Hospital Debauchery

"For our first challenge, we're diving deep, testing your senses, your touch, your skill to work blind. Blindfolds on, everyone! Assistants will guide you to your stations. Every move matters. Let's see who's got hands of steel!" Her words echoed through the massive exhibition hall, bouncing off towering marble columns and shimmering chandeliers that dripped crystal, casting golden flecks across the polished floor.

The air hummed with the soft whir of hologram displays, glowing hearts pulsing, bones spinning in 3D, lining the walls, their light mixing with the faint scent of orchids from sleek pots and fresh coffee wafting from a nearby stand.

Devon felt the weight of hidden stares, heavier now, like unseen hands pressing against his chest. The system's alert burned in his mind, Assassination attempt on your life turning the hall's lively buzz into a maze of potential traps. Assistants moved through the throng, black silk blindfolds in hand, tying them snug over eyes with quick, practiced moves.

He let one approach, her fingers swift as she secured the fabric, plunging him into darkness. His senses snapped awake, the floral tang of orchids sharpened, the scuff of shoes on marble rang clear, the chatter faded to a tense hum. His heart pounded, the kill threat making every sound feel like a footstep creeping closer.

The assistant guided him gently, her hand light on his arm, her voice steady: "Right here, Dr Devon. Your tools are ready. Good luck."

The hall fell hushed, the silence thick like a held breath, until the host's voice boomed again. "Your task, You've got a delicate subject, an egg. Peel the shell completely, keeping the embryo inside perfect. No cracks, no scratches, no damage. Ten minutes. Go!"

The room exploded into chaos as chaotic as a hall of blindfolded prodigies could get. Devon's hands moved steady, fingers brushing the cool metal table to map his tools, the system's warning sharpening his focus like a blade. He gripped the scalpel, light as a feather, and traced the egg's smooth, cool surface, his mind racing through steps while his ears hunted for anything odd, a step too close, a whisper out of place.

Around him, the hall turned into a wild theater of brilliance and blunders, a mix of intense focus and laugh-out-loud flops from doctors who'd conquered med school while most kids were still wrestling with algebra.

Dr Hank Riley, a burly Texan surgeon with a laugh that could fill a stadium and an ego to match, let out a booming groan. "An egg? This is kid stuff hold on, whoa!"

A sharp crack sliced the air, followed by a wet splat, and Hank's voice roared, "Dang it, yolk's all over me!"

Assistants burst into giggles, their laughter bouncing off the walls, but Hank just chuckled, his deep drawl cutting through. "Alright, who's got a towel? I'm out, but I'm grilling steaks later—y'all invited!" He wiped his hands on his jacket, grinning wide, his days as a 20-year-old med school grad and battlefield stitch innovator at 24 not helping him here.

The crowd roared, tension easing for a moment, but Devon caught a faint rustle behind him, someone shifting too close? An assistant adjusting a tray? His fingers tightened on the scalpel, senses razor-sharp.

Next to him, Dr Lila Kim, a petite neurosurgeon from Seoul with hands steady as stone, whispered to herself, "Focus, Lila, like threading a micro-needle in a storm." A prodigy who'd finished med school at 21 and built a brain shunt by 24 that saved thousands from hydrocephalus, earning her the Global Precision Award, Lila was all grit under her calm exterior. Her scalpel tapped lightly, chipping tiny shell bits, but a slip sent a piece flying, pinging off a tray. "No, no—darn it!" she sighed, dramatic as a stage star, her voice carrying a playful edge.

"There goes my perfect score. Blindfolds and eggs? This is pure evil!" The onlookers, staff, eliminated docs, and eager med studentssnickered, an assistant shouting, "Time's ticking, folks! No omelets allowed!" Lila laughed, shaking her head, "I'm sending the organizers a bill for emotional distress!" She tied her hair back tighter, her small frame barely visible over the table, her focus snapping back like a whip.

Devon stayed locked in, his fingers dancing precise over the egg, peeling the shell in tiny, careful flakes, the membrane beneath staying slick and whole. His breath came even, but his mind split half on the task, half on the room.

A shuffle to his left someone dropping forceps, or a step creeping near? He tilted his head, straining past the cracks and groans around him. The system's warning looped in his head, turning every sound into a threat. Was that cologne he smelled, sharp and unfamiliar, drifting from nearby? His mind flashed to the dark-suited figure he'd seen earlier, half-hidden by a pillar, their eyes maybe locked on him.

Dr Marcus Hale, a rival from London known for flashy techniques and a sharper tongue, cursed under his breath across the row. "This is ridiculous—eggs? I save hearts, not breakfast!" A star at 19 with papers on cardiac stents, leading a top cath lab by 25, Marcus had snagged big awards but no patience for this. A loud crack rang out, and he grumbled, "Bloody hell, I'm done. Who cooked up this nonsense, a chef with a grudge?" He tried charming an assistant for a hint earlier, his gold cufflinks glinting, but got shut down, and now his frustration boiled over.

The assistants laughed, the scene turning comedic as more eggs met their doom, splats and sighs filling the air like a bad sitcom.

"Five minutes left!" the host called, her voice bright but edged with thrill, like she was watching a tight race. Tension spiked, breaths quickening in the dark. Dr Elena Vasquez, the heart expert who'd pioneered a no-cut valve fix at 22, worked slow and sure, muttering in Spanish, "Tranquila, Elena, like threading a valve in the dark."

A med school grad at 20, her technique had saved thousands in Latin American clinics, earning her quiet hero status. She hummed a soft tune, calming her nerves, and finished with a gentle peel, her embryo pristine. "Sí, got it," she whispered, her voice barely carrying, but a triumphant smile broke through.

Others flopped, Dr Liam Chen, who'd built a neural mapping system at 23, cracked his egg with a pop, laughing at himself, "Guess brains are my thing, not eggs. Gotta hit the kitchen for practice." An MD at 21 with a Brain Breakthrough Award, he adjusted his slipping glasses, unfazed.

Another doctor, Dr Sofia Mendes, a pediatric surgeon, gasped as her egg rolled off the table, shattering with a dramatic splat. "I save kids, not eggs, someone get me a patient!" she laughed, tossing her hands up as assistants teased, "No daycare here, Dr Mendes!"

Devon finished with two minutes to spare, the embryo smooth and untouched in his palm, his focus laser-sharp. No damage, no slip-ups. He set it down gently, his ears still perked, a faint click from the side, metal on metal? Or just a tray shifting? The system's alert made every rustle feel like a step toward danger, his mind picturing a shadowy figure slipping through the crowd, a blade hidden in a sleeve.

The host called time, and blindfolds came off to a wave of cheers and groans. Assistants checked each station, their whispers rising as results tallied. About twenty percent got the boot with their eggs cracked, embryos scratched, tables messy with shell bits. Hank slapped a buddy on the back, "Well, that was egg-citing, get it?" Groans and laughs followed, the room lightening for those who passed, but Devon's eyes scanned the crowd, catching that dark-suited figure by a pillar, their face half-hidden, slipping away as he looked closer.

"Round two, blindfolds back on!" the host announced, her smile wide on the massive screen above, her navy pantsuit sharp under the spotlight. "Now, inject a balloon with a syringe, fill it without popping. Precision under pressure, folks! Five minutes, go!"

Blindfolds returned, and the hall tensed again, the air buzzing with nervous chuckles. Devon felt the balloon's rubbery give, the syringe cool in his hand, its weight familiar but heavy with stakes. His mind split, pushing the needle slow, feeling the pressure build, while listening for threats.

A cough from behind, too close? A shuffle to the side, innocent or creeping? The system's warning painted every sound with danger. Around him, the room became a mix of comedy and focus. Lila Kim poked too hard. pop! "Oh, come on, that's not fair!" she yelped, blindfold slipping as she laughed, her hands flailing like in a comedy skit. "I fix brains, not party balloons!"

The crowd hooted, an assistant shouting, "No confetti yet, Dr. Kim!" Marcus Hale overfilled his, the burst loud as a gunshot. "This is nonsense!" he barked, tossing his syringe down with a grin, "Next they'll have us juggling torches!"

Hank went slow, muttering, "Easy, big guy, don't blow it, literally." He succeeded, pumping a fist blind, his Texan voice booming, "That's how we roll in Houston!" Vasquez nailed it, her touch light as air, whispering, "Like placing a stent feel the give." Chen's popped with a sad fizzle, "Back to the lab," he sighed, his prodigy brain already dissecting his mistake.

A new face, Dr Julian Navarro, a cocky immunologist who'd cracked flu vaccine trials at 22, bragged, "This is easier than my lab work!" only to pop his balloon instantly, cursing in Spanish as the crowd roared.

An assistant slipped on spilled liquid, adding chaos, and Hank yelled, "Watch it, we ain't mopping floors too!" Devon aced it, the balloon full and taut but intact, but his senses stayed on high alert. That sharp cologne again, drifting from somewhere near was it the same person, or just the crowded hall? The room erupted in pops and cheers, more eliminations thinning the field, the air thick with rivalry and nervous giggles.

The host's voice boomed again, cutting through the noise like a lightning strike. "Last round for today, folks, the real test!" Assistants wheeled in trays, their clatters echoing off the marble walls, sharp and jarring in the packed hall, where banners with the Brave and Brightest logo fluttered above.

"Each of you gets a poisoned subject, a lab rat, safe but acting real. Every poison's different. Find it, cure it, before the clock hits zero. Five minutes, go!"

Blindfolds stayed, cranking the drama to a peak.

Devon's world shrank to the table, his fingers brushing the cold tray. His rat twitched, warm under his touch, pulse racing, breath short. He sniffed bitter almond, faint but clear. Cyanide.

He grabbed the hydroxocobalamin, injecting carefully, his moves precise in the dark. A scrape to his right, metal? Or a tray? His heart thumped, but his hands stayed steady. Around him, the hall turned into a wild show of suspense and comedy, prodigies pushing their limits.

Hank sniffed his rat, "Garlic—arsenic!" He fumbled, spilling a vial with a splash. "Oops—hope that ain't the cure!" Laughter erupted as he nailed it, yelling, "Texas strong, baby!" Lila's rat seized, strychnine? She mixed diazepam fast, whispering, "Hang in, little one," her teen instincts from cracking seizure fixes at 19 kicking in. Her vial nearly slipped, her breath catching, but she saved it, the rat calming. "Yes, got you!" she gasped, assistants cheering.

Marcus's rat flatlined, "Darn it all!" he roared, yanking his blindfold off, face red. "I stick to hearts, not rats!" He argued with an assistant, "This rat was rigged!" while Hank raised an empty vial, "To epic fails, buddy!"

Vasquez worked calmly, her rat's botulism signs clear, antitoxin injected smoothly. "Done," she said, her quiet strength shining. Chen misjudged ricin, his rat "dead."

"More poison drills," he sighed, chuckling. Devon finished, his rat stable, but a whispered "Devon" from the crowd froze him was it real, or another name? His paranoia spiked, the cologne scent lingering, sharp and close.

"Time's up!" the host shouted. Blindfolds came off, the hall bursting with claps and sighs. Assistants checked rats, half the field cut, wrong antidotes, dead rats.

The eliminated, Hank, Marcus, Chen gathered, joking, "We're the breakfast club now!"

Hank laughed, "Cracked eggs, dead rats, next, burned toast?" Marcus smirked, "I'm out before they make us juggle scalpels."

The host, her silver hair gleaming, stepped to the podium. "What a start! You showed skill, guts, and heart, proving you're the best. Tomorrow, brace for the Precision Puzzle Showdown! Pair up to crack rare medical mysteries,real patient cases with scarce clues. Symptoms will shift, time will burn, and global experts will watch live, tossing in twists. Who'll outsmart the toughest puzzles and shape medicine's future? Rest up,you'll need every spark of genius!" The crowd roared, whispering about neuro cases or viral tricks, alliances forming over handshakes and cards.

Devon slipped out, he caught Julian and Sofia talking low, their eyes flicking his way, or did they? The cool Geneva night hit his face, the skyline sparkling. The limo waited, Claudia's sharp eyes scanning the street, Markus steady up front. The engine purred, pulling them into the night, city lights glinting like eyes watching Devon's every move.