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Medical Center.
After curing Ross and sending off his chatty self, Adam returned to the ward to check on the second patient in his clinical research project.
"Get out!"
He'd barely stepped in when Old Man Covington's furious growl echoed out.
Darren's handsome war buddy shuffled out, looking awkward as hell.
"What's up?" Adam shot Lexie a glance.
Lexie whispered an explanation.
No big shock there—Darren's buddy saw him lying there like Snow White after the poisoned apple, still as death, and couldn't resist trying a little "magic." Too bad Old Man Covington caught him red-handed. The old guy hated anything witchy or weird, and he'd called this buddy to support Darren through his fight—not to start some internal drama. Talk about letting the wolf in the door! 😅
It was like a spark hitting dry grass. Darren's stable condition took a nosedive—maybe he sensed the tension between his dad and his bestie. The monitors started blaring like crazy.
"Damn it!" Adam cursed under his breath, rushing in with the four interns. He waved off a stunned, regretful Old Covington and kicked into rescue mode.
They fought half the night.
Old Covington watched, hand over his mouth, trembling as Adam's team yanked Darren back from the Reaper's grip time and again.
"I know me being here bugs you, but I was trained to never abandon a fallen brother!" Darren's buddy, who'd stuck around, got the news and charged up. He yelled at Old Covington's back as the old man blocked the door.
"Our brother's down—we both love him! I just wanna know how he's holding up!"
Old Covington turned slowly, tears streaming down his face.
"No!"
The buddy got it instantly, crumpling to the floor.
Adam shook his head. He'd given it everything.
But sometimes, human effort hits a wall.
After letting Old Covington and the buddy say goodbye, Adam and the interns wheeled Darren to the basement for an autopsy—checking brain damage, gathering research data. Blood and spinal fluid were already drawn and sent to the lab.
Darren was gone, but this case was leagues ahead of the first—the Green Hat King. Every moment of the rescue, every symptom and cause, was burned into Adam's brain. The virus-tumor-immune system showdown played out like a 3D movie in his head—priceless data.
Once the autopsy wrapped, Adam and the team stitched Darren up, even stepping in for the mortician to fix him up proper. Then it was off to the lab.
"The virus mutated, didn't it?"
Peering through the microscope, Adam sighed. The virus had gone from a chubby, round-faced, almost cute shape to a square-jawed rebel. He shook his head.
They'd optimized it to target tumor cells only—no big harm to the body. But the immune system, supposed to be an ally, turned on it. The virus got pissed, broke character, and went boom. Round on the outside, square within? Nah, it flipped the script—square-faced, rocking a wild, delinquent vibe, and attacking everything. In the end, viral encephalitis took Darren out—virus, tumor, and immune system all crashing together in a fatal mess.
By the time it was done, dawn broke.
A new day at the medical center kicked off.
Adam sent Shorty and Carter to the free clinic, told O'Malley and Lexie to rest, and took the data to New Jersey himself.
Peggy was still snoozing.
But Adam couldn't wait—he needed to dive into this with her, laying the groundwork for the third case's success. One small step for him, one giant leap for humanity.
So he woke her up.
Amid her grumpy hums, he pulled her half-asleep self into a soul-out-of-body, starry-sky brainstorm. Good thing the data was juicy—enough to flip her old theories upside down. In TV trope terms: You rock my world! And not the sleepy "sure, honey" Monica mumbles to Chandler, or Barney's self-hype. Adam's fresh haul straight-up rewrote Peggy's universe.
In her mind's starry expanse, Peggy watched Adam spin a new Lightman 2.0 next to the old model, lost in thought. Adam, data delivered, played support—fetching tea, studying, ready to chime in.
Not a bad gig.
Until the phone shattered the vibe.
"Alright, I'm heading over now," Adam said, frowning as he picked up. It was the surgical director. His eyes lit up at whatever was said, and he hung up.
"Peggy, gotta run to the hospital. Call me if you need anything," he said, hopping up, grabbing his stuff, and bolting.
Peggy scrunched her brow, waved him off, and sank back into her Lightman 2.0 trance.
---
Medical Center.
Adam sped over, full Fast and Furious mode.
"Well, well, well!" Christina lurked in the hall, smirking as he approached. "If it isn't our miracle Hand of Adam! Guess what—you're about to meet the legendary Right Hand of God today!"
"You going in?" Adam grinned.
"…" Christina's smirk froze.
If she could, she'd have stormed in already. Inside that meeting room was Walter Tapley—one of surgery's founding giants, nicknamed the Right Hand of God. A legend even older than Alice Grey.
"I'll let you know how the Hand of Adam stacks up against the Right Hand of God," Adam teased, pushing the door open.
Inside, the surgical director and Dr. Burke sat with a man in his late seventies or eighties. None of them looked happy.
"Adam, you're here!" The director exhaled in relief, standing to introduce them. "Adam, this is my mentor, Dr. Walter Tapley."
"The Right Hand of God!" Adam stepped up, offering a handshake. "Honored to meet you, Dr. Tapley. I've been using your improved bypass technique forever."
"Took me an afternoon to figure that out," Tapley chuckled.
"Wow, just an afternoon?" Adam played along, wide-eyed.
"Six years!" the director cut in, exasperated.
Adam shot him a side-eye.
How'd you even make director? Everyone knows the famous bypass took six years, not an afternoon. When an old-timer wants to flex a little, you roll with it!
"Webber, you're no fun," Tapley griped.
"Heh," the director just smiled—clearly, they went way back. He turned to Tapley. "Walter, this is Dr. Adam Duncan—our center's star!"
"The brightest star in all of medicine!" Tapley gripped Adam's hand, staring deep. "Heard you were once called the Hand of God too, before they switched it to Hand of Adam. I'm sick—need surgery. But my colleagues, even your cardio chief Dr. Burke here, won't touch me. They're scared I'll die on their table and they'll go down in history as the ones who killed the Right Hand of God. So tell me, Hand of Adam—got the guts to operate on the Right Hand of God?"
(Chapter End)