The medical team, despite their exhaustion, continued to work diligently. Dr. Reynolds, now with a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, gave orders with precision. "Nurse, hand me the micro-sutures," he said, his voice steady but tired.Nurse Emily, who had been assisting since the beginning, quickly passed the required instruments. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, a testament to her experience. "Here you go, Doctor," she replied, her voice calm and respectful.The beeping of the heart monitor continued to provide a rhythmic backdrop to the room's activities, a constant reminder of the patient's fragility. Marshmallow lay still, her chest rising and falling in the controlled rhythm of the ventilator.Dr. Reynolds meticulously sutured the incision he had made earlier, his hands moving with expert precision. Each stitch was a testament to his skill, a delicate dance between life and death. The room's tension had not dissipated; instead, it had shifted into a different form –
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