Hi! My name is Aurora. And my parents? Well, they're doctors. Like, super important, saves-lives-all-the-time doctors. Most kids think their parents are cool, but mine are… extra. Because, you see, I'm pretty sure I was born because they loved to argue. A lot.

My Mom, Dr. Rachel Sharma, is a heart doctor. Not like, a doctor for sad hearts, but for the actual pumpy-pump-pump hearts inside you. She’s very smart and organized. She likes things to be exactly where they belong. Dad calls her "The Human Spreadsheet," but he says it with a weird sparkly look in his eye now. Back then? Not so much.Everything in her life is perfectly sorted, probably because she had to fight for every single amazing thing she has. My grandpa says Mom had to work ten times harder than anyone else.

And then there's Dad. He’s a trauma surgeon, which means he thrives on alarms, speed, and things generally exploding.My Dad, Dr. Liam O’Connell,fixes people after big accidents. He's loud, and he moves really fast, and Mom says he leaves a trail of coffee cups and discarded scrubs wherever he goes. He calls Mom "The Queen of Protocol," but, again, a different tone back then.

Before I was born, they didn't just not get along. Oh no. They were like two really fast, really smart squirrels fighting over the last acorn. My Grandpa, Dad’s dad, says he’s never seen two people professionally despise each other quite so passionately. I think he means they argued for a job award once, and Mom won, and Dad pretended not to care but secretly sent her a passive-aggressive bouquet of dead flowers. (Mom denies this, but I found the old email!)

See, my parents, Dr. Rachel Sharma and Dr. Liam O’Connell, didn’t exactly fall in love. They erupted into it. And the place where the explosion happened wasn't a fancy restaurant or a movie set. It was the sterile, often scary, but mostly boring Wing C of the Metro-General Hospital. That’s my parents’ battlefield

My grandpa says Dad never had to work hard for anything because his uncle is Dr. Director Thorne—the head of the entire hospital. Mom had to train under Uncle Director Thorne, and she hated that Dad could just breeze past the rules she bled for. She saw him as a spoiled mess; he saw her as a rigid robot.

Their rivalry wasn't just about medicine, though that was part of it. It was about coffee cups. It was about whether to use Arial or Times New Roman on hospital memos. And my personal favorite: who got the last decent parking spot.

The most famous incident, before I existed, was The Great Chart Disaster. Dad, rushing (as usual), scribbled his notes on a patient chart with a shaky hand. Mom, walking by, corrected his medical abbreviation with a bright red pen, adding a little note in the margin that read: “Perhaps slow down, Dr. O’Connell. Precision over flair.”

Dad found the chart, looked at the red ink, and marched straight into the lounge. "I save lives in three minutes flat, Sharma! You spend three hours debating the angle of a suture!"

Mom just gave him the "Human Spreadsheet Glare," which can melt metal. "Saving a life is only half the job, O'Connell. Keeping it saved is the other. Your ego doesn’t factor into the mortality rate."

And that was their rhythm. High tension, loud whispers, and deep, fiery looks that, as I now realize, probably weren’t just about who was right.

Anyways now i should go . Now you will read my mother's perspective from now on . But in between i will also narrate for u all , bye ☺️ 👋.

Rachel POV

Phew, ~ finally I am here ! Yes!! (celebrating inside her head) (I walk inside the reception to check in her job in The general hospital as a senior cardiologist)

Hello, I am Dr Rachel Sharma. I am here to join as the senior cardiologist in the hospital (calmly)

Reception nurse - just a minute mam, let me check my computer, and then we are good to go. (after a minute) yes, I have found your name. Here is your temporary ID. The cardiology department is on the second floor. You should consult the head of the department first before reporting to your assigned duty.

(I nod before walking to the department floor and goes to the HOD Dr vance's office)

-Hello sir , myself Dr Rachel Sharma, and I am here to join your department as a senior cardiologist.(she sat perfectly still, her spine straight enough to be used as a surgical ruler. She didn't fidget. She didn't smile. She just presented the data—5 years of flawless, hard-won metrics that proved her superior skill.)

Dr. Vance looked up from the file, but her eyes, framed by the sweeping view of the city, were disconcertingly cool. “Dr. Sharma, your numbers are stellar. Intervention survival rates are the highest in the district. No one disputes your technical skill.”

Here it comes, I thought, bracing myself. The 'but.'

“However,” she continued, placing the file down, “the other candidates—Dr. Almasi, Dr. Chen—they demonstrate a certain 'flexibility.' They engage in the political dance. They understand how to move within the institution.”

“My process, Doctor,” I said, ensuring my voice was low and perfectly steady, “is what ensures patients from every tax bracket receive the same gold standard of care. I won't compromise patient outcome for institutional congeniality.” I wasn't just talking about a procedure; I was drawing a line in the sand, separating my hard-won ethics from their easy privileges.

Then she flipped the page to my residency record. My whole body stiffened. I knew exactly what was there. "You received a rather... pointed critique during your residency under Director Thorne."

The man who taught me in three months exactly how biased this whole system was. He had critiqued my "excessive rigidity" because I refused to follow a protocol that would have been faster for the hospital but dangerous for a patient

I met Vance's gaze directly. "That critique, Doctor Vance, cited 'excessive rigidity,'" I stated, owning the words. "It was written after I refused to comply with a patient transfer protocol that I determined would endanger the patient, despite the Director’s insistence. I was a resident, but I stood by my medical oath."

I paused for effect, letting my conviction hang in the air. "You can hire a doctor who will tell you what you want to hear and follow the easiest path. Or you can hire the one who will make this department the national leader in results. I won't change my ethics for this title. I will, however, elevate this entire division."

Vance gave me a slow, assessing nod—a flicker of something that looked like respect. "Very well, Dr. Sharma. We'll be in touch."

I stood, thanked her with the bare minimum of professional warmth, and walked out. My spine still felt stiff, my jaw aching from the control I had exerted. I felt exhausted, but also undeniably alive. I had faced the Thorne family’s institutional ghost and hadn't conceded an inch. Now, all I could do was wait for the verdict.

The official appointment email was short, formal, and utterly devoid of emotion. No champagne, no handshake, just a cold digital confirmation that my decade of meticulous, punishing work had paid off. I was Senior Cardiologist. The title felt heavy, like a new piece of specialized surgical equipment—powerful, precise, and requiring total focus.

My first act was to purge the excess. I tore through the old scheduling protocols like they were diseased tissue. The department had been running on seniority and favors; I replaced that with efficiency and triage scores. This wasn't about being liked; it was about protecting the lives I was now responsible for. If a middle-aged patient with stable angina had to wait a day longer so I could fit in a critical congenital defect repair on a child, that was the ethical cost of my title.

The resistance was instant, though silent. The nurses, used to Dr. Chen’s relaxed three-day weekends, now had to operate with my demanding, optimized schedule. The junior fellows, used to coasting, were suddenly drowning in complex assignments. When they complained, I simply presented them with the new department metrics: 15% improvement in patient throughput and a drop in post-op complications. Data always silenced dissent.

My biggest source of friction, however, came from the floor below us: Emergency and Trauma.

They were a vortex of chaos. They would seize resources without notice, hijack OR time with zero coordination, and then send us post-trauma heart patients who were so poorly stabilized, we had to start from scratch. They were brilliant, yes, but they were messy, arrogant, and seemed to believe their adrenaline-fueled urgency justified ignoring every single rule of coordinated care.

"This is unacceptable," I told my Chief Resident, pointing to the latest report. "Trauma is holding our recovery beds hostage for non-critical monitoring cases. They must respect our protocols. Send a formal directive: no exceptions."

I spent two weeks establishing a strict new triage agreement with the ER, which earned me a furious phone call from their chief administrator. She accused me of being a "brick wall," an "inflexible automaton." I listened, waited until she paused for breath, and said simply, "My rigidity saves lives. Your chaos costs the hospital resources and patients time. The new protocol stands." Then I hung up. I didn't care about their bruised egos or their messy processes. I only cared about the heart in my hands.

The defining moment came during a complex Mitral Valve repair. The patient was 78, frail, and everyone in the department had flagged the case as high risk. It required steady hands and absolute emotional control. I spent twenty hours prepping the procedure—not just the surgical plan, but every possible contingency.

In the OR, the tension was immense. Three hours in, the patient crashed. Instantly, the anesthesiologist panicked, ready to abort. But I was already two steps ahead. I had practiced this exact scenario. My hands, calm and utterly separated from the fear in the room, executed the pre-planned rescue sequence. We brought him back, and I finished the repair, the stitches perfect, the valve functioning flawlessly.

When the patient was wheeled out, stabilized and alive, the lead nurse simply looked at me, her eyes wide with a respect deeper than any formal title. "Dr. Sharma," she breathed. "No one else could have pulled that off."

I didn't smile. I just nodded, already calculating the next patient’s needs. I had won the title, and now I was proving that my merit and my control were the only things that truly mattered in this sprawling institution. I was at the top of my game, carving out a space based on discipline alone. I didn't need the connections, the parties, or the goodwill. I just needed my scalpel and my protocol.

And yet, there was a persistent hum of dissatisfaction, a sense that I was constantly fighting an invisible, entitled force. I was making too many waves, stepping on too many well-heeled toes—especially those belonging to the loud, chaotic surgeons from the Trauma department. My reign was effective, but it was also making me the hospital's most powerful antagonist.