Chapter 3 — The First Clash

Bradly Gallow

Brad leaned casually against the wall of the bustling corridor, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. The hum of Warner Central Hospital carried on around him—phones ringing, nurses exchanging rapid commands, and the muffled urgency of doctors discussing cases. It was a cacophony of controlled chaos, and he thrived in its rhythm. His keen blue eyes locked onto Mariah Harper as she approached, her purposeful stride slicing through the activity like a scalpel. Straight-backed, tablet clutched tightly to her chest, she moved with an air of authority that made people instinctively step aside.

She was a study in precision—sharp angles and unwavering focus, her hazel eyes set forward with laser-like determination. If the hospital was a battlefield, she was a soldier who would never stumble. Brad couldn’t help but admire her intensity, even if it came with a side of irritation aimed squarely at him. That dynamic wasn’t new—it had been the foundation of their rivalry since med school—but here, in the high-stakes neurosurgery wing, the stakes seemed to have sharpened her resolve into something almost unbreakable.

“Harper,” Brad called out, straightening from the wall as she drew closer. His grin widened slightly as her eyes flicked toward him, betraying a brief glimmer of annoyance before her expression smoothed into professional neutrality.

“Gallow,” she replied curtly, her voice clipped and dismissive, her pace unbroken.

He easily fell into step beside her, matching her brisk tempo with his longer strides. “Guess what? We’ve been paired up for the pre-op consult with Mr. Johansen. Room 612.”

Mariah’s footsteps faltered—just for a fraction of a second—before she recovered. “Why?” she asked, her tone cold and measured. “I’m perfectly capable of handling a consult on my own.”

Brad chuckled softly. “Yeah, me too. But apparently, Dr. Harrison thinks we’re the dream team. Or maybe he just enjoys watching us squirm.”

Her jaw tightened, and her grip on the tablet seemed to harden. Brad imagined she was already strategizing how to steamroll through the consult without leaving room for him to speak. He wasn’t offended—this was just Mariah. Still, he couldn’t resist needling her a little.

“Look,” he said, softening his tone slightly, “I don’t like it any more than you do. But Harrison’s the boss. We might as well try to make it work.”

Mariah stopped abruptly outside the patient’s room, turning to face him with narrowed eyes. “Then stay out of my way,” she said sharply. “I’ll handle the questioning. You can observe.”

Brad raised an eyebrow, his smirk unfaltering. “Oh, so now I’m your intern? Cute.”

Her glare could’ve sliced through steel. “This isn’t a joke, Gallow. There’s a man in there with a glioblastoma the size of a golf ball, and his entire future hinges on what we decide today. So, yes, I’d rather you observe than distract.”

The weight of her words settled in Brad’s chest, and for a moment, he dropped the humor. Beneath her razor-sharp exterior, he saw it again—that raw edge of something deeper. Fear? No. It was the weight of control she clung to—a need to hold everything together, no matter the cost. He wasn’t sure if it came from perfectionism or something more vulnerable, but he decided not to push her. Not yet.

“Fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You take the lead. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Mariah didn’t answer. She turned on her heel and entered the room, her ponytail swinging with military precision.

Brad followed, letting his relaxed demeanor shift into something more professional. The sterile air of the hospital room enveloped them, carrying the faint tang of antiseptic. Mr. Johansen, a wiry man in his late 50s, sat propped up in the bed, his tired eyes shadowed with worry. His wife perched anxiously beside him, her hands twisted together in her lap. The tension in the room was palpable, wrapping around the space like a heavy fog.

“Good morning, Mr. Johansen,” Mariah began, her voice calm but detached as she stepped closer to the bedside. “I’m Dr. Harper, and this is Dr. Gallow. We’re part of the neurosurgery team managing your case.”

Brad gave a polite nod. His gaze shifted to Mrs. Johansen, noting the way her fingers trembled as they clutched the edge of the chair. The knot in his chest tightened.

Mariah continued, launching into a detailed explanation of the tumor’s location and the complexities of the upcoming surgery. Her words were precise, delivered with clinical confidence. “Due to the tumor’s proximity to critical brain structures, the surgery will be complex. We’re looking at potential risks, including deficits in motor function, memory, or speech.”

Mrs. Johansen gasped softly, her knuckles blanching as she twisted them even tighter. Mr. Johansen’s face grew pale, his grip on the blanket tightening. Brad’s gut twisted at the sight.

Stepping forward, he broke his silence. “We’ll also be using cutting-edge imaging to guide the surgery,” he said, his voice warm and steady, offering a lifeline to the tension choking the room. “It’ll help us minimize risks and protect as much healthy tissue as possible. Dr. Harper and I are both experienced in cases like this. You’re in excellent hands.”

Mariah’s head whipped toward him, her hazel eyes flashing with irritation. But Brad kept his focus on the Johansens. Mrs. Johansen’s shoulders eased slightly, and Mr. Johansen’s expression softened into a faint, shaky smile. The air in the room loosened, if only marginally.

“Thank you,” Mr. Johansen said hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s… a lot to process, but I appreciate you explaining it.”

Mariah nodded curtly, her expression unreadable. “We’ll need to run a few more tests to finalize the surgical plan. A nurse will be in shortly to draw blood.” Her tone was efficient, almost mechanical.

With that, she turned abruptly and exited the room. Brad lingered for a moment longer, offering the couple a reassuring smile before following her into the hallway.

The moment the door clicked shut, Mariah spun on him, her voice low but sharp. “What was that?”

Brad’s easy demeanor faltered. “They were terrified, Harper. I was helping.”

“Helping?” she echoed, incredulous. “You undermined me. Do you have any idea how unprofessional that looks?”

Brad frowned, his frustration rising. “Undermined you? I was backing you up. They needed reassurance, not a clinical dissertation.”

“They needed facts,” Mariah shot back, her voice rising slightly. “Sugarcoating doesn’t help anyone.”

“And what? You think it wasn’t already clear how high the stakes are?” Brad countered, his tone hardening. “They needed to hear that we’ve got this under control. That’s what they’re hanging onto—not a list of risks.”

Her hazel eyes burned with fury, but something flickered behind them—doubt, vulnerability, maybe even fear. Brad hesitated, unsure whether to push further, when an all-too-familiar voice cut through the tension.

“Doctors.”

Dr. Harrison’s calm, authoritative tone froze them both. Turning slowly, they found him standing at the end of the hall, his sharp gray eyes boring into them as he approached.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, his gaze impassive but piercing.

“No, sir,” Mariah said quickly, her voice steady but tight.

Brad swallowed his retort, forcing himself to follow her lead. “No problem,” he added, though his usual confidence faltered under Dr. Harrison’s scrutiny.

Dr. Harrison’s gaze shifted between them, his expression unreadable. “I expect my residents to conduct themselves professionally at all times,” he said, his tone cold and deliberate. “That includes collaboration, not conflict. If you cannot work together, you will not progress here. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Mariah said, her jaw visibly clenching.

Brad forced a nod. “Crystal,” he replied, though his usual charm felt hollow.

Dr. Harrison’s sharp eyes lingered a moment longer before he turned and walked away, the faint ticking of his pocket watch punctuating the silence.

As the sound of his footsteps faded, Brad let out a slow breath. “Well,” he said lightly, though his voice lacked its usual edge of humor, “that was fun.”

Mariah’s glare was venomous. “Stay out of my way, Gallow.”

She turned sharply and strode off, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Brad watched her retreating figure, a complicated mix of frustration and intrigue swirling in his chest. He leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. He hadn’t meant to cross a line, but he also couldn’t regret stepping in. Watching her carry the weight of the stakes alone had unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he muttered under his breath, “This is gonna be a long residency.”