Outside the ICU, Zhou Ze leaned against the wall and sat in the corridor. He was holding a burning cigarette in his hand. Below him, there were cigarette butts all over the floor.
Old Zhang was still lying inside. His condition did not improve. Instead, it continued to worsen.
A night had passed,
perhaps for Old Zhang.,
his days had lost another night. His life could be counted with his fingers. Moreover, it was not measured in "Days", but in "Hours".
Even if Zhou Ze did not want to admit it, as a doctor, he knew in his heart that in terms of illness and treatment methods, Old Zhang was powerless.
Not all illnesses could be expected to be miracles. People always liked to preach the spirit of optimism, positivity, and upward mobility. They could create miracles and defeat the illness.
But that's just a way that people instinctively talk to themselves to amuse themselves,
