Ethan recited thew, his voice cold and precise. “Section 184 of the Civil Code makes it clear: If someone voluntarily provides emergency assistance and identally causes harm, they aren’t held civilly liable. And Section 183 states that if you get injured while protecting someone else’swful rights, the person responsible for the original harm is the one who should be liable.”
The woman shrank back, tugging nervously at her husband’s sleeve.
“Don’t try to throw all that legal mumbo–jumbo at me,” the man snapped, waving Ethan off with a scowl. “The fact is, you’re the ones who hurt my father. Now we have to drop everything and look after him. You’re paying for emotional distress, lost wages, medical bills–the lot. Not a single penny less.”
He spat on the floor, his whole demeanor radiating that ugly, belligerent certainty of someone who wouldn’t let this go without a payout.
Ethan met his re without the slightest flicker of unease. After handling <i>so </i>many cases, he’d seen every trick in the book–people like this weren’t even worth breaking a sweat over.
“Let me put it simply for you,” Ethan said, his tone steady. “We’re not the ones who owe you money. In fact, you owe us.”
“What kind of crap logic is that? We’re the victims here. Why the hell would we owe you anything?”
The man’s voice grew louder, drawing uneasy nces from everyone nearby.
Ethan ignored him, turning to the officers. “Officers, I’ll leave the rest to you. My sister’s pretty shaken up by all this, so I’ll go calm her down. My brother and I will head to the stationter to cooperate with your investigation.”
One of the officers, after ncing briefly at Alessia, nodded. “Attorney Morton, we’ll handle these two. Take care of your family.”
He strode over to the couple. “Alright, you two. Stop blocking the hallway and tell us what happened. If you’re here just to cause trouble, we can take this conversation down to the station.”
The threat worked. The couple exchanged nervous looks, then slowly stood up, supporting each other. When the officers questioned them, their answers were evasive–except when it came to assigning me. They insisted it was Zachary’s fault the old man ended up in the hospital, that Zachary didn’t have a license, that
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he’d misdiagnosed their father, who would’ve been fine if Zachary hadn’t interfered. Zachary couldn’t take it any longer. He stepped forward, voice trembling with a mix of nerves and resolve. “I studied traditional medicine under my mentor for nearly two years, and I’m a freshman at medical school. When the gentleman copsed on the bus, he didn’t fall or get injured. With help from other passengers, Iid him t and, when I realized he’d stopped breathing, started CPR immediately. There’s camera footage from the bus. I know I didn’t make a mistake<i>.</i><i>” </i>
Most days, Zachary second–guessed himself. Was this the right thing <i>to </i><i>do</i>? Was he following procedure? Even though he’d gone through these <i>motions </i>countless times, even though he could quote the textbook line for line, every time he had to act, doubt crept in.
He’d been scolded for it more than once–Xander always said that overthinking made him hesitate, made him seem unsure, and that patients could sense it. That kind of uncertainty didn’t inspire trust, and it certainly wouldn’t get him far.
Zachary knew it was a problem, and he wanted to change. But every time, that reflexive doubt held him back.
Today was different, though. For the first time, he’d managed to state his diagnosis with real conviction–and the certainty in his own words startled even him.
Still, he kept his face carefully nk. In a moment like this, even the slightest crack of uncertainty could be used against him.
<b>Chapter </b>347