Chapter 235: Finally Completed Surgery

The Patchwork Man certainly didn't want to get himself dragged along to a police station or the FBI's Los Angeles office. Practicing medicine without a license was a crime in any country, carrying not just fines but possible imprisonment.

But he also didn't want to finish the surgery too quickly, giving the old white fatty in front of him a chance to escape. Performing the surgery just right—leaving no trace of tampering—was no challenge for someone with a superhuman brain and senses.

As for the option of skipping the surgery entirely and relying on his steel body to endure bullets and force his way out—that option never existed in the Patchwork Man's plan. Completing the surgery was about honoring the million taels he'd been paid.

Second, if he stopped halfway and left someone else to finish it, who would bear the credit or blame if the man lived—or died from surgical failure or post-op infection?

This wasn't about the Patchwork Man craving glory or wanting to kill anyone; he simply wanted proof for himself—that he was capable of completing such a difficult surgery.

So the Patchwork Man monitored the police's approach while finishing the surgery.

His movements were smooth, fluid—no deliberate pauses to stall. But compared to his earlier pace after opening the abdomen, several more experienced medical staff could tell: his speed had slowed by more than a fraction.

Everyone remained silently cooperative. None of them had confidence they wouldn't be dragged down by the surgeon's reckless actions; their only hope was the police arriving any moment.

When the time came, they'd just insist they'd been forced to assist—surely the punishment wouldn't be too severe. They had no licenses to revoke anyway, and they'd already been expelled from the hospital system; as long as they didn't die, things couldn't get worse.

Once the gallbladder and liver were fully ligated, the Patchwork Man picked up the fat-aspiration syringe and injected the harvested human fat back into its original location.

The white youth holding the gun to the Patchwork Man's head cursed: "What the hell are you doing? Are you just stalling?"

"You don't know shit. If you think you do, go ahead—take over. Here's your chance to prove yourself, maybe earn a promotion and raise."

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking!"

"Fine, I'll explain properly." The Patchwork Man stopped his work, turned, and faced the man still pointing the gun at him.

The Patchwork Man's action drew furious shouts—not just from the old white fatty on the operating table, but from the gunman too: "Don't stop! Keep operating!"

"If you don't understand, you ask. Is it my fault?" The Patchwork Man feigned offense. But he turned back and resumed his work.

Just as the Patchwork Man finished injecting all the fat back and closed the abdominal flap, preparing for final suturing—everyone should have breathed a sigh of relief. But then, the distant wail of police sirens rang out, clear and unmistakable.

The group, previously composed, now visibly panicked. They kept glancing at their boss performing the surgery—not just wondering if it was done, but secretly hoping he'd speak up, give the order to flee.

Andrew Saxon understood their glances perfectly—but how could he give that order? He didn't want to test whether his men were loyal enough to abandon him on the table, left alone to be arrested.

The closer the moment, the calmer he became. He stopped urging the Patchwork Man. The surgery was nearly done—just suturing left. If he spoke now and slowed the surgeon, he'd only regret it himself.

Right now, everyone's attention was fixed on three things: the approaching police sirens, their prepared vehicle and escape route, and the Patchwork Man's surgical progress.

Finally, the last stitch was tied. The Patchwork Man snipped the remaining thread with scissors.

The white youth, eyes locked on him, shoved the gun harder against the back of his skull—ready to pull the trigger.

The Patchwork Man turned calmly and said: "Hey, don't rush. The needles haven't been removed from your boss—he'll be paralyzed. And the wound isn't even covered with gauze. Without protection, infection will kill him."

"Removing needles and applying gauze? You don't need to do that." The smug white youth threatened to fire.

He wanted to see fear on the Patchwork Man's face, hear him beg. But the Patchwork Man refused to cooperate—he moved faster than lightning, stabbing a hidden scalpel into the man's wrist!

"You son of a bitch… what did you do to me!" The wounded youth tried to pull the trigger, to kill the man before him.

But his fingers wouldn't move. His hand and wrist went limp, the gun nearly slipping from his grasp. He could only scream in panic.

At that moment, police were already storming in. The outermost guards had begun exchanging fire. Gunfire erupted instantly into full-blown chaos, until most had emptied their magazines.

Ignoring whether the needles were still in his body or the wound covered, the old white fatty made his decision instantly. He no longer cared whether to kill this blackmailing little doctor—even if he hated him more than ever—he shouted:

"Forget him! Bring the car. Get me on it. Leave them behind. Let them explain to the police what happened here."

The Rolls-Royce that had brought the Patchwork Man was already waiting outside the inflatable operating room. The group moved through the sterilization corridor, pushing the mobile operating table toward the car so their boss could be loaded in.

The medical staff trapped inside the inflatable operating room—including the Patchwork Man—dared not fight the armed men for the only exit.

Their actions followed the old white fatty's orders exactly: only their own people boarded. Once loaded, they fled. Those medical staff who stepped out even a second too late could only stare at the empty warehouse as the gang vanished.

The Patchwork Man peeled off his outer surgical gown and tossed it carelessly aside.

The other medical staff were different—they hadn't worn surgical gowns over their own clothes, but had changed into them entirely. But clearly, this wasn't the time to change properly; they simply removed their blood-soaked gloves and threw them away.

Watching the Patchwork Man pick up the two large bags of cash and his own small medical tool case, preparing to leave,

the confused group dared not act alone—they grabbed their belongings and followed the Patchwork Man.

(End of Chapter)