The operating theatre was unnervingly silent.
Not the usual kind of silence, but the kind thick with expectation.
I knew why.
This was my first observed surgery—a chance for the other surgeons to see if I was worth their time, or just another overconfident locum surgeon who would buckle under pressure.
The case was a laparoscopic cholecystectomy—routine for a general surgeon, but still a procedure requiring precision. And more importantly, it was a perfect chance for them to judge me.
No pressure.
I stood at the operating table, scalpel in hand, already immersed in the task.
Hands steady.
Movements calculated.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
But before I could even get past the first incision, her voice crackled in my earpiece.
"Angle's off by three degrees, Kai."
I almost sighed.
Su Yan.
The goddess of medicine—literally. And, more relevantly, the most relentless critic in existence.
"It's fine," I murmured under my breath, careful not to let it distract me.
"Fine isn't perfect." She countered instantly. "Adjust your wrist."
I didn't respond. Instead, I adjusted my wrist.
Because she was always right.
But Su Yan wasn't done.
As I navigated the trocar and inserted the laparoscope, her voice cut through the comms again.
"Your dissection speed is too slow."
My eyebrow twitched.
Too slow? My hand was practically a blur.
And yet—
"More efficient use of the electrocautery."
I obeyed. Not because she was nagging, but because she was always, always right.
The attending surgeons watching from the observation deck were utterly silent.
I could feel their eyes burning into me.
Because no matter what Su Yan thought, to everyone else, I was moving at inhuman speed.
Every movement was precise, deliberate, razor-sharp. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
The cystic artery and cystic duct were clipped and severed in record time. The laparoscope gave the audience a full view of my hands moving with an almost mechanical efficiency.
I was fast.
But to Su Yan?
"Kai, are you getting old? You were 0.2 seconds slower than usual."
The room did not miss that comment.
A couple of nurses exchanged glances. One of the surgeons in the observation deck tilted his head.
And then, in the microphone linked to the entire OR, Su Yan continued.
"If you weren't so slow, I wouldn't have to correct you."
I heard a choked sound.
Someone in the observation deck had just nearly laughed out loud.
Dr. Wallace, who had been watching with an unreadable expression, finally leaned back and whispered to Dr. Patel, "Did she just call him slow?"
Patel, still staring at the screen, muttered, "I… think so."
Evans was frowning. "Who the hell is she?"
Down in the OR, I forced myself to stay focused, ignoring the fact that every single person here was now staring at Su Yan like she was an alien.
To them, it made no sense.
A doctor moving at near-inhuman speed was already shocking enough. But the truly absurd part?
The flawless, ethereal beauty sitting comfortably behind the glass of the control room, casually eating a fruit tart, while criticizing me like I was a med student.
She wasn't a surgeon.
She wasn't a nurse.
She wasn't even officially on staff.
And yet, she spoke as if she was the authority here.
And the worst part?
She actually was.
The final phase of the surgery came. I made the last sutures with effortless precision, closed the incisions, and finished the procedure in record time.
The theatre was dead silent.
And then—
"Acceptable." Su Yan declared as if she were a teacher grading an essay. "Not your best, but acceptable."
This time, someone actually snorted.
I turned off my mic, gave her a deadpan look, and mouthed, "Really?"
She simply smiled, offering me a bite of her fruit tart.
"You'll do better next time, darling."
In the observation deck, Wallace turned to Patel. "I take it back. I love her."
Patel shook his head. "This is going to be interesting."
Surgery was done. The patient was stable.
By all accounts, I should have been free to leave the operating theatre and return to my usual routine.
But of course, hospitals loved their paperwork.
"Dr. Lin," one of the senior consultants, Dr. Evans, called as I was about to leave the OR. "You'll need to submit a post-op report."
I sighed internally. Of course.
A surgical case report was standard protocol. Details of the procedure, complications (if any), estimated recovery timeline—all the tedious but necessary documentation.
And normally, I wouldn't have minded.
But today?
Today, my lovely girlfriend was still sitting in the observation control room, lazily scrolling through her tablet, looking way too pleased with herself.
I gave her a warning glance as if to say: Don't.
She smiled innocently. Too innocently.
I should have known.
By the time I made my way to the surgeons' documentation room, a freshly printed report was already sitting on the desk.
My report.
And I hadn't even touched a keyboard yet.
Dr. Wallace picked up the document, brows raised. "Well, that was fast."
Evans glanced at me suspiciously. "Did you… have this pre-written?"
I stayed silent for exactly one second too long.
And in that moment, Su Yan—who was still comfortably sitting in the control room, sipping her tea—decided to make her presence painfully obvious.
Over the OR intercom.
"You're welcome, my love."
Dead silence.
Every doctor in the room stared at me.
I cleared my throat. "Ignore that."
Wallace, still holding the report, slowly flipped through the pages.
Then stopped.
"…Did she write this?"
Evans took the document from him, skimmed it, then whistled. "Bloody hell."
Patel grabbed it next, frowning as he read.
"Not just a report," he muttered. "It's a perfect report."
I already knew.
Su Yan had a lot of ridiculous abilities. But among them was the simple, terrifying fact that she understood medicine better than any human alive.
Which meant her documentation was flawless.
Not just correct. Not just detailed. But downright elegant.
Precise terminology. Zero redundant phrasing. Graphs for estimated post-op recovery rates. A complete risk assessment.
Even an attached literature review citing recent journal studies to support my decision-making during the procedure.
Who does that?!
Wallace gave me a long look. "Your girlfriend is… thorough."
Evans muttered, "Forget thorough. She just wrote what might be the best surgical report I've seen all year."
Someone—probably one of the residents—mumbled under their breath, "Is she even human?"
And the worst part?
Su Yan, now smug beyond reason, sent me a text.
Su Yan: Aren't you lucky to have me? ❤️
I exhaled, pinching the bridge of my nose.
She was impossible.
And yet—I was, in fact, lucky to have her.
I took the report from Patel, gave it a quick glance, then handed it to the admin desk.
"There. Filed."
Wallace leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Effortless, huh?"
I didn't respond.
Because I already knew—this wasn't the last time this would happen.
And from the way every single surgeon in this room was now deeply intrigued by Su Yan, I could already see the next problem forming.
This hospital had been full of skepticism when I arrived.
Now?
Now, I wasn't just the mysterious new doctor.
I was the mysterious new doctor with a girlfriend who might secretly be the most terrifying medical mind they'd ever encountered.
And something told me…
They weren't going to let this go.