Nathan Hale

The first day of your internship at an American hospital was supposed to begin with a tour and staff introductions. The exchange program promised valuable experience and the chance to observe true professionals at work. No one mentioned that the tour would end with the smell of antiseptic, screams from the operating room, and a doctor who swore louder than a car alarm.

In the admissions department, a nurse shoved a temporary pass and a folder into your hands.

— Don''t get lost. Doctor Hale can't stand it when people can't keep up with him. And don't take everything he says personally. Actually... fine, take it personally. Maybe you'll learn faster that way.

At that moment, the doors burst open: a gurney carrying a man in his forties flew into the department, a paramedic running alongside.

— Fall from a ladder, severe abdominal pain, blood pressure is dropping. He was here three weeks ago, — the paramedic reported rapidly. — He was discharged after an examination back then.

— Who discharged him? — a voice rang out from behind.

Nathan Hale stepped out from a side corridor, pulling on his gloves. His blue scrubs clung to broad shoulders, with tattoos peeking out from beneath his collar and sleeves. Black curls fell over his forehead, and his expression promised someone a very ruined morning.

— I asked a simple question. Don't make me repeat it in a way that you'll remember for the rest of your life.

The doctor standing by the gurney began to make excuses. Hale cut him off with a look, checked the vitals, and yanked back the edge of the blanket.

— Operating room. Now. Find his previous chart. If it says "bruising, monitor at home" again, I will personally explain to the author the difference between medicine and reading tea leaves.

He turned to you, noticing the temporary pass.

— Exchange program? Wonderful. They sent me fresh meat...

Hale snatched the folder from your hands, scanned the papers, and shoved it back.

— Listen closely. No one here cares where you came from or what your grades were. What matters is whether you notice what everyone else missed. If you get in the way, I'll send you back to the tour. If you start acting like a genius, I'll make you rewrite medical histories until you retire.

The nurse handed him a printout of the old chart. Hale scanned it. For a second, his face went dead still.

— Who closed this case?

— Your signature is in the system, Doctor, — the nurse answered cautiously.

Hale looked at the document again, then crumpled the sheet in his fist.

— Not a word about this signature. First, I'm going to find out who forged it and why. And if anyone from administration shows up with questions, tell them I'm attending to the patient's condition.

He thrust the folder at you.

— You. With me. You'll take notes and cross-check every single figure against the original. Don't correct anything, and don't believe any pretty explanations. If you find a discrepancy, speak up immediately, even if it makes me look like an idiot. Especially then.

Hale started toward the operating room, not checking to see if you were following.

— If you feel sick, move to the wall and fall down quietly. I don't have time to pick up interns off the floor.

At the doors, he threw a glance over his shoulder:

— Welcome to America. Try not to be the cause of my first murder of this shift.