Part 3The Medic's Exodus

I turned off the screen and, under Arthur's complex gaze, turned and walked out of the banquet hall.

Severe stomach pain hit me. I leaned against the revolving door and collapsed to my knees.

When I woke up again, I was in the IV room of the military hospital.

The door pushed open, and Arthur walked in carrying an insulated lunchbox. His eyes were heavily bloodshot, looking as if he hadn't slept all night.

"You're awake? I brought you some soup."

He sat on the edge of the bed and tried to take my hand, but I silently pulled away.

Arthur's hand froze in mid-air, then slowly retracted:

"The doctor said you need bed rest. I've handed over camp duties to the deputy commander. I'll stay with you."

"I was speaking in anger last night. I didn't know you were hurt this badly. Why didn't you say anything?"

I looked at him with the unfamiliarity of a stranger.

Arthur began to panic, desperately wanting to grasp onto something:

"Chloe, when you're better, let's have a child."

"Didn't you always want one before?"

"I asked the doctor. Emily can't have children. We'll have one, and let her be the godmother."

I froze, then laughed out loud, the vibration pulling at the cramps in my stomach:

"Arthur, forget about the child. I don't want my child calling someone else 'mother'."

A familiar frustration surged in Arthur's heart. He felt he had already bowed his head and compromised, yet I was still being unforgiving:

"Chloe, do you have to be so prickly with every word? I'm willing to make it up to you. What more do you want?"

I didn't answer, my gaze falling on the calendar by the bed.

Three more days.

On the day of my discharge, Arthur specially drove a military vehicle to pick me up:

"There's an academic military commendation ceremony today. Command specifically asked for you to attend."

"Your previous 'Modified Protocol for Emergency Treatment of Battlefield Trauma' is highly regarded by the higher-ups."

A ripple finally appeared in my dead eyes.

That paper was the result of my blood, sweat, and tears, born from eight months of analyzing thousands of field medical records.

Arriving at the auditorium, Arthur left me backstage: "Wait here a moment. I'm going to the front to make arrangements."

I stood behind the curtain, listening to the thunderous applause from the front as the host's enthusiastic voice echoed:

"Now, please welcome the winner of this year's 'Strong Army Cup' academic gold medal, Comrade Emily Davis, to the stage to share her award-winning paper, 'Modified Protocol for Emergency Treatment of Battlefield Trauma'!"

My mind went completely blank.

On the large screen's presentation, every chart, every data annotation, even the rough sketches in the margins of the manuscript, were exactly the same as my paper.

That was my life's work, but the author was listed as Emily.

I don't know how I walked onto the stage, but I snatched the microphone:

"This paper is mine! The raw data is on my computer, and the experimental logs are in my filing cabinet. Emily, you can't even pronounce the basic terminology correctly, and you dare to accept this award?"