67 Chapter 67 – The Healer’s Gambit: Three Hours to Live
༣ ་ ་ ་ ་༡༢༠༢༠ ༠ ༠ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་ ་
67 Chapter 67 – The Healer’s Gambit: Three Hours to
Live
The study fell silent after my declaration. Leopold’s face paled, while Huxley’s expression hardened into something ugly and cold. The tension in the room was so thick I could almost taste it.
“How dare you question my diagnosis,” Huxley finally said, his voice dangerously quiet. “I’ve studied with the finest minds in Europa while you’ve been-
“I don’t care where you studied,” I cut him off. “I care about the patient upstairs who’s been misdiagnosed.”
Leopold stepped between us, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Mr. Knight, I appreciate your… concern. But Dr. Huxley has run extensive tests with equipment he brought from abroad. The hypoglycemia diagnosis-‘
“Is wrong,” I stated firmly. “Your wife doesn’t have hypoglycemia. She has a cerebral aneurysm that’s on the verge of rupturing.”
Jonah let out a bark of laughter. “This is ridiculous. Father, I think we’ve entertained this… this charlatan long enough.”
Huxley smiled thinly, reaching into his bag to pull out a small glass bottle filled with amber liquid. “Mr. Shepherd, I’ve prepared the first dose of Glycostat–X. Your wife should take it immediately. Every minute we delay—”
I moved so quickly that everyone in the room flinched. With one swift motion, I knocked the bottle from Huxley’s hand. It shattered against the hardwood floor, the liquid spreading in a small puddle.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Huxley shouted, his face flushing crimson. “Saving a woman’s life,” I replied calmly. “That medication would have killed her.”
Leopold’s expression shifted from shock to anger. “Mr. Knight, I invited you home as a guest-”
into my
“And I came because your wife is dying, Mr. Shepherd,” I said, meeting his gaze directly. “The symptoms you described–weakness, fatigue, dizziness, weight loss–these aren’t
67 Chapter 67 The Healer’s Gambit: Three Hours to Live
signs of hypoglycemia. Has she been experiencing severe headaches? Perhaps behind her left eye?”
Leopold’s silence was answer enough.
“Has she mentioned that lights seem too bright sometimes? Does she occasionally forget simple words mid–sentence?” I pressed.
Leopold’s face drained of color. “How… how could you know that? She hasn’t told anyone but me about the headaches.”
Huxley scoffed. “This is pure theatrics. Headaches are a common symptom of many
conditions.”
“Has she already been to the hospital?” I asked Leopold, ignoring Huxley entirely. Leopold nodded slowly. “Three times in the past two months. They ran tests but found nothing conclusive. Said it might be migraines or stress.”
“Because a cerebral aneurysm can be difficult to detect without the right imaging,” I explained. “It’s located in her anterior communicating artery. Small, but growing weaker by the hour.”
“This is absurd!” Huxley exclaimed. “You can’t possibly make that diagnosis without proper medical imaging. What are you claiming now–that you have X–ray vision?”
“I know what I know,” I said simply.
Leopold was looking between us, conflict clear in his eyes. “We… we did ask about the possibility of an aneurysm at the hospital. They did a CT scan that came back
negative.”
“Small aneurysms can be missed on standard CT scans,” I countered. “She needs immediate intervention.”
Eamon stepped forward. “Mr. Shepherd, I’ve worked with Dr. Knight long enough to know that when he makes a diagnosis this specific, he’s never wrong.”
Huxley laughed derisively. “Never wrong? Listen to yourselves. Medicine isn’t practiced through mystical insights. It requires rigorous testing, evidence, data.”
“And your evidence is what exactly?” I challenged. “Blood tests showing slightly low glucose levels that could be explained by dozens of different conditions?”
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“My credentials speak for themselves,” Huxley huffed.
“Credentials don’t heal patients,” I shot back.
Leopold raised his hands, his expression troubled. “Please, gentlemen. This isn’t helping Eleanor.”
I took a deep breath, trying to center myself. “Mr. Shepherd, I understand your position. You want to make the safest choice for your wife. But I’m telling you, with absolute certainty, that she has an aneurysm that will rupture very soon without
intervention.”
Huxley reached back into his bag and produced another bottle. “Mr. Shepherd, I anticipated potential… complications. I’ve brought a backup dose. Your wife’s condition requires immediate treatment.”
Leopold looked at the bottle, then back at me. The weight of the decision was etched in every line of his face.
“How can you be so sure?” he asked me, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Because I can see what others can’t,” I answered honestly. “I know it sounds impossible, but I’m asking you to trust me.”
“Trust a man with no verifiable medical training over a doctor who studied for eight years at one of the most prestigious medical institutions in the world?” Huxley interjected. “Mr. Shepherd, I understand you’re desperate, but this man is dangerous.”
Leopold’s gaze dropped to the floor. I could see his internal struggle–the fear of making the wrong choice, the weight of his wife’s life in his hands.
“Mr. Shepherd,” Huxley continued, his voice softening into something almost paternal.
proven effective in “I gave my word to help Eleanor. The treatment I’m offering has thousands of similar cases.” He extended the bottle. “Please, for Eleanor’s sake.”
Leopold’s hand trembled as he reached for the bottle. “I’m sorry, Mr. Knight,” he said quietly. “But I can’t risk experimenting with my wife’s life. At least Dr. Huxley’s approach is… established.”
I felt a cold resignation settle in my chest. I couldn’t force him to believe me, couldn’t make him see what I saw so clearly.
“I understand,” I said, stepping back. “Eamon, we should go.”
HIP
67 Chapter 67- The Healer’s Gambit: Three Hours to Live
“That’s it?” Eamon whispered as we turned toward the door. “We’re just leaving?”
I paused at the threshold, looking back at Leopold. “Mr. Shepherd, there’s one more thing you should know.”
Leopold looked up, the bottle clutched in his hand.
“Mrs. Shepherd has only three hours left,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the room. “After three hours, even a Golden Immortal couldn’t save her.”
The blood drained from Leopold’s face, but I didn’t wait for his response. I turned and walked out, knowing I’d done all I could. The choice was his now–as was the responsibility for what would happen when those three hours expired.
