After that, he tossed the phone aside and turned to Cami and the other girl, eximing, “Quickly, help me get dressed and drive me to Manhattan Hospital!”


    Cami instinctively replied, “Warden, given your current situation, I’m afraid I can’t help you put on your pants…”


    Bruce Weinstein looked down, feeling a wave of desperation wash over him.


    Given his current posture, putting on pants seemed impossible—he would need to find overalls instead.


    Suddenly, Cami had an idea and quickly suggested, “Warden, how about I get you a bathrobe?”<h3 style="background-color:DodgerBlue">


    “Okay!” Bruce Weinstein agreed immediately, urging, “Go quickly, hurry up and get it for me!”


    A few minutester, two Miss Worlds, donned in sunsses and masks, struggled to support Bruce Weinstein, who was hastily wrapped in a bathrobe. Together, they rushed out of the room.


    At that moment, Bruce Weinstein was in severe pain with no sign of relief. Every step he took felt like a thousand needles stabbing into him, and he knew he had to endure the agony. He couldn’t afford to faint; if he lost consciousness, the two women might panic, worrying about Gustavo’s reaction, and would likely call 911 for emergency help. If that happened, even if his dog’s life was saved, he would face humiliation upon staying in the United States.


    Summoning an unprecedented willpower, Bruce Weinstein pushed through the pain and made his way to the underground garage with the two Miss Worlds.


    Cami hopped into Bruce Weinstein’s car and drove, following his directions, towards Manhattan Hospital.


    Ten minutester, they finally arrived at Manhattan Hospital.


    At the entrance, Bruce’s good friend Mark was already waiting, pushing a wheelchair.


    Seeing the car pull up, Mark hurried over, opening the door with urgency.


    Inside, Bruce Weinstein was curled up in the passenger seat, wracked with pain and retching. Mark was taken aback by the severity of the situation and quickly assisted Bruce out of the car.


    ncing at Bruce, partially obscured by the bathrobe, Mark was momentarily stunned. He instinctively asked, “Bruce, are you sure this isn’t a prank?”


    Bruce, at the end of his rope, shouted, “Mark, it’s not April Fool’s Day! I’m not in the mood for jokes. For God’s sake, can you please get me to the hospital and find a treatment room?” Mark snapped back to reality.


    “I didn’t mean to imply that! I just thought… this looks really serious…” he stammered, quickly pushing the wheelchair towards the hospital entrance.<fnf6eb> This text is hosted at F?ndNovel</fnf6eb>


    Three minutester, when Mark got a glimpse of Bruce Weinstein’s injuries, he felt like he had seen a ghost. He muttered, “This… this can’t be saved…”


    Bruce shot back, “Are you f*cking kidding? You said it couldn’t be saved, but here you are!”


    Mark nced at the unusually high readings and remarked, “With your blood pressure so elevated, did you secretly install a pump somewhere in your body to send all the blood there?”


    Bruce, clearly frustrated, retorted, “I didn’te here for youredy routine, Mark! Just do something!”


    Wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, Mark retrieved some prepped injections and said, “I’ll start with some pain relief. If that works, I’ll do an angiogram to check for any blood clots.”


    Opening the injection pack, he tentatively asked Bruce, “Can you handle this injection?”


    Bruce, kicking his feet against the floor in impatience, urged, “Just hurry up; I can’t wait!” Mark nodded and swiftly administered several injections. Unexpectedly, Bruce’s body reacted violently, veins bulging as if something alien were about to burst from his stomach.