Hospital Debauchery

The viewing gallery, though thinned out from the long hours, was still alive with that electric hum of leftover excitement from Devon's flawless finish.

But as the screens showed him turning left in the corridor instead of heading out to the main hall, a ripple of confusion spread like wildfire through the remaining crowd.

Yvonne leaned even closer to the glass, her fingers gripping the edge tight, eyebrows furrowed deep. "He's really going in there? Into Elena's theatre?" she muttered, voice a mix of awe and bewilderment. Claudia, sitting next to her with her legs crossed and arms folded, tilted her head sideways, squinting at the live feed like it was a puzzle she couldn't quite solve. "Beats me. The guy's just won the whole thing—why

not come out and soak up the cheers? This doesn't make sense."

Around them, the whispers started small but grew quick, bouncing from one group to another. A young resident in a rumpled white coat, munching on a half-eaten pretzel, pointed at the screen with wide eyes.

"Wait, is Aldridge seriously walking into another op? He's done—first one out! Shouldn't he be celebrating or something?" Her friend, another resident with messy hair and tired eyes, shook her head slow, leaning forward in her seat.

"No clue, but that's bold. You don't just barge into someone else's case. What if Elena tells him to get lost?"

In the back row, an older attending with gray streaks in his beard crossed his arms tight, his face a mask of disbelief.

"This isn't protocol. He's not even on her team. If I were Elena, I'd ask him what the hell he's thinking." The judges in their glassed-off booth exchanged long looks, one of them—a woman with sharp glasses—scribbling furious notes on her pad, while another leaned in to whisper, "Unorthodox, but let's see where this goes."

The applause from Devon's completion had faded into this new tension, people shifting uncomfortably in their chairs, pulling out phones to zoom in on the hallway camera feed.

"Is he allowed to do that?" a nurse in the middle row asked loud enough for heads to turn.

"Like, is this part of the rules? Or is he just… helping?"

Her colleague nodded, eyes glued to the screen. "Helping? In a competition? That's wild. But look—he's pushing the door open. This is gonna be good." The whole gallery felt charged now, the air thick with questions and that can't-look-away pull, like watching a plot twist unfold in real time.

The door to the theatre swung open with a gentle whoosh of air, and the whole team turned their heads in unison, like they'd been caught off guard in the middle of a play. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Devon stood there in the doorway, still in his scrubs from his own case, mask hanging loose around his neck, his face as calm and unreadable as ever.

The scrub nurse blinked first, her gloved hands pausing mid-motion as she held a fresh flush syringe.

"Dr. Aldridge? You're… you're already done? That was quick—congrats!" she said, her voice a mix of surprise and genuine admiration, eyes widening behind her goggles.

The junior resident stopped tapping on his tablet altogether, staring with his mouth slightly open, like he'd seen a ghost walk in.

"Uh, hi… what brings you here?" he stammered, shifting his weight awkwardly.

Elena turned from the pump, her dark curls bouncing a little under her cap as she straightened up, a puzzled but friendly look crossing her face. "Devon? This is a surprise. Come to see how the rest of us are holding up? Or are you here to share some victory tips?" she asked, her tone warm and light, with just a hint of teasing to keep things easy, her hands still hovering near the drip line as if ready to jump back to work.

Devon gave a small, polite nod to each person in the room, acknowledging them one by one—the scrub nurse, the anesthesiologist, the junior resident, the circulating nurse—before stepping fully inside, careful not to cross into the sterile field just yet.

"Didn't mean to interrupt or step on toes," he said, his voice low and even, like he was just stopping by for a casual chat in the break room.

"I wrapped up my case and thought I'd check in, see if everything's running smooth here. No pressure—just offering an extra pair of eyes if you want."

He moved a bit closer to the table, his gaze sweeping over the setup—the monitors displaying steady vitals, the half-empty bag hanging from the pole, the drip line snaking down to Mr. Lopez's central catheter, the patient's face peaceful in his doze.

Devon stood there quietly for what felt like an eternity to the team but was really just a couple of minutes, his eyes taking in every detail—the way the fluid dripped through the tube, the slight fluctuation in the pressure gauge on the line, the subtle rise in Mr. Lopez's temperature reading on the monitor, the way the oxygen saturation had dipped a single point from 98 to 97 over the last few checks.

He didn't rush to speak, just observed, his stern expression from his own surgery lingering, like he was mentally mapping out the whole process step by step.

The room got even quieter, the beeps from the heart monitor seeming louder in the pause, the team sneaking glances at him while they worked, wondering if he'd say anything or just leave.

Then, he broke the silence. "

The rate's at 80 ml per hour now," he said, pointing toward the pump without reaching for it, his finger staying in the air.

"But take a look at the pressure reading on the line—it's crept up from 15 to 20 over the last few minutes. If you keep it going like that, you might hit a backlog in the tube, and that could lead to a small clot or slow down the cell delivery, making the whole infusion less effective."

Elena blinked, turning her head to check the gauge herself, her ponytail swinging slightly under the cap as she leaned in.

She started to respond, her voice a bit defensive at first—"I was planning to adjust it soon, it's still within the safe range, the protocol allows up to 25 before it's a problem"—but Devon kept going, his tone staying calm and matter-of-fact, not arguing, just sharing what he saw.

"Try dropping it back to 60 ml per hour for the next 20 minutes or so. That'll give the line time to clear naturally without stressing the filter."

The team looked at each other, and Elena paused, her hand still on the pump dial, weighing his words. At first, she crossed her arms slightly, her brow furrowing like she was ready to push back—"I've got this under control, Devon.

"The standard protocol says 80 is optimal for this volume, and the bubbles are minimal, under the threshold for concern. I don't want to slow it down and drag this out longer than needed."

The scrub nurse shifted her weight, glancing at the filter—"But… it does look a little off."

The anesthesiologist checked the pressure gauge and nodded slowly. "He's got a point—the reading's up 5 points from where we started, and the sats are down a point too."

Elena hesitated one more second, biting her lip under the mask as she stared at the numbers, then she let out a small breath and nodded. "Alright, let's give it a try your way."

Devon gave a quick nod, no triumph in his expression, just focus, and he talked them through it step by step while staying outside the field for now.

Mr. Lopez stirred a little from the slight movement around him, opening his eyes halfway.

"Everything okay in here?" he asked in Spanish, his voice weak but curious.

Elena reassured him softly, "Yes, just making a small adjustment to keep things running perfectly."

But as Devon continued pointing out little things—"Watch the oxygen saturation."

Devon gowned up quick and efficient, snapping on new gloves and joining the sterile field without a fuss.

He checked the central line entry point up close—the skin around it clean and dry, no signs of redness or swelling—but he adjusted the dressing tape just a touch, adding an extra loop to reduce any pull on the tube from movement.

Then Elena flushed the line clean with saline, she looked up at Devon with real gratitude in her eyes.

"You saved us at least an hour here—maybe more if that pressure had kept building. I was set on my plan, but this… this is better. Thanks, Devon. Really." The team nodded along, the anesthesiologist clapping him lightly on the back. "That was like a masterclass."

Devon just gave a small nod, stripping off his gloves with that same calm efficiency. "It was already solid—you had it under control. I just saw a couple small tweaks that could help."

Up in the gallery, the astonishment had built to a fever pitch with every minute of that scene.

People gasped loud as the screen showed Devon entering, then grew even more vocal when he started interjecting on the rate.

"He's really fixing the filter right there? That's genius stuff," one doctor said, standing up for a better view. The crowd leaned in closer than ever, whispers turning to full-on excited chatter that filled the room. "Look at Elena—she was pushing back at first, but now she's smiling."

A nurse in the middle row pumped her fist quietly. "I've never seen anything like this in a competition. He's not competing anymore—he's straight-up teaching them how to do it better."

Yvonne stared at the screen, her heart pounding with a warm mix of pride and surprise, a small laugh escaping her. "He's assisting everyone? Interesting."

Claudia nodded beside her.

The whole gallery felt like it was holding its breath, people on the edge of their seats, some pulling out their phones to zoom in on the close-up feeds, the air buzzing with that can't-believe-it energy.

Devon didn't stop or slow down.

He left Theatre 4 with a quiet exit, the door clicking shut behind him, and headed straight down the hallway to Theatre 3—Priya's room—his steps steady and unhurried, like he had a mental list he was checking off one by one.

The hallway camera caught every move, and the gallery noticed immediately, gasps rippling through the crowd again. "Wait—he's going to another one? No way, Priya's next?" a doctor in the front row said, pointing at the screen with disbelief.

"This guy's on a real mission now. Is he planning to hit all of them?" Whispers turned to louder talk, people shifting to get better angles.

"Look, he's entering—let's see what he does this time. Priya's not one to let someone take over easy."

In Theatre 3, Priya was right in the thick of her infusion, the soft violin music still playing in the background like a gentle soundtrack, helping to keep the mood light despite the long hours.

Mr. Rossi was chatting away about his favorite fishing spots, his voice a bit weaker now but still trying to distract himself from the cold spread in his veins.

The door opened, and Devon walked in.

Devon stood quiet for a couple of minutes, watching the drip closely, noting the small hitch in the flow, the pressure gauge ticking up slowly from 18 to 22, the oxygen sats dipping a point.

He didn't jump in right away, just let his eyes do the work. The room stayed mostly the same, Mr. Rossi mid-story about a fish that got away, but the team snuck glances at Devon.

Then he spoke. "The rate's at 100 ml per hour now," he said, gesturing to the pump. "But the line's showing small bubbles near the filter isn't good ." Priya checked, starting to respond—"I checked it 10 minutes ago, bubbles are minimal, under the safe limit"—but Devon continued calm.

"Drop the rate to 70 for 15 minutes to clear."