The apartment door clicks shut behind me like a prison gate at 9:47 p.m. on the seventh day of my personal hell. 

My scrubs are a crime scene—faint Betadine stains on the sleeves, a mysterious brown smear (probably old blood or that awful canteen sambar) across the chest, and one pocket ripped from when I caught it on the OR table edge during a marathon craniotomy. 

My hair looks like I lost a wrestling match with a static-charged balloon; there's a permanent indent on my forehead from the loupes I wore for six straight hours today. 

My eyes feel like someone poured sand in them and then lit a match.

I kick off my sneakers—left one still has the laces tied because who has time?—and collapse face-first onto the living room couch.

 The leather is cool against my cheek, but my back screams from standing in one position while Kavita drilled, suctioned, and muttered corrections like a disappointed AI. 

My stomach growls, but the thought of food makes me want to cry.

 The last thing I ate was half a cold idli at 2 p.m., shoved into my mouth between consults while she glared at me for chewing too loudly.

Mum walks in from the kitchen, still in her director blouse and pencil skirt, looking annoyingly fresh except for the tired lines around her eyes.

 She's holding a glass of warm milk with a pinch of turmeric, like I'm five and just had a nightmare.

"Shreyansh," she says, voice soft but with that steel edge. "How was your week?"

I roll over dramatically, one arm flopping over my face like a dying Victorian heroine. "Mummy, I can't. I literally cannot do this anymore. This woman—Dr. Kavita Sen—is trying to murder me slowly and make it look like training."

She sits on the edge of the coffee table, perfectly poised, and raises one eyebrow. The gold bangles clink softly. "Drama queen. Tell me."

I sit up too fast; the room spins for a second. "Okay, Monday: 4:45 a.m. alarm. I show up at 5:02—two minutes late because the lift was slow—and she calls me 'kid' again while I'm still rubbing sleep from my eyes. By Tuesday I'm pre-rounding on twenty patients before the sun even thinks about rising. Notes, vitals, explaining to families why Uncle's brain bleed means no more morning chai. My handwriting looks like a drunk spider crawled across the chart."

I gesture wildly, nearly knocking over her milk. "Wednesday: six-hour tumor resection. I'm holding retractors so long my arms go numb, then tingly, then feel like they belong to someone else. She keeps saying 'gentler, Shreyansh, you're not squeezing a stress ball.' I'm sweating through my scrub cap, and every time I blink too slow she sighs like I personally offended the brain tissue."

Mum sips her milk calmly. "That's how you learn precision."

"Precision? Thursday I almost fainted in the OR from standing still for four hours straight. My legs were shaking like I'd done a full leg day at the gym, except the only exercise was regret. She made me close the skin—me! With her watching like a hawk. My sutures looked like a toddler's art project. She unpicked half of them and redid it herself while muttering about 'manchildren who think surgery is a spectator sport.'"

I lean forward, eyes wide, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Friday night—actually Saturday 3 a.m.—emergency bleed. I hadn't slept since Thursday lunch. I'm holding the suction, my hand is cramping so bad I'm seeing double, and she's calm as a monk. 'Focus, kid. The brain doesn't care that you miss your parties.' I wanted to cry. Actual tears. Instead I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood mixed with the stale coffee breath everyone has on that floor."

I flop back dramatically, one hand on my chest like I'm reciting poetry. "Today—Sunday, technically—another long case, then rounds, then paperwork till my eyes crossed. I smell like antiseptic and defeat. My back has a permanent knot the size of a golf ball. I haven't seen daylight properly in seven days. My phone battery died twice because I was too busy running between ICU and OT to charge it. I haven't vaped, hadn't had a single drink, haven't even looked at a club story. I'm turning into a monk. A very grumpy, sleep-deprived monk who dreams about retractors instead of girls."

Mum sets the glass down, lips twitching like she's fighting a smile. "Sounds like you're finally learning what real work feels like."

"Mummy, no!" I sit bolt upright, grabbing her hands like a desperate Bollywood hero.

 "This is torture dressed as mentorship. She hates me. Calls me kid every single time I open my mouth—even when I correctly identified a pupil change yesterday. She said 'good observation, kid' like I was Eknoor showing her a crayon drawing. I'm twenty-five! I have a degree! I can party responsibly—mostly."

She squeezes my hands once, then pulls away gently. "Vinita Oberoi's son can handle a week with Kavita Sen. You wanted neurosurgery, beta. This is it. The hours, the pressure, the woman who doesn't tolerate excuses."

"But I'm dying!" I whine, throwing in a pathetic cough for effect.

 "My liver is crying for mercy. My social life is in ICU on ventilator support. Last night I fell asleep standing up in the elevator—actual micro-sleep. I woke up when the doors opened and the security guard was staring at me like I was a ghost."

Mum stands, smoothing her skirt. "You'll survive. Sleep now. Tomorrow is another early start. Kavita already messaged me that you're improving—slowly."

I groan loud enough to wake the neighbors, burying my face in a throw pillow that smells faintly of my old cologne from better, freer days. "Improving? She means I only almost killed one patient this week instead of two. This is child abuse. Medical child abuse. I'm calling the medical council. Or at least ordering pizza and hiding under the blanket for twelve hours."

She pauses at the doorway, voice softening just a fraction. "You're stronger than you think, Shreyansh. And she's harder on you because she sees potential. Don't quit after one week."

I mumble into the pillow, voice muffled and dramatic. "One week felt like one year in hell. Tell her I'm allergic to early mornings and stern women."

Mum's footsteps fade down the hall, her soft laugh trailing behind like betrayal.

I lie there, muscles aching in places I didn't know could ache, stomach empty, brain fried, already dreading the 4:30 a.m. alarm I know Mum will enforce.

This is not what I signed up for.

But somewhere under the irritation and exhaustion, a tiny, stubborn spark refuses to die completely.

Mostly, though?

I just want my old life back.

And maybe, just maybe, to prove that ice-queen Kavita wrong before I actually perish from sleep deprivation and public humiliation.

The alarm actually went off at 4:30 a.m., and for the first time in my miserable existence, I didn't hit snooze like it owed me money.

 I dragged myself out of bed, splashed cold water on my face until my eyes stung, threw on fresh scrubs (right-side out this time, thank you very much), and even combed my hair so it didn't look like a bird's nest after a storm.

 Mum raised an eyebrow when I grabbed the travel mug of black coffee without complaint. Miracle of the week.

I reached the neurosurgery floor at 4:52 a.m.—eight glorious minutes early. 

The corridor was still half-asleep: dimmed lights, the faint hum of monitors from the ICU wing, a distant trolley rattling with empty IV bags and the sharp citrus bite of fresh floor disinfectant.

 No one around except the night-shift nurse yawning at the station.

 Perfect. 

I could grab a decent chart, maybe impress the ice queen for once instead of getting another "kid" lecture.

I headed toward the small doctors' lounge at the end of the hall, the one with the crappy coffee machine and cracked vinyl chairs.

 The door was ajar, light spilling out in a thin golden slice. Voices drifted out—low, tense, familiar.

Harsh Shah. That cardiac surgeon ex-husband everyone whispered about. And Kavita.

I froze just outside, one hand hovering near the doorframe. Not my business. Definitely not. But my feet didn't move.

"...just this weekend, Harsh. Please." Kavita's voice was quieter than I'd ever heard it—raw, stripped of that sharp authority she used on me. 

"I'm off call. No emergencies. I'll pick her up from preschool, bring her back Sunday night. She asked for me again yesterday. Said she wants to show me her new drawing of the 'brain doctor'."

A low, mocking chuckle from Harsh. I could picture his smirk without seeing it—the same one he wore when he consulted on cases and acted like God's gift to hearts. "Begging again, Kavita? How original. You couldn't keep custody because you're never there. Now you want me to hand her over so you can play perfect mummy for forty-eight hours before you disappear into another thirty-six-hour shift? Eknoor cried last time you canceled because of a 'big bleed.' She's five. She doesn't need your guilt trips."

There was a pause. I heard the soft rustle of fabric—maybe Kavita shifting her weight, or wringing her hands. A tiny detail: her voice cracked just a fraction on the next words. 

"She's my daughter too. I fixed a man's skull last night while thinking about her laugh. I... I just want to braid her hair and hear about her day without fighting through lawyers again. One weekend. That's all I'm asking."

Harsh's tone turned colder, almost bored. "No. She stays with me. Stable home, stable parent. You keep saving strangers, Kavita. That's what you're good at."

Something twisted in my chest—sharp, uncomfortable. Not pity exactly. More like... recognition.

 The way her voice sounded when she was exhausted in the OR but still steady. The faint tremor I'd seen in her left pinky after long cases.

 This woman who drilled into brains like it was breathing, reduced to quiet begging in a dimly lit lounge. It felt wrong. Messy. 

Human in a way that made my week of hell suddenly feel... small.

Before I could process it, the door swung open fully.

Kavita stood there, eyes red-rimmed but dry, that escaped strand of hair plastered to her temple with stress-sweat. 

Her white coat was buttoned crooked, one buttonhole empty, and there was a faint tea stain on her scrub collar from whatever she'd gulped down at 3 a.m. 

She looked at me—really looked—and her face shifted from weary defeat to pure fury in half a second.

"How dare you eavesdrop?" she snapped, voice low but cutting like a fresh scalpel. 

She stepped into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind her with a firm click that echoed off the tiled walls. 

The night nurse glanced over curiously but quickly busied herself with charts.

I raised both hands, trying for my usual cocky grin, but it felt forced. My pulse was still doing that annoying flutter from what I'd overheard. "Whoa, easy, Doc. I wasn't eavesdropping. I was early—for once—and the door was open. Not my fault the acoustics in this hallway are better than a concert hall."

She crossed her arms, jaw tight. The fluorescent light caught the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, deeper today. "Early? Congratulations. You finally learned to read a clock. But that doesn't give you permission to stand outside listening to private conversations like some gossiping intern."

I leaned against the wall, one sneaker scuffing the freshly mopped floor, leaving a faint gray streak.

 The disinfectant smell was stronger now, mixing with the faint metallic tang of old blood that never quite left these floors. "Private? You were practically broadcasting in there. And for the record, your ex sounds like a grade-A asshole. Begging for your own kid? That's rough."

Her eyes flashed. "Don't you dare comment on my life, Shreyansh. You know nothing about it. You spend one week holding retractors and suddenly think you're qualified to psychoanalyze my custody battles? Go back to your parties and your vape pen. This—" she gestured sharply between us "—is exactly why I didn't want you here. You're a child playing dress-up in scrubs, eavesdropping on things that are none of your business."

Irritation flared hot in my gut, drowning out whatever that weird twist in my chest had been. Kid again. Always kid.

 I pushed off the wall, stepping closer so we were eye-level—her a little shorter, but somehow towering anyway. "Child? I'm twenty-five. I've been standing in that OR watching you carve open skulls while my legs turned to jelly and my arms went numb. I've taken your corrections without whining—much. And yeah, maybe I overheard. But pretending everything's fine while your ex treats you like yesterday's failed surgery? That's not strength, Doc. That's just sad."

She laughed once, short and bitter, the sound scraping like bone against metal. A tiny detail: her left hand clenched at her side, that faint pinky tremor visible under the harsh light. "Sad? Coming from the manchild who showed up with jam on his face and nearly dropped a patient's pressure for a cheap thrill? You think one week of suffering makes you insightful? You have no idea what it costs to show up here every day knowing your own daughter thinks you're the one who's always too busy."

I opened my mouth, ready with another retort—something about how at least I didn't let my personal drama leak into the OR—but the words stuck. 

Because part of me got it. The exhaustion in her voice when she begged.

 The way she still stood here, spine straight, ready to round on twenty patients like nothing happened.

Instead I shrugged, forcing nonchalance even as my irritation simmered. "Fine. Message received. I'll pretend I heard nothing. But next time you want privacy, maybe close the damn door. And for what it's worth... your ex is still an asshole."

She stared at me for a long beat, something unreadable flickering behind the anger—surprise, maybe, or just more weariness. 

Then she brushed past me, shoulder bumping mine lightly, the faint scent of hospital soap and old coffee trailing after her.

"Rounds in eight minutes, kid," she said over her shoulder, voice back to its usual flat command. "Try not to eavesdrop on the patients' monitors while you're at it."

I stood there in the corridor as the first early staff started trickling in, the trolley wheels clattering louder now. 

My coffee had gone lukewarm in my hand. The weird feeling in my chest hadn't fully gone away.

I still didn't like her.

But for the first time all week, calling her "Doc" in my head didn't feel quite as sarcastic.

And that pissed me off more than anything.