The two-room apartment on the outskirts of the city smelled of dust, leftover coffee, and loneliness.
Tomas sat on the couch, his feet on the coffee table. The T-shirt – gray, with a small hole near the shoulder. Hair – dark brown, short, unruly – one lock falling onto his forehead. Green eyes – empty, as if he were looking through the world. A small scar on his chin – from childhood, when he fell off a bicycle.
His father had laughed then laughed:
"You'll be a surgeon – scars will be your true beauty, son!"
He was 22. A sporty build – not from the gym, but from hard work and living among all kinds of people. Hands – strong, veins visible under the skin, his fingers aimlessly sliding over the open Human Anatomy textbook on page 214 – the aortic valve.
The page was covered in pencil marks: tiny notes, arrows, handwriting that was irregular but unbelievably precise.
Those notes weren't a student's – they were a surgeon's.
Three years ago, Tomas had been in his third year of medical school, already operating side by side with Professor Julian, the best heart surgeon.
Not assisting — operating.
A nineteen-year-old boy with green eyes and an utterly calm face would stand at the table, holding a scalpel as if he had been born with it in his hand.
He had been one of the top students in the medical faculty. Because of an incredibly fast ability to master any physical discipline. Martial arts, complex medical terms, theories or practices — everything came to him so easily that those around him called him a genius. To him, everything seemed meaningless. Although he could have finished his studies without the slightest effort, he simply abandoned them — not because he was incapable, but because nothing could awaken even a trace of motivation within him.
He never laughed.
He never went to parties after shifts.
He never replied to girls' messages.
He didn't socialize. Had no friends. His parents died in a car accident. After losing his parents, Tomas was left completely alone, and this solitude became as natural to him as breathing. It surrounded him, embraced him, and turned him into a quiet shadow of a person.
The last operation he remembers in absolute detail took place one year and seven months ago.
A woman, 34, her fourth pregnancy, a ruptured aorta.
They fought for six hours.
Tomas held her heart in his hands — literally — while Julian stitched the valve.
They pulled her back.
She survived.
A healthy baby boy was born.
The next morning, Tomas set the scalpel on the table, pulled off his gloves, and walked out of the operating room.
No one saw him for three days.
On the fourth, he brought in a request to be removed from the student roster.
"Personal reasons," he wrote.
Julian tried to talk and stop him. Tomas just looked at him with empty eyes and repeated:
"I'm tired of saving people, everything looks meaningless."
He never entered an operating room again.
Now he's working any work just to get paid. Tomas not interested to get rich, have a lot money, he just needed buy food and pay taxes. Today he worked in a warehouse – lifting boxes. Came back at 22:47. Tomorrow was a day off.
– Maybe I'll go to a bar, – he muttered to himself. – Get a drink. Silence the thoughts.
He stood up. Long black coat. Jeans – old. He left.