"Mr. Thorn, you need to be transported to the operating theater immediately!" the masked trauma surgeon shouted, visibly shocked by the tycoon's absolute defiance. "You have three high-caliber bullets embedded in your torso!"
Michael waved his hand dismissively, his expression completely unyielding. "No. I will handle the surgery later."
The medical team stood utterly speechless. Was this man completely insane, or was he simply impervious to physical agony?
Clara broke away from her grandfather and threw her tiny arms around Michael's legs. "Uncle... does it hurt very bad?" she whimpered, staring at the thick white gauze rapidly turning crimson around his shoulder blades.
Michael shook his head, burying his agonizing pain deep beneath his rigid exterior as he looked down at her. "When you were inside that cellar, did you see any familiar buildings through the windows? Any shapes you recognized?"
