

She had barely been within the sterile, clinical walls for five minutes when the shrill beep of her pager echoed through the cavernous hallway. Isla glanced at the small LCD screen, her heart skipping a beat as she read the terse, urgent message: "Emergency surgery, gunshot victim."

With a sense of urgency imbued by years of experience, Isla followed the terse directions indicated on her pager. As her mind raced through the possible scenarios she might encounter, her pulse quickened, but her stride remained steady and confident.

Upon entering the operating room, she was met with the sight of a man lying prone on the surgical table. His rugged appearance, a testament to a hard life, was a stark contrast to the sterile environment around him. His body was adorned with tattoos, each a chapter of a life lived on the edge.

One tattoo in particular caught her eye - a black bird, stark against the pale skin. Isla was no fool; she recognized the symbol for what it was - an emblem of gang affiliation. Countless patients had passed through her hands, each with their own unique stories, but this was her first encounter with someone so deeply entrenched in the criminal underworld.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Isla pushed aside any preconceived notions. She reminded herself of her Hippocratic Oath - her duty was to save lives, irrespective of the person's background.

"Alright, Dr. Lee, let's see what four years of residency have brought you," the older doctor said. "This case is yours, and I'll be observing you closely the entire time." Isla nodded in acknowledgment.

"What do we got?" she asked, her voice steady as she approached the patient.

"Gunshot wound to the lower abdomen," replied the attending nurse, her voice mirroring Isla's calm despite the urgency of the situation. "Bullet has caused significant damage and there's severe internal bleeding."

Isla's heart pounded against her ribs as she quickly scrubbed in, her movements almost mechanical, honed by countless hours in the operating room. Donning her surgical gloves and mask, she shot a quick glance at the monitors displaying the patient’s vital signs. The elevated heart rate and rapidly dropping blood pressure were clear indicators of shock setting in.

"Administer blood transfusion, type O Negative," she commanded, her voice cutting through the tense air of the operating room. "And get me an anesthetist, stat!" Within moments, the room was a frenzy of activity, the medical team leaping into action.

With a scalpel in hand, its cold, metallic weight serving as a grounding reminder of the task at hand, isla steeled herself. She looked down at the man on the table, her mind clear and focused. She was a surgeon, and right now, her patient needed her.

As she made the initial incision, the extent of the damage became apparent. The bullet had penetrated the peritoneum, causing severe internal bleeding. Fragments of the bullet were scattered around, posing a dangerous threat that could lead to further complications if not dealt with immediately.

With swift, practiced precision, Isla began the intricate process of repairing the damage. The room fell silent, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the low, hushed voices of the nurses updating her

on the patient's vitals. Each update, each number, was a critical piece of information that guided isla's hands as they moved with a blend of speed and precision.

The damage was extensive. The bullet had not only perforated the bowel but also nicked the aorta, the largest artery in the body. It was a risky operation, but isla was undeterred. She clamped the aorta, stopping the bleeding, while the nurses quickly suctioned the spilled blood.

Next, she dealt with the bowel. She had to resect, or remove, a portion of it that was beyond repair. Afterward, she reattached the healthy ends, ensuring that it would function correctly once more. She then painstakingly began the process of removing the scattered bullet fragments, using a magnet when feasible or delicately plucking them out with forceps when they were too embedded.

Hours slipped by, marked only by the slow progression of the minute hand on the sterile white clock hanging on the operating room wall. Isla, however, was oblivious to the passage of time. Her world was the open cavity before her, the life she held in her hands.

Finally, after an intense, seemingly endless surgery, isla placed the final suture. A wave of exhaustion washed over her as she stepped back, her shoulders sagging slightly. Her gloved hands, tinged red despite the protective layer, slowly lowered the scalpel.

"Let's move him to recovery," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. As she removed her gloves and mask, she watched as the man was carefully wheeled out of the operating room. The echo of the departing gurney marked the end of a battle fought and won.

Despite the fatigue pulling at her limbs, a sense of satisfaction filled Isla. She had done her job, she had saved a life. The man's past didn't matter in that moment; he was her patient, and she had given him a chance at a future. For now, that was enough.

As the room emptied out, leaving Isla alone with her thoughts, she took a moment to gather herself. Her gaze fell upon the now vacant operating table, stained with the remnants of the battle she had just fought. The stark reality of her profession was laid bare before her - every day, she held lives in her hands, each one teetering on the edge of the precipice between life and death.

The older Dr entered the room, her face masked but her eyes revealing a glint of admiration. "Doctor, that was some surgery," she said, a note of awe colouring her voice. "We almost lost him a couple of times, but you...you didn't give up."

Isla offered a tired but genuine smile, appreciating the nurse's words. "We're a team," she replied. "We did it together."

Leaving the operating room, Isla made her way to the staff locker room. She exchanged her blood-stained scrubs for a clean set, the physical action helping her transition from the high stakes of the operating room back to the relative calm of the hospital corridors.

She felt the weight of exhaustion pulling her down, but she knew she had one last task before she could rest. Making her way to the recovery room, she looked in on her patient. The man lay there, still unconscious, his chest rising and falling rhythmically with each breath. The steady beep of the monitors was a comforting sound - a testament to the life that still flickered within him.

Satisfied, Isla finally allowed herself to relax. As she left the hospital in the early morning light, she couldn't help but reflect on the enormity of what had just transpired. A life had hung in the balance, teetering on the edge, but she had pulled it back. She had made a difference. And for a surgeon, there was no greater accomplishment.

As she slid back into her car, the tired sigh that escaped her lips was different from the one she had released that morning. This one was not just of exhaustion, but also of relief, of accomplishment. It was the sigh of a surgeon who had done her duty, who had fought the battle and emerged victorious.

As she started her car and began the drive home, isla felt a renewed sense of purpose. Yes, she was tired, but she was also invigorated. She was a surgeon, a saver of lives. And no matter how hard it got, she knew she would wake up the next day and do it all over again. Because for Isla, there was simply nothing else she would rather do.