Hospital Debauchery

The limo eased to a halt outside the Hotel d'Angleterre, tires whispering over the gravel like a secret shared with the night. The building stood there grand and timeless, its stone walls bathed in soft golden light from hidden spots, windows glowing warm against the dark.

Beyond it, Lake Geneva stretched out mysterious, its surface rippling under the moon like black silk stirred by a breeze. Devon shifted in his seat, eyes cracking open as the engine's low growl faded away. Sleep clung to him like fog, but he shook it off, running a hand through his messy hair, feeling the rough scratch of stubble on his jaw. "We there?" he mumbled, voice rough around the edges, peering out at the entrance where uniformed doormen waited like statues.

Claudia glanced over, her face calm as ever, iPad already stowed in her bag. "Yes, this is it. Your suite's ready." She moved smooth as she gathered her things, while Markus popped the door open, letting in a rush of cool air laced with lake water and distant city hum.

Devon stepped out, knees popping a bit from the ride, and stretched tall, feeling the night's chill nip at his skin through his shirt. Markus hauled the duffel from the trunk, handling it easy, like it was nothing more than a lunch bag, and fell in step behind them.

They pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby, and right away, the place wrapped around Devon like a fancy hug floors of gleaming marble that reflected the chandelier's sparkle, air scented soft with fresh-cut flowers from huge vases bursting with lilies and orchids. Velvet chairs dotted the space, guests murmuring low over drinks at a side bar, piano notes tinkling faint from somewhere hidden.

But as they crossed toward the elevators, Devon's sharp eyes picked up on the extras the stuff that turned this from hotel to stronghold. Suited men lingered at key spots, earpieces curling like vines, their gazes tracking him subtle but sure.

One by the stairs, another near the front desk, all built solid, holsters hinted under jackets. Up high, small drones buzzed lazy paths along the ceiling, their tiny cams swiveling, lights blinking red like watchful bugs. Even the flower pots and wall sconces hid sensors, and cameras dotted every corner, lenses glinting cold.

He let out a low whistle, turning to Claudia as they waited for the elevator. "This joint's locked down tighter than a bank vault. Is there something I'm not aware that's going on here?" His tone stayed light, curious more than worried, but he felt that prickle of intrigue, like peeling back a layer he hadn't expected.

Claudia met his look steady, her lips twitching just a hair, closest thing to a smile he'd seen from her. "Precautions, Dr Devon. Geneva draws all sorts. diplomats, execs, the works. Yvonne likes her guests protected. Think of it as peace of mind." Markus grunted soft agreement from behind, nodding to a passing guard like old pals, his eyes never stopping their scan. The elevator dinged open, sleek and mirrored,

and they stepped in, the doors sliding shut with a hush. It whisked them up smooth, a faint whoosh, opening to a private hall where thick carpet swallowed their footsteps, more cams mounted discreet like decorations.

Claudia swiped the keycard, and the suite door clicked open, spilling warm light into the hall. Devon stepped inside, and damn, the place hit him like a dream huge living room with windows framing the lake like a painting, moonlight turning the water to silver ripples far below. Sofas plump and inviting in soft cream leather, a gas fireplace flickering cozy orange, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

A dining nook with a polished wood table, crystal glasses catching the light, and off to the side, a bedroom door cracked open to show a massive bed piled high with pillows that looked like clouds.

The bathroom peeked beyond, marble gleaming, tub big enough for two, steam shower waiting like a spa retreat. Air smelled clean, faintly of lavender from some hidden diffuser.

Markus set the duffel down gentle by the entry table, gave the room a quick once-over, checking windows, peeking in closets, even scanning under the bed like routine. Satisfied, he stepped back out, leaving just Devon and Claudia.

She pulled out her phone again, fingers flying over the screen, murmuring low into it words too quiet to catch, but her voice steady, wrapping up whatever update she was sending. Then she turned to him, fishing a sleek black phone from her pocket, simple design, matte finish, felt solid in his hand as she passed it over.

"Keep this on you," she said, tone practical. "My number's programmed, Markus too, and the hotel's direct. Anything at all whether it's ride, food, info about anything, just call. I'll be downstairs in the secure annex." She paused, eyes locking on his for a beat, like making sure he got it.

"Rest up. Schedule starts early." With that, she nodded once, turned sharp on her heels, and slipped out, door latching soft behind her.

Alone now, the suite's quiet settled in deep, the faint crackle from the fireplace, distant waves lapping outside, a clock ticking somewhere soft like a heartbeat. Devon kicked off his shoes, toes sinking into the carpet thick as moss, and wandered to the window.

He pressed his palm flat against the cool glass, staring out at the city lights twinkling across the water, boats bobbing tiny in the distance.

He shrugged it off, flopping onto the sofa, leather cool against his back. Unpacking could wait; his mind buzzed with the real grind.

"System," he said quiet, voice echoing a touch in the empty space. A buzz hummed in his head, warm and familiar, the interface lighting up in his vision like a ghost screen, stats, quests, skill bars glowing faint blue.

"Enter VR mode," he commanded, leaning back deeper, eyes drifting shut as the room blurred away. Reality swapped out for the operating room, there were harsh white walls, overhead lamps buzzing bright like suns, trays of tools gleaming sharp.

He stood scrubbed in, gloves tight, mask fogging slight with his breath, the air thick with that sterile tang of disinfectant and latex.

The system flashed the quest: [Master Complex Aortic Aneurysm Repair. Difficulty: Expert. Time Limit: 45 Minutes. Reward: +2 Dexterity, Surgical Precision Upgrade]

The patient lay there on the table, chest rising ragged, monitors beeping urgent heart rate jumping erratic, pressure teetering low. A ruptured AAA, complicated bad: scar tissue from old ops twisting everything, vessels branched weird, vitals crashing like a storm. One fumble, and it was over, virtual or not, the pressure hit like a live case, adrenaline spiking his pulse.

"Let's do this," he breathed, grabbing the scalpel, hand steady but mind racing. Incision first, long slice down the midline, blade parting skin clean, but the fascia resisted tough, feedback vibrating his fingers like real muscle fighting back.

Blood welled up fast, dark and sticky, suction hissing as he cleared it, exposing the mess inside. The aneurysm pulsed angry, a balloon ready to pop, walls thin as paper. "Proximal clamp," he called to the void, snagging the tool, positioning it careful above the rupture. Clamp down, vitals dipped sharp, alarms wailing like sirens, heart rate rocketing to 130, pressure bottoming at 70/30.

Sweat trickled down his back, even in sim, the clock ticking merciless: 5 minutes gone already.

Dissecting now, scissors snipping through adhesions that clung like webs, each cut a risk, nick a vein, and flood the field.

Deeper, exposing the aorta, fragile and bulging. He looped the iliacs quick, fingers flying but precise, anatomy flashing in his head.

Complication slammed in at 15 minutes, a side branch tearing slight, blood spraying hot. "Shit," he hissed, clamping it frantic, hands slick in gloves, ligating with trembling clips while suction gurgled overtime. Vitals teetered on the edge, oxygen sats dipping to 88%, the system ramping the chaos beeps frantic, lights flashing red.

Heart in his throat, he pushed on, graft in hand, cross-clamping the aorta full. clock started—legs going numb virtual, time a knife edge.

Anastomosis, needle piercing the wall, tiny stitches pulling tight, prolene thread glinting under lights. Each bite perfect, no room for error, but his hands cramped, focus narrowing to that needle point.

25 minutes in, another hitch: graft kinking slight, flow threatened.

He adjusted fast, resewing a section, alarms still blaring, pressure hovering dangerous low. Distal end now, sewing to the bifurcation, fingers aching, mind screaming for speed.

35 minutes, release the clamps slow, blood rushing in, holding breath as the graft filled. No leaks, no bursts, monitors steadied, green lights flickering on, rate dropping to 90, pressure climbing steady to 120/80.

The system dinged clear: [Quest Complete. Time: 42:17. Reward Granted] The OR faded, suite snapping back, the window's glow, fireplace's warmth, his body slumped but buzzing.

The +2 Dexterity hit like a rush, veins tingling, hands feeling nimbler already. But 42 minutes? In a real room, that lag could cost everything, patient coding, family waiting outside, the weight of it all.

"Not good enough," he muttered to the quiet room, activating again, diving back into the VR storm, chasing that perfect run.