?Chapter 1433:


    The middle-aged man felt a terror so deep it hollowed him from the inside. He spun on his heel and ran, but in his frantic rush his foot betrayed him, sending him crashing to the floor with a brutal thud. Pain ring, he scrambled upright and staggered forward as if a demon were hunting him down the corridor, his screams piercing the air and drawing the attention of patients and their families alike.


    When they saw Rosanna at the restroom door, shock rippled through the crowd — gasping, stepping back, faces etched with fear. Some children broke into tears. People recoiled as though she carried a contagious gue.


    Rosanna remained untouched by their terror. Her expression was nk, her gaze empty yet unwavering, as she crossed the threshold. All she wanted was the quiet of the Nelson vi — a refuge where she could sink into her bed and escape the world, even if only for a while. Her injuries could be treated by the finest doctors she could summon. As for her ruined face, Rosanna’s fingers brushed her uneven cheek, a cold gleam settling in her eyes. She had made up her mind. Once her injuries healed, she would go to Heliana, the pinnacle of cosmetic surgery, and undergo the most exquisite treatments avable. Her face would be reborn — perhaps even more beautiful than it had ever been.


    Having plumbed the depths of hysteria ande out the other side, Rosanna was now eerilyposed. If they saw her as a demon, then a demon she would be. She, Rosanna Morgan, was the vengeful spirit crawling back from hell — and she hade for vengeance.


    She moved forward, and the crowd parted around her, eyes wide with fear and revulsion. Rosanna walked on, stepping over their terror, and vanished down the corridor.


    Meanwhile, the emergency hall raged with chaos.


    Maia moved swiftly between beds, tending to patient after patient in rapid session. Her hands were skilled and precise — bandaging, stanching bleeding, suturing with dizzying speed. There were far too many injured and far too few staff to tend to them all. Her borrowed white coat and tightly worn mask concealed her identity; otherwise, many would have recognized her.


    Most of the patients were guests from the charity event. Just hours ago they had been dressed in haute couture, champagne sses in hand, maintaining the facade of high society. Now, charred and soot-streaked, their faces and clothes ruined, their beauty and dignity stripped away, they wailed and wept and cursed.


    Maia had just finished treating a woman whose arm had been shed by ss. She straightened — and the room blurred and doubled before her eyes. The noise of the emergency hall faded as if separated by thick ss. It was a clear sign of exhaustion. Her body swayed dangerously, and just as she was about to go down, a strong hand steadied her.


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    “I wondered where you had gone,” said a firm, steady voice beside her.


    Maia looked up to find Carsen, his expression serious.


    “You’re in no condition to treat patients,” he said, leaving no room for argument. As the attending physician, he understood her condition better than anyone.


    “Dr. Walsh…” Maia whispered weakly.


    Carsen gave no opportunity for protest. He gestured to the young doctors behind him. “Take over these patients.”


    “Yes, Dr. Walsh,” they answered immediately, stepping in to continue her work.


    Without another word, Carsen supported Maia and guided her out of the noisy emergency department. Once inside his office, he helped her onto the sofa, then produced a glucose pack from his white coat, tore it open, and held it to her lips.


    “Drink,” he said.


    Carsen had long made a habit of carrying glucose through lengthy surgeries — a habit that, at this particr moment, was proving its worth.


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