FreeFreeDescription
English Translation
Setting the Scene
New York City is one of the largest cities in the United States, housing major commercial, financial, and cultural institutions. It stands among the most prestigious urban centers for finance and culture.
The setting is the Upper East Side, Manhattan.
This is a place famous for luxury mansions, historic architecture, and art galleries. It is located near Central Park, Fifth Avenue, and major shopping destinations like Bloomingdale's. It is a neighborhood for the elite—high-profile lawyers, politicians, and Wall Street tycoons!
The Intrusion
02:00 AM. The clock in New York City struck. The night was deep, and every living soul was resting to regain peace.
She lay comfortably on her massive bed, wrapped snugly in her soft blanket, seemingly enjoying her deep sleep. It felt like a dream when she began to sense someone pounding on her gate, a disturbance that caused her to shift slightly from her resting position.
Suddenly, she jolted awake due to the violent hammering on the gate, as if someone was trying to tear it down. Wide-eyed with sleep in the darkness, she started trying to gather her wits to figure out whether the gate really was being battered or if it was just a dream.
Realizing it was undeniably real, she reached her hand toward the phone set on the bedside drawer, groping for her phone while her body trembled and her eyes remained wide. Overwhelmed by panic, the shaking in her hand prevented her from picking up the phone.
Another ferocious blow shook the gate, causing her to tumble right off the bed, and finally, she managed to grab the phone. Terrified, she headed outside, trying to turn on the phone's flashlight, but to no avail—her hand refused to steady enough to flick the switch.
She stepped out into the darkness, groping along the hallway, her anxiety spiking as the violent pounding on her gate continued as though it would be demolished. A cold sweat broke out over her; she knew that someone beating down a gate at 2:00 AM could not possibly be anything good—it had to be an act of God.
She hurried down a narrow corridor, trying to summon every prayer that came to mind, but she couldn't form a single coherent one. Groping blindly, she grabbed the handle of a door, quickly pushed it open, and stepped inside.
With heavy effort, she dragged her feet to the switch because her body felt entirely weak. She flicked on the room's light, let out a deep sigh of relief, and slowly walked over to the bed inside the room. It was a fully equipped baby’s bedroom, where everything—from the curtains to the furniture—was sky blue. The room was breathtakingly gorgeous.
With trembling hands, she pulled back the soft sky-blue blanket on the bed. For the second time, she breathed a sigh of relief. A little girl lay fast asleep across the bed, wearing shorts that reached her knees and a thin, pink sleeveless top. Her hair was extremely silky, spilling over her face so that she was barely visible, cascading all the way down to her stomach.
Another massive blow struck the gate, causing the beautiful woman to startle. Her body trembled intensely, and she hurriedly pulled the blanket back over the little girl before turning swiftly to the light switch. She switched off the room's light and stepped back outside.
Overwhelmed by confusion, she didn't know where to go, pressing one hand against her chest as if it were about to shatter. With great difficulty, she located the staircase and hurried downstairs. Moving quickly, she reached the center of the main parlor. She stopped there and tried to turn on her phone's flashlight, but it failed completely—the screen refused to respond to any taps. Realizing that whoever was pounding on the gate lacked any patience and was desperate to get inside, she headed toward the parlor light switch. Stumbling in the dark, she managed to find it and turned the lights on.
It was a massive, impeccably clean parlor equipped with every luxury, filling the air with a pleasant fragrance. In haste, she rushed to the parlor door.
Because her body was shaking so badly, she struggled to undo all the security locks on the door before stepping outside. In the courtyard, she paused briefly to gather a proper prayer before running all the way to the gate. Another heavy blow shook the gate violently, and before she knew it, she had reached it.
With a trembling voice and a pounding heart, she called out, "Who... is there?"
From the outside, a voice—so strained she couldn't recognize it—answered, "Open the gate now." The tone carried clear signs of exhaustion and distress from the speaker!
"I don't understand opening the gate at this hour—it's 2:00 AM! Who are you first? I want to know before I op—" She couldn't finish her sentence; she stopped short as another savage blow hit the gate, knocking her a foot backward because she thought the gate was going to collapse right on top of her.
With that exhausted voice, a stern command barked out, "Open the gate now, I said!"
She rushed to the gate, frantically undoing the locks while whispering, "Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un, Hasbunallahu wa ni'mal wakil." With great difficulty, she managed to open it.
The moment she slid the locks open, the gate was shoved inward, and as they entered, a silent pistol was pressed directly against her forehead. Using that same exhausted voice, the intruder commanded, "Close the gate."
She wasn't frightened at all by the gun pointed at her head; instead, she felt deep pity seeing him struggle with such heavy, strained breathing, as if he were in agonizing pain. Seeing that he was alone, she didn't argue—she closed the gate just as he requested.
As soon as she closed it, he pointed the gun toward the interior of the house, signaling her to lead the way inside. Without hesitation, she walked ahead while he followed closely behind, and they entered the parlor. There, she stood in the center of the room and turned around, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face now that they were in the light. But there was no chance of that: he was wearing a puffer jacket with a large hood pulled low over his forehead, a baseball cap tucked underneath the hood, his head bowed down, and a nose mask concealing his face.
The gun gestured toward the upstairs, signaling that they needed to go. Instead of walking immediately, she stared at him intently. Suddenly, her eyes caught sight of blood dripping from his fingertips—it was pouring continuously, ziiiiiirrrrrr, like a low-flowing tap.
With wide, startled eyes fixed on his hidden face, she spoke in a weak, trembling voice, "Servant of Allah, what happened to you? Who are you? And what do you want from me?"
He didn't speak a single word. He continued pointing the stairs with the gun in a state of exhaustion and helplessness, clearly running on sheer willpower. Seeing this, she simply turned and led the way upstairs. Without a word from him, she walked straight to a door marked with the letters OPERATING ROOM (O-R).
She turned the door handle, pushed it open, and stepped inside while he followed. It was a room resembling a hospital, featuring a patient bed with blue bedsheets, blue curtains, and a spacious layout. It was exceptionally clean, fitted with a massive AC to keep the space cool—just like a high-end hospital. On the wall facing the entrance were framed photographs of a woman in a surgical gown, clearly a master surgeon. The wall was covered with various pictures: one showed her performing surgery, another receiving an award, and another holding a newborn baby whose umbilical cord hadn't even been cut yet. She was clearly a surgeon.
As soon as they entered, he lowered the gun from her head and dragged himself toward the bed, collapsing onto it while still clutching his firearm. Realizing this, she rushed over to him, overwhelmed with pity. She grabbed his bleeding hand, noticing the blood streaming down from his upper arm where he had sustained a gunshot wound. Quickly letting go of his hand, she hurried to the cabinets along the wall.
The Surgery
Within moments, the woman suited up in protective gear: a surgical gown, gloves, face mask, face shield, and a surgical cap. She gathered her medical instruments—a scalpel, forceps, tissue and hemostat, retractors, a suction machine, a bullet extractor, an irrigation syringe, suture needles and thread, and surgical drapes—bringing them from the drawer to the table beside the bed. Though her body shook with nervousness, her sole objective was to act quickly and save his life. She saw that he had been shot, and his shirt sleeve around his upper arm was torn apart.
She immediately began preparing for surgery. After getting everything ready, she prepared local pain-relieving injections. She initially considered putting him to sleep, which was standard protocol, but after feeling his out-of-control heartbeat, she realized he was driven by an urgent mission. Knocking him out completely right now would be a massive mistake because she didn't know who he was, where he came from, whether he was a good person or a criminal, or what consequences might follow. It was safer to keep him fully awake at all costs.
After administering the painkiller, she set the needle aside, picked up a pair of medical scissors, and carefully cut away his jacket sleeve from his fingertips up to his shoulder, removing the sleeve entirely. She placed the scissors back into her instrument tray and reached for antiseptic solution to clean the gunshot area. Feeling deeply sorry for the poor man, she saw he had lost a tremendous amount of blood and was still bleeding heavily; the bullet seemed to have traveled deep, dangerously close to a bone or a major nerve.
Swiftly, she brought over an X-ray machine—the device used before bullet extraction to pinpoint the exact location of the projectile. Her eyes locked onto the screen, watching how the bullet had torn through the muscle of his upper arm. Filled with even greater sympathy, she set the machine aside and picked up the scalpel, the surgical blade used to open the skin and tissue where the bullet entered. Noting the thick muscle mass in his upper arm, she used an X-C blade to carefully trim and reduce the tissue. She worked calmly, with precision and gentleness, yet with fiery speed and zero hesitation.
Throughout the entire process, he watched her with open eyes without uttering a sound, thanks to the local anesthetics she had administered.
After trimming the tissue and setting it aside, the bleeding intensified. She immediately grabbed the suction machine to clear away the excess blood. Following that, she applied chlorhexidine antiseptic solution to clean the wound thoroughly, then inserted retractors to hold the flesh open and get a clear view of the bullet.
Now she had a clear view of the bullet. Holding the retractor with one hand, she picked up the forceps with the other—a scissor-like tool designed for easy bullet extraction. Gently, she gripped the bullet and pulled it out, dropping it straight into a bowl of ice-cold water she had prepared earlier.
A rush of bright red blood surged out right behind the extracted bullet. She quickly set the forceps aside, grabbed sterile gauze pads, and used them to absorb the pulsing blood. Then, she picked up an irrigation syringe—a large syringe used to wash the wound with clean water and disinfectant—and flushed the area clean.
Once finished, she reached for medical sutures. Calmly and with profound empathy, she stitched up the wound that she had widened to extract the bullet, and covered it securely with sterile gauze pads and a bandage to prevent infection.
When everything was done, she cleaned up the workspace and wiped away the blood that had pooled onto the mattress. The room looked immaculate once more, as if nothing had happened—though she failed to notice the massive pool of blood that had dripped down underneath the bed when he first collapsed and released his bleeding hand. Her mind had been entirely consumed by saving his life.
She stared at the treated wound for a few minutes before shifting her gaze to his face. To herself, she thought, "He needs medications like antibiotics to prevent infection—e.g., ceftriaxone—painkillers to manage the pain—like paracetamol and tramadol—anti-inflammatory drugs to reduce swelling, a tetanus injection, and a wound dressing kit to change the bandages regularly. And I don't have any of these in this house."
She sat down on a two-seater sofa in the room, catching her breath after working tirelessly until 4:00 AM.
The Second Intrusion
04:30 AM. The wall clock in the room chimed.
Sleep began to pull her under briefly when, like a dream, she faintly heard the sound of footsteps moving through the house. The realization jolted her awake in absolute terror; it sounded like someone was trying to force open the parlor door. Startled, she looked toward her patient on the bed, but he hadn't made a single movement.
She stood up, pressing a hand against her chest. Hurrying toward the exit, she nearly tripped, thinking to herself, "What kind of curse is this day?" Aloud, she whispered, "Hasbiyallahu wa ni'mal wakil."
Just like before, she rushed to her daughter's room. The little girl was still sleeping peacefully. She whispered a prayer, blew it over her, hurried outside, pulled the door shut, and sprinted downstairs, taking the steps two at a time.
As she reached the center of the parlor, the door was violently kicked open. Her heart slammed against her ribs as five massive, heavily built thugs stormed into the parlor. All of them were dressed in head-to-toe black like agents of doom, wearing oversized puffer jackets that reached all the way down to their shins. Their jacket hoods were pulled tightly over their heads, concealing their faces, complemented by nose masks underneath. They wore heavy waterproof boots and massive tactical hand gloves—essentially, nothing of their features was visible except for their glowing red eyes, which could only be seen if you peered deep into their hoods.
She began to recite prayers, her body trembling violently. In English, she forced out the words, "Who... are... you?"
None of them answered. They swarmed into the parlor and formed a circle around her. Since there were five of them, one stood right in the center. That central figure raised a hand and snapped his fingers, and they closed in on her. Even without seeing their faces, she knew these men possessed zero mercy.
"Where is the man who entered this house?" asked the one who had snapped his fingers. His voice was entirely distorted by the nose mask.
"Noh... Nobody entered this house!" she managed to reply out of sheer terror.
Silence followed, as if they had no intention of speaking to her further. Just as she started to lower her guard slightly, she was struck by a vicious, deafening slap that sent her staggering backward as if she would fall. The leader had delivered the slap, leaving her ears ringing into temporary deafness before her hearing slowly returned.
For the second time, he spoke: "Where is the man who entered this house? I don't speak twice. I started with you—do not let my hand move again! Because if I strike a second time, life is snuffed out."
She widened her eyes, searching his face for any tiny detail that might help her identify him later, but nothing was visible. While frantically searching for a clue, a blinding pain struck her forehead. Before she realized what happened, blood was washing over her face—he had struck her with the butt of a police pistol pulled from his pocket.
Overcome by dizziness, she felt herself falling, but one of the thugs grabbed her hair from behind, keeping her upright. The central leader signaled toward the stairs. With utter brutality, they yanked her upward by her hair, climbing with a deliberate, heavy tread that proved they were ruthless heavyweights devoid of empathy.
As they reached the upstairs landing, they noticed the blood dripping onto the floor—the blood from the man she had treated. Following the blood trail, they marched straight to the door of the operating room. Their leader halted, and one of his subordinates slammed his heavy boot against the door, blowing it wide open.
Two thugs rushed inside ahead of the others, followed by the leader. They stopped in the center of the room, looking around wildly with darting eyes, searching for any sign of him. But the room was completely empty.
WHERE IS THE MAN?
The leader, Eagle, whipped his head around, scanning every corner. Finally, his eyes locked onto the bullet sitting inside the silver bowl on the table, and then onto the bloodstains on the bedsheet where the man had been lying. Lowering his gaze, he saw a large pool of blood staining the floor beneath the bed.
Calmly, Eagle walked over to the bed, reached into the bowl, and picked up the bullet. He stared at it for a few seconds before turning his gaze to his men.
"This bullet is mine. It came from my gun, which means he is still inside this house. Within two minutes, bring him to me."
Without a word, three of the thugs scattered out to search the house, while one remained behind to guard the woman. Eagle continued pacing around the room, opening and inspecting even the bathroom—it was completely empty.
After two minutes, the subordinates returned looking defeated. "Eagle, there is no one else in this house. It's just her."
Eagle stepped right up in front of her. "Where is he?!" he demanded harshly.
As she tried to recover her senses from the agonizing hair-pulling, Eagle struck her across the face with another brutal slap, stripping away whatever mental composure she had managed to gather. She staggered, losing consciousness completely.
Eagle reached out and grabbed her hair, joining his subordinate in violently shaking her before hurling her across the room. She slammed into the wall and collapsed to the floor. Stepping over to her, he showed zero mercy or humanity, launching heavy kicks directly into her stomach with his punishing tactical boots.
His subordinates gathered around in a circle, watching silently. He delivered vicious blows to her stomach until her whimpers and gasps turned into shallow, weak breaths. Seeing blood begin to bubble from her mouth, he crouched down, grabbed her hair once more, hauled her to her feet, and dragged her toward the room's vanity mirror.
With a harsh yank, he smashed her head directly against the glass of the mirror.
She let out a piercing, agonized shriek mixed with a gasping groan. He dragged her back by her hair; her face was mangled, bleeding profusely from multiple gashes, and shards of mirror glass were embedded deep into her skin.
Showing not a shred of mercy, Eagle dragged her toward the wall again, violently shaking her head before slamming it straight into the drywall with a sickening thump. At that exact moment, her breathing stopped entirely. He tossed her lifeless body flat onto the floor, raised his brutal tactical boot, and planted it firmly against her neck.
Watching until she drew her final breath and ceased moving completely, he finally lifted his foot and...
Comprehensive Summary
In New York City's prestigious Upper East Side, a brilliant female surgeon lives a quiet life with her young daughter. One night at 2:00 AM, her peace is shattered by a desperate, violent pounding on her gate. Opening it, she finds a critically wounded, masked man bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to his arm. Despite the danger, her medical instincts take over. She brings him to her fully equipped private operating room, successfully extracts the bullet, treats his wound, and keeps him awake to monitor his unstable condition.
Hours later, at 4:30 AM, a ruthless squad of five masked mercenaries led by a man named "Eagle" bursts into the house looking for the fugitive. Finding the operating room empty because the patient has managed to slip away, Eagle and his men turn their fury on the innocent female surgeon. Despite her harrowing interrogation and brutal torture—having her head smashed into a mirror and being beaten mercilessly—she refuses to reveal where the man went. The ruthless leader leaves her for dead on the floor.
Detailed Description
- Setting: The wealthy, upscale neighborhood of the Upper East Side in Manhattan, New York City, contrasted against the dark, terrifying isolation of a midnight home invasion.
- Characters:
- The Female Surgeon: A talented, compassionate, and resilient medical professional and devoted mother who risks her life to save a stranger, ultimately suffering horrific violence for her loyalty and silence.
- The Wounded Fugitive: A mysterious, resilient man hunted by dangerous men, carrying a gunshot wound, who vanishes into the night before his pursuers arrive.
- Eagle and His Mercenaries: A cold-blooded, highly coordinated squad of five operatives clad in black tactical gear, puffer jackets, and nose masks, characterized by extreme brutality, lack of empathy, and lethal efficiency.
- Atmosphere: Tense, suspenseful, and graphic, shifting rapidly from the quiet tranquility of a sleeping household to high-stakes medical drama, and finally descending into a brutal thriller of violence and interrogation.
