Brooklyn, New York.
Under the shroud of night, Brooklyn pulsed with the noise and glitz of urban life. Neon lights shimmered along the crowded streets, teeming with a mix of white, Black, and Asian faces. New York was the world's largest metropolis, and Brooklyn, with its population of over three million, was its most populous borough.
To many New Yorkers, Brooklyn was the dirtiest, most chaotic corner of the city—rife with addicts, prostitutes, drunks, and gang members. Walk down any street and you'd find scantily clad women with sultry red lips and cheap makeup, puffing on low-grade cigarettes, their eyes scanning the men passing by. Especially in a place called Hunts Point, scenes like that were everywhere—it was famously known as New York's red-light district.
Brooklyn. Southpoint Bar.
Strobe lights flashed. Heavy metal music blared. A singer screamed into the mic while half-naked women twirled around poles. The bar was a stew of testosterone and shrieking voices. This was modern restlessness in its rawest form.
Bar Basement.
Less than thirty square meters. Dimly lit. The air thick with the stench of blood. In the center of the room, a blood-soaked young white man lay dying on a hardwood table. A middle-aged man in a white lab coat, sweat pouring down his face, worked frantically on him. His trembling hands tried to stitch up a massive wound in the man's abdomen—but he was clearly overwhelmed.
In a corner near the door, three men stood with guns in their hands. The leader, a broad-shouldered Black man, furrowed his brow in concern.
…
"I… I can't!" The bespectacled man suddenly turned, swallowing hard as he looked at the trio by the door.
The Black man glanced at him, face blank. Slowly, he pulled a small black cylinder from his coat—
a silencer.
"He's gone. I can't save him… Please, I—" The middle-aged man panicked. He stumbled back, his legs giving out. As he flailed, his arm knocked over a tray of surgical tools on the bedside table, sending scalpels and clamps clattering noisily across the floor.
Thwip!
The Black man screwed on the silencer. Raised the gun. Pulled the trigger.
A single bullet. A clean shot to the forehead.
The doctor dropped flat on his back, eyes wide open, lifelessly staring at the basement ceiling. He was dead.
The Black man gave a silent nod. The bald white man beside him opened the door and called out. Moments later, two others entered, picked up the corpse, and dragged it away.
"Is my brother gonna make it?" the bald man asked, rage blazing in his eyes.
"We'll wait. This came too fast. Maybe there's still a chance," the Black man replied, voice low and steady.
Just then, the door creaked open again. A young man, around twenty-six or twenty-seven, stood in the doorway.
"Liam. You're finally here," the Black man exhaled in relief. He stepped aside to let the newcomer enter and shut the door.
Wearing a leather jacket, the young man said nothing. He gave a small nod, walked to the bedside, and looked down at the dying white man.
"…Help… me…" the man on the table murmured, his voice weak and broken, eyes flickering with hope.
"Who is he?" Liam asked.
"A doctor," the bald man replied.
Liam studied the wounds. Gunshots, stab wounds—brutal damage. He didn't move.
"Can you save him?" the bald man asked anxiously.
"Yes," Liam said calmly, still staring at the injuries. "Robbie. Your best gunman. He's taken a serious hit this time."
"Cut the crap and save him!" the bald man roared, raising his gun and pointing it at Liam.
Liam frowned. He turned slowly to face the younger man, then looked past him to the Black man. His voice stayed cool. "New guy?"
"Robbie's younger brother. Just got here from Jersey… Robbie, drop the gun." The Black man's voice turned hard at the end.
Robbie snapped his head around. After a tense glance from the Black man, he hesitated. Glaring at Liam, hand shaking, he finally lowered the gun.
Just then, a sweaty man burst into the basement, panting as he shoved an envelope into the Black man's hands.
"Here." The Black man didn't even look—he tossed the envelope straight to Liam.
Liam caught it without flinching. Two fingers popped it open. Inside, two neat stacks of fresh bills. He raised a brow, tucked the envelope into his inner pocket, and pulled out a small cloth roll from the other side. He laid it open beside the table—rows of metal tools gleamed: scalpels, clamps, surgical scissors.
This was what he carried. Everything else—gauze, antiseptic, bandages—was provided by the client. They sat neatly on a nearby table.
He slipped on sterile rubber gloves from a sealed pouch, leaned over Robbie's bloodied body, and muttered to himself, "Damn, that's bad. Four gunshots, two knife wounds…"
Thirty minutes later.
Liam was gone. Robbie now lay wrapped in bandages, hooked up to an IV. He was out of danger.
"Boss, who the hell was that? Why'd we pay him first?" Robbie's brother asked.
"That… was Liam Sutherland. Underground doctor. Genius. He only works with gangs. High fees, always paid upfront." The Black man shook his head. "He saved my life. Saved Malos, too. Anyone who knows him in New York—no one dares touch him."
Malos. A legendary name across the United States. The godfather of New York's most powerful criminal empire.
....
Liam left the club in a hurry, caught a cab, and headed back to his place on Oak Street—a run-down studio apartment in Brooklyn.
He stepped inside and tossed the envelope onto the bedside table. Pulling off his clothes, he revealed a lean frame—slender but toned with a hint of muscle. He wasn't tall, and not particularly bulky, but his body had been honed by necessity, not aesthetics.
From the fridge, he grabbed a burger and a bottle of milk, then climbed onto the bed, propped himself against the pillows, and turned on the TV with the remote, half-watching the evening news while he ate.
"An explosion occurred this afternoon around 4 PM at Fort Detrick in Maryland. The blast originated from a biological lab—now reduced to rubble. Rescue operations are still ongoing, and the number of casualties is yet to be confirmed… Phyllis Robbo reporting."
"Welcome to this episode of the WWS World Fighting Championship! This global tournament brings together fighters from every corner of the globe. In the last round, Japanese kendo master Koji Aoi eliminated Filipino stick-fighting champion Rafael. Tonight's match: Muay Thai king Basong versus Russian boxing titan Munuvich…"
"Today, President Trump delivered a speech at the Republican Assembly, focusing on…"
"The World Health Organization has arrived at the Rafah crossing in Egypt. The Egyptian Foreign Minister…"
Liam flicked through channels restlessly, none of the programs holding his attention for more than two minutes. He stared at the screen, lost in thought, until a surge of frustration made him click off the TV and toss the remote aside.
Chewing slowly, he stared up at the ceiling. His expression was distant, dark, and disheartened.
The next morning — 7:30 AM.
Liam's eyes opened right on schedule. He rolled out of bed, stretched his limbs, and drew back the curtains to look outside. Then came a short workout: push-ups, sit-ups, and a brisk run around the block. He returned home around 8:00 AM, sweat glistening on his skin.
After a shower, he traded his relaxed evening clothes for a sharp business suit. Hair gel set his style into place. He stood before the mirror and gave himself a professional smile—a formulaic grin he had mastered. The brooding young man from the night before had now transformed into a confident corporate elite.
With a manila envelope in one hand and his briefcase in the other, Liam stepped out. First stop: the bank. At an ATM, he deposited the $20,000 from the envelope into a specific account. Then he caught the subway.
Thirty minutes later, at approximately 8:40 AM, he arrived in Manhattan—the global heart of finance. Wall Street gleamed nearby.
GreenPoint Biotech Corporation was one of the most renowned pharmaceutical companies in the U.S., the third-largest drug supplier in the world. Its headquarters occupied an entire thirty-story skyscraper in southern Manhattan. Every floor belonged to GreenPoint.
At 8:50 AM sharp, Liam walked into the executive office. He was not the CEO—of course not. He was the CEO's assistant.
Liam never liked coffee, but every morning, he walked in holding a steaming cup—because someone else needed it.
At exactly 9:00 AM, the sharp click of high heels echoed in the hallway. Through the frosted glass of the office door, Liam saw the silhouette of a graceful figure. He stood immediately, coffee in hand.
The door opened. A woman in her thirties walked in—slim-fitting suit, golden hair, piercing blue eyes. She exuded power and maturity. A classic Western beauty… except for the expression—stone cold and severe.
The entire outer office, filled with employees just moments ago, fell eerily silent the second she stepped in.
Her name was Hilary Howes, the acting CEO of GreenPoint.
"Boss," Liam greeted her, handing over the coffee. He opened the folder in his other hand and began reporting as he followed her into the office.
"This is last month's financial report from accounting—needs your signature. Mr. Nassi's assistant just called, requesting a meeting today at 2 PM to discuss the European drug export case. Lawfield has sent back the reviewed documents for your review. Board meeting is scheduled around ten. Also, regarding the previous quarter…"
Hilary walked from the door to her desk by the window, silent the entire way, hips swaying, lips pressed into a tight line. She didn't look at Liam. Didn't need to.
When she sat down, she pointed to her desk. Liam placed the thick stack of documents in front of her, then stood to the side respectfully.
She took a sip of coffee, then spoke.
"Cancel the board meeting. Move Nassi to 10 AM. Inform all department heads there'll be a general staff meeting in the main conference room at 2 PM. That's all."
"Yes, ma'am," Liam replied, heading toward his desk in the corner.
"Wait!" Hilary suddenly looked up.
"Yes, ma'am?" Liam turned around.
"Your tie is ugly. Change it next time." She curled her lip slightly and took another sip.
Liam glanced down at his tie—brown. Not bad, but clearly not up to Hilary's standards.
"Yes, ma'am." He nodded without hesitation and returned to his desk.
Then began his daily routine—answering phones, filtering documents, managing the CEO's calendar, making reminders. That was his job.
He valued the position. It earned him over $60,000 a month. Plenty of others in the company were after it. That meant he had to tread carefully, meet every expectation, fulfill every request.
At noon, during lunch break, Liam slipped out and bought a new tie.
...
Afternoon. Outside the conference room hallway.
"Hey, Dr. Mien. The money's already been wired this morning… Yeah, I know. Once I get my paycheck in a few days, I'll send another payment… Mhm. Dr. Mien, how is she doing?… Oh, that's good to hear. Tell her I'll come visit this weekend… Alright. That's all for now."
Liam ended the call with a long exhale and slid his phone into his pocket.
6:00 PM.
Liam, slightly more worn out from the day's grind, boarded the subway and returned to his apartment in Brooklyn. Rent was cheap in this part of town—that was the only reason he stayed.
Once inside his old building, he instinctively pressed the voicemail button.
Nothing.
Each month, Liam would take on two or three jobs from the "underground circuit." He only accepted patients on the brink of death—specializing in gunshots, stabbings, and severe external trauma. Which meant he worked almost exclusively with the mob. No one else even knew how to contact him.
Underground doctor Liam—many in New York had heard his name, but very few had ever seen his face.
For two straight years, this double life had never stopped. All for the sake of money.
...
March 20, 2025. 7:00 AM.
Still half-asleep, Liam was jolted awake by the sudden noise outside his window.
BANG BANG BANG!
A violent pounding on his door made his heart skip. Something wasn't right.
His instincts kicked in—Liam had always had an acute sense of smell.
And now… he caught it.
A faint scent of blood.