Both security guards closed in, each grabbing hold of Stephanie's scooter, looking ready to haul it out of sight.
Stephanie didn't bother putting up a fight. She'd lost count of how many times people had underestimated her just because of her age.
She calmly held out her phone, thumb poised over a digital screen. "Hold on. Show this to the Elliotts. I'm Dr. Clayton—I was invited for a medical consultation."
Dr. Clayton was the professional name she used at the National Biotechnology Research Institute.
The guards just shrugged, unimpressed. "Dr. Clayton? Never heard of you. Move along and stop blocking the entrance."
With a quiet sigh, Stephanie shook her head. No matter how far she'd come, there were always people eager to judge her at first glance.
Before she could try again, a familiar voice sliced through the commotion. "Stephanie? What are you doing here? Weren't you supposed to run back to the countryside?"
Turning, Stephanie found herself face-to-face with Aimee.
Aimee's lips curled in a sneer. "Places like this aren't for a nobody like you."
She had just started her studies in oil painting at Veridia University and had come to the hotel hoping to meet the celebrated painter Carl Russell. Bumping into Stephanie here was the last thing she expected.
Everywhere she looked, the lobby buzzed with well-known names. She felt her cheeks burn at the thought of anyone linking her to Stephanie, whose plain clothes and clumsy manner clashed with the glittering crowd.
Desperate to save face, Aimee tried to rush her away.
Stephanie barely gave her a glance, already turning on her heel.
In truth, she hadn't been invested in Waylon's consultation from the start, and she had no trouble walking away.
Suddenly, shouts broke out near the hotel's entrance.
"Help! Is there a doctor? Someone just collapsed!"
A crowd quickly formed around the commotion.
"Look at her lips—she's turning blue, and her face is so pale. She keeps shaking. Is she about to die?"
"She's drenched in sweat—her whole shirt's soaked..."
Without a moment's hesitation, Stephanie jumped onto her scooter' and sped toward the chaos.
"Stephanie, where are you going?" Aimee called after her, hurrying to keep up.
When Stephanie reached the scene, what she saw made her pause.
A girl lay on the ground, one side of her body noticeably larger than the other, her features oddly uneven. Violent tremors wracked her frame, and her limbs twisted at odd angles. Her mouth and eyes pulled sharply to one side, her entire expression contorted.
The condition was unmistakable—an extremely rare case of hemihypoplasia.
"Was she born this way?"
"She looks so strange..."
"Everyone, please move back. I'm a doctor."
Stephanie pulled out her stethoscope and began a quick but thorough examination, checking the girl's pupils and listening to her heart and lungs.
Aimee stood at the edge of the circle, stunned at how skillfully Stephanie worked. Finally, unable to hold back, she blurted, "Stephanie, what do you think you're doing? How can you possibly call yourself a doctor?"
Stephanie shot Aimee a steady look. "Shut up."
Unfazed by the girl's distorted features, she gently moved her out of the sun and into the shade.
Refusing to let Stephanie prove herself, Aimee raised her voice for all to hear. "Everybody, listen! I know her. She's not a real doctor! She's just pretending, and if we let her continue, she'll end up killing this poor girl. We have to stop her right now!"
"Honestly, she looks like she knows what she's doing," a woman in the crowd disagreed.
"She has a stethoscope and even a blood pressure monitor. For all we know, she really is a doctor. You shouldn't judge so quickly." A man nodded in support.
"You're all wrong. She can't possibly know medicine. She's going to kill this girl!" Aimee yelled even louder, refusing to back down.
She lunged forward, trying to drag Stephanie away. "Stop it already! Have you even studied medicine? Just step aside!"
Without missing a beat, Stephanie met her glare. "If you can't assist, at least stay out of the way. Don't make things harder."
Ignoring the commotion, she unzipped her backpack and unfolded a compact metal medical kit, its interior lined with neatly organized vials, syringes, and sterile tools.
She selected a white bottle, shook out a single blue pill, and carefully helped the girl swallow it.
Seconds ticked by. The convulsions slowed, then faded. The girl finally went still, her breathing even and calm.
The hush was absolute—until Aimee yelled, "Stephanie, what did you do? You've killed her!"
