?<strong>Chapter 425:</strong>


    For a fleeting moment, her breathing hitched. Then, with a slow, deliberate exhale, she steadied herself.


    Her hands moved with precision. She had endured allergic reactions before and understood her limits. She knew she could do this. There was no doubt in her mind.


    Besides, as the nurse had pointed out, the patient’s condition was too critical to wait for another doctor.


    “Nurse, wipe my sweat,” she ordered firmly, her voice hoarse but determined.


    “Yes, Dr. Wright.” The nurse hurried toply, dabbing at the beads of sweat on Belinda’s forehead.


    Belinda’s breath came in shallow,bored gasps now. Her airways were tight, her body itched constantly, and heat radiated from her flushed face beneath the surgical mask. Yet, she pressed on, forcing herself to focus on the surgery. She kept telling herself that she only needed to endure this for a while longer. The patient’s life depended on her, and there was no room for failure.


    “Dr. Wright,” the doubtful doctor spoke up again, his tone edged with mockery. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. If you copse, the patient will be in danger.”


    “Yeah, you—” another doctor began.


    But before he could finish speaking, a nurse’s voice interrupted him. “The bleeding has stopped, and the blood pressure is rising!” the nurse said in a surprised tone.


    “What?” The two doctors leaned closer, their eyes widening as they stared at the monitors.


    Around the room, the surgical team froze, their disbelief giving way to awe. The patient’s condition was indeed improving. Even with her worsening symptoms, Belinda had managed to fix the problem. Everyone cast Belinda looks of admiration.


    Belinda’s focus remained unbroken, her hands deftly maneuvering as she continued her work.


    After a while, she finally instructed, her voice firm despite the strain it carried, “Prepare for suturing.”


    The skeptical doctor stepped forward. He said, “Dr. Wright, leave the suturing to us. You’ve done enough.”


    Belinda nodded in agreement. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words never came. Her vision blurred, and the operating room spun around her.


    Before anyone could react, she crumpled, copsing to the floor. “Dr. Wright!” “Dr. Wright, are you okay?” “Someone call for help!”


    When Belinda woke up again, it felt as though a wad of cotton had lodged itself in her throat, stifling her breath and leaving an unbearable itch in its wake. Her entire body itched uncontrobly.


    Raising her arm, she took a closer look at it—tiny red bumps, densely packed like clusters of angry welts, marred her skin. The sight alone would have sent anyone with trypophobia into a panic.


    .


    .


    .