Hospital Debauchery

System Notification: Rewards Unlocked

• +15% Surgical Precision (Permanent): Your hands are now steadier than ever, capable of executing the most delicate procedures with unmatched accuracy.

• Unlock: "Cold Read": Gain insight into a patient's mental/emotional state during consultation, allowing you to read subtle cues in body language, tone, and expression to assess their true condition.

Devon's lips curved into a predatory smirk, his eyes glinting with cold, calculated triumph as he dismissed the notification with a flicker of thought.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders as he pulled on his tailored trousers and crisp white shirt, the fabric clinging to his sweat-slicked skin, accentuating the lean muscle beneath. The office door stood ajar, a sliver of fluorescent light from the hallway slicing through the dimness, casting stark shadows over the chaos of scattered papers and the faint smudge of Marianne's lipstick on the desk's.

His phone buzzed sharply, snapping his focus back to the present. He reached for it, and it was a news alert from Blissville Hospital's official feed lit up the screen, the headline bold and commanding.

Dr Devon Aldridge Appointed Chief of Emergency Surgery.

The statement was a hymn of institutional worship, drenched in reverence. It praised his "unparalleled expertise, his visionary leadership, his unblemished record of flawless surgeries."

It declared that thousands of applicants from across the globe had vied for the role, their credentials dissected by a board desperate for a leader to guide the department into a new era. None, it proclaimed, could rival Devon's portfolio, his unshakable calm under pressure, his ability to wrest order from chaos, his precision that bordered on the divine.

The board had deemed him the only choice, their words carving his ascension into the hospital's history, heralding a "new era of excellence" for emergency surgery.

Devon's smirk widened as he scrolled through the deluge of congratulatory messages flooding his inbox, colleagues, staff, even journalists clamoring for a quote. The hospital was electric with the news, the whispers of his impending rise now a deafening roar of confirmation. Rumors were fleeting, this was official, immutable, a crown forged in the fires of his ambition and placed firmly on his head.

As if summoned by the announcement, the office door burst open, and a procession of department heads poured in, their faces a tapestry of forced smiles, cautious awe, and veiled calculation. Dr Miriam Harrington, Chief of Anesthesiology, led the group, her hair bound in a severe bun that echoed the tight lines of her jaw. Her white coat was pristine over a simple navy blouse, but her sharp blue eyes betrayed a wariness that undercut her composed exterior, her fingers gripping a bottle of champagne with a force that suggested it was more anchor than offering.

Behind her came Dr Leonard Hayes, Chief of Radiology, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights, his grin wide but brittle, his tie slightly askew as if he'd rushed over in a frenzy. Dr.

Nadia Ruiz, the Research Director, followed, her dark eyes sparking with a blend of amusement and intrigue as they swept over Devon, lingering on the faint creases in his shirt, her curvaceous figure accentuated by a fitted lab coat, a glass of red wine already in hand, her full lips curved in a knowing smile that hinted at secrets shared.

Professor Julian Croft, the Academic Affairs Lead, shuffled in nervously, his thin frame dwarfed by an oversized gray suit, his glasses slipping down his nose as he adjusted them with a trembling finger, a bottle of scotch clutched under his arm like a talisman.

Dr Isabella Locke, Education Coordinator, brought up the rear, her blonde hair pinned neatly back, her smile polite but distant, her hands wrapped around a glass of sparkling water, her eyes scanning the room.

The air thrummed with the clink of glasses and the fizz of champagne, the group raising a toast in a cacophony of congratulations that felt both genuine and meticulously calculated. "To the new chief!" Leonard bellowed, his laugh booming as he popped the champagne cork, sending a spray of foam across the desk, splattering the already-ruined papers and mingling with the faint traces of Marianne's presence.

His eyes, though, were sharp, tracking Devon's every gesture as if searching for a crack in his armor. "You're going to elevate this department to new heights, Devon, no one else could fill Thorne's shoes like you." Julian nodded with frantic enthusiasm, his glasses sliding again, his fingers fumbling to correct them.

"A true visionary," he continued, his voice high and eager, almost pleading. "The hospital's lucky to have you at the helm." The men's flattery was unabashed, Leonard's hand lingered on Devon's shoulder, a gesture that teetered on overfamiliarity, while Julian poured scotch with hands that trembled slightly, as if wary of Devon's gaze.

The women, by contrast, were more restrained, their responses layered with subtext. Miriam's smile was taut, her grip on the champagne bottle unrelenting, Isabella lingered on the edges, sipping her sparkling water in silence, her posture rigid, her gaze cool and calculating, as if she were already plotting her moves in this new hierarchy. Nadia, however, was a force unto herself.

Her dark eyes locked onto Devon's with a boldness that bordered on defiance, her smile teasing, almost conspiratorial, as if she could read the story written in the office's disarray, the scattered papers, the smudged lipstick, the faint musk still clinging to the air.

She raised her glass, her voice low and velvet-smooth, laced with a playful edge. "To Devon, the man who always comes out on top." Her words drew a ripple of nervous laughter from the others, but her gaze held his.

Devon leaned back against the desk, his posture relaxed yet commanding, his smile easy but edged with a razor's precision as he raised his glass, letting their praises roll over him like a wave.

The room pulsed with energy, the clinking glasses and fizzing champagne creating a veneer of celebration, but the undercurrent was unmistakable. They spoke to him with a deference that bordered on subservience, their laughs too loud, their eyes seeking his approval, their words carefully chosen to secure their place in his new order. He relished it, the shift in power as tangible as the weight of the wineglass in his hand.

Leonard launched into a tale of Devon's "legendary steady hands," recounting a surgery where he'd snatched a patient from death's grasp with a single, flawless incision, his voice loud and performative, his eyes darting to Devon for validation.

Julian chimed in, his voice breathless as he rambled about "a new golden age for research collaborations," his enthusiasm tinged with desperation, as if his survival depended on Devon's favor.

Miriam nodded along, her responses clipped, her eyes flicking to the door as if yearning for escape, her smile a fragile mask. Isabella's silence grew heavier, her fingers tightening around her glass, her gaze fixed on some distant point as if distancing herself from the scene. Nadia, meanwhile, watched Devon with a quiet intensity, her smirk suggesting she saw through the charade, her eyes dissecting him as if he were a puzzle she was determined to solve.

Devon's mind, however, was elsewhere, cataloging every nuance, every gesture. The system's new reward, "Cold Read," pulsed at the edge of his consciousness, and he tested it instinctively, his gaze sweeping the room. Leonard's boisterous laughter was a facade, his overlong grip on Devon's shoulder a clumsy bid for alliance, his eyes betraying a flicker of insecurity.

Julian's nervous tics, the constant adjustment of his glasses, the way his gaze darted to the exit revealed a man drowning in his own inadequacy, desperate to please. Isabella's cool detachment was a carefully constructed shield, her silence a strategic retreat, biding her time until the board was set in her favor.

The room's energy shifted abruptly when Devon's voice cut through the chatter, clear and deliberate, silencing the clinking glasses and forced laughter in an instant. "Where are Gregory and Robert?" His tone was light, almost conversational, but it carried a weight that froze the room, the champagne suddenly tasteless, the air thick with unease.

His eyes swept over the group, locking onto each face with an intensity that stripped away their pretenses, his smile unwavering but laced with a quiet menace that sent a chill through the room.

A heavy silence settled, the department heads exchanging furtive glances, their smiles crumbling like fragile facades. Miriam's fingers tightened around her champagne flute, the glass creaking faintly under the pressure, her lips parting as if to speak but closing again, her eyes darting to the floor.

Leonard cleared his throat, the sound harsh and jarring, his grin fading as he looked to Julian for rescue, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in a nervous tic. Julian, caught off guard, fumbled his scotch glass, the amber liquid sloshing as he pushed his glasses up with a trembling finger. "Gregory's ill," he stammered, the words tumbling out too quickly, his eyes skittering to the side as if searching for an escape. "And Robert had to travel out of town, urgent business, you know. Family matter or something." His forced smile was a grimace, his fingers twitching, betraying the lie as clearly as if he'd confessed it.

Devon let the silence linger, stretching it until the tension coiled tight, the room's air growing heavy with unspoken fears. His gaze pinned Julian, unblinking, unrelenting, his smile fixed but carrying a predatory edge that made the older man's shoulders slump, his face paling under the scrutiny.

The others shifted uncomfortably, Nadia's smirk faded into a watchful stillness, her wineglass hovering halfway to her lips, Isabella sipped her water, her eyes fixed on the floor as if to avoid the intensity, Leonard coughed again, his hand now clenched into a fist at his side.

They were afraid of him, Devon knew, and the knowledge was intoxicating.

"Okay then," Devon said at last, his voice smooth and measured, breaking the tension like a sudden release of pressure. The relief was palpable, shoulders relaxed, breaths were exhaled, glasses raised again as if the moment had never happened.

"Send my regards to them. Hope Gregory feels better soon, and Robert wraps up his business." He took a slow sip of his wine, the tartness sharp and invigorating, his eyes never leaving Julian's face, watching the older man's nervous nod with a quiet satisfaction.

Julian's shoulders sagged, a shaky laugh escaping his lips as he muttered, "Will do, Devon. I'll let them know right away." He fumbled his phone from his pocket, his fingers clumsy as he typed a hurried message, no doubt warning Gregory and Robert of the lie he'd just spun, his thumbs moving with frantic urgency.

Devon watched from the corner of his eye, his expression neutral but his mind razor-sharp, cataloging every detail the tremor in Julian's hands, the way Leonard avoided his gaze, the tightening of Miriam's smile as if she sensed the danger lurking beneath the surface.

The celebration resumed, the room filling with forced laughter and the clink of glasses, the conversation veering to safer ground, upcoming conferences, recent breakthroughs, the hospital's ambitious plans for expansion.

Leonard launched into another story, this one about a complex case Devon had handled with what he called "almost supernatural skill," his voice loud and performative, his eyes seeking Devon's approval like a dog waiting for a treat.

Miriam nodded along, her responses curt, her eyes flicking to the door as if plotting her escape. Nadia, leaned closer to Devon, her voice a low murmur as she said, "You're the devil incarnate I hope you know?."

Isabella remained a silent observer, her sparkling water untouched now, her posture stiff as she checked her watch with a discreet glance. She offered a final, "Congratulations, Dr Aldridge," her voice cool and formal, before slipping out with a polite nod, her heels clicking softly on the floor, a quiet retreat from the battlefield.

The others followed suit, one by one, offering their final praises,"To the new chief!" "To a brighter future!" before filtering out, leaving behind a trail of empty glasses, the lingering scent of champagne, and a palpable shift in the air.