You Came Like Star

Dr. Brown Immanuel stepped into the hospital lobby, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the tile floor. The air inside felt sterile-crisp, calculated. Everything had a place, an order. It was the kind of world he thrived in. Clean. Efficient. Predictable. A world where the messy tangles of emotions had no room to exist.

He adjusted the cufflinks on his shirt, their shine reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead. In his white coat, he was untouchable. People in the hallways parted as he passed. He didn't need to smile; his presence alone commanded respect.

"Morning, Dr. Immanuel," one of the nurses said as she stepped aside.

Brown nodded, his eyes scanning the patients in the waiting area, but his focus remained elsewhere. The hospital had been his home for over a decade. It was where he'd built his name, crafted his legacy. People talked about him in hushed tones-admired, respected, even envied. But they didn't know him.

To them, he was the miracle worker, the genius surgeon who made impossible saves. But under the layers of accolades and surgical masks, there was a man who had never allowed himself to be anything more than what his white coat demanded of him. Detached. Focused. Unmoved.

"Dr. Immanuel," a voice called from behind. Brown turned to see Dr. Marcus, a fellow surgeon, holding out a file. "There's an emergency in the ER. We need you to consult."

Brown glanced at the file but didn't make any move to take it. His hand remained at his side, as it always did in situations like this. "Tell them I'll be there in ten."

"Got it." Marcus nodded and hurried off.

Brown's phone buzzed in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts. He pulled it out and saw a text from his sister, Rebecca: "Are you coming to Daniel's birthday this Saturday? Mum is expecting you to show up this time."

He rolled his eyes, typing back without a second thought: "I'll be there. I'll send a gift. No need to guilt-trip me."

He didn't mind family, but the constant expectations felt like a weight he couldn't shake. His life was about precision, not social gatherings. Love? That was something he didn't have time for-something his mother had learned to stop nagging him about years ago.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and headed toward the elevator.

The ER was chaotic, just as he'd expected. Nurses and doctors moved with the urgency of people who were used to saving lives in a matter of seconds. Brown's heart rate didn't pick up. He'd been here too many times to let the rush of adrenaline get to him. He was calm, collected-his world built on control.

"Dr. Immanuel!" A voice called from the corner. He turned to see Dr. Nicole, one of the ER physicians, waving him over.

"What's the situation?" Brown asked as he walked toward her, already pulling on his gloves.

"Gunshot wound to the chest. It's bad," Nicole explained, her eyes wide with urgency. "We need you to operate. You're the only one who can handle this."

Brown didn't flinch. His mind was already calculating, assessing, predicting. The patient's life was on the line, but it was just another puzzle for him to solve. No room for nerves. No room for hesitation.

"Alright," he said, nodding toward the gurney. "Let's get this done."

It was two hours later when Brown stepped out of the operating room, his surgical mask still in place as he scrubbed his hands. The adrenaline rush of the surgery had long since worn off, replaced by a familiar emptiness. The patient had survived-another success for his track record-but there was no sense of accomplishment. There never was.

He wasn't the kind of man who celebrated wins. The patient had made it through, and that was all that mattered.

As he turned the corner, his phone buzzed again. This time, the message was from a number he didn't recognize.