Her pupils were blown wide, her breaths barely there, her pulse weak and thready.
As soon as she saw Charlotte move, Dorothy rushed over and grabbed her arm. Her voice was sharp and accusing. "What are you trying to do to Patricia?"
"Anthony, she even admitted it herself. She’s not some miracle doctor."
Charlotte shot her an impatient look, her eyes cold and clear. "If you want her to die, then go ahead and keep making a scene."
Dorothy flushed, speechless, and turned to Anthony in desperation. Was he really going to trust Patricia’s life to someone so young?
Anthony stepped up to Patricia’s side, glanced at the heart monitor, then looked straight at Charlotte. His voice was steady and commanding. "Let her try."
"Anthony!" Dorothy was so anxious she nearly stamped her foot. "If she can save Patricia, I’ll let her kick my head across the room!"
Anthony cut her off with a single word. "Enough."
The room went silent at once. No one dared challenge him.
The doctors exchanged uneasy glances, then backed away to give Charlotte space.
Charlotte acted like she didn’t hear any of it. She calmly checked Patricia’s pulse, examined her pupils, and made her decision. Brushing off the spot where Dorothy had grabbed her sleeve, she set down her backpack and quickly searched through the medical supplies.
She found what she needed. A micro-guidewire and a microcatheter, tools made for arterial thrombolysis.
"Turn the lights on. Everyone, stay away from me."
Her tone and confidence sent a chill through the room. The staff looked on in shock, not daring to speak up.
Arterial thrombolysis. It was called dancing on the edge of a blade—a procedure so risky and difficult that even senior doctors would only attempt it after careful planning.

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