Chapter 1 — The Hand That Carves Sin

My husband and I have been married for eight years; this was far from the first time he had raised a hand against me. Yet this time, in front of our five-year-old daughter, he used the heavy heel of his military-issued leather boot to crush my left hand. I am an orthopedic surgeon, ranking within the top three in the country for success rates in reconstructive surgery; these hands are priceless assets. With shattered bones, severed tendons, and nerve damage—my career as a surgeon was effectively terminated by the single stamp of his heel. Four months after our divorce, he was caught in an explosion while on duty. His military commander came personally to my home to plead, “In this entire country, you are the only one capable of performing this surgery.” I tossed the X-rays onto the table—

“Commander, when he was destroying me, who came to save me?”

“What are you losing your mind over today?” Tran Da’s eyes were bloodshot, the stench of alcohol fanning directly onto my face.

I hung up the coat he had just discarded, not turning around. “An An is asleep. Keep your voice down.”

“I have to keep my voice down?” He laughed coldly, grabbing my hair and dragging me into the middle of the living room. “To Hoan, you’ve become quite full of yourself lately, haven’t you? Do you dare lecture me now?”

My scalp burned as if it were being torn away. I did not struggle, for it was futile.

“I didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” He kicked me squarely in the stomach.

I curled into a ball, my stomach churning violently. Our five-year-old daughter, An An, was jolted awake. She ran out of the bedroom, rubbing her eyes, her voice choked with sobs. “Mommy, Daddy, please stop fighting.” Seeing our daughter, the predatory glint in Tran Da’s eyes softened for a brief moment. I seized the opportunity, trying to crawl toward An An.

“Don’t you touch her!” he roared like a wild beast.

He shoved me down onto the floor, my face pressed against the frigid hardwood. An An shrieked in terror, “Bad Daddy! Don’t hit Mommy!” Her cries were like needles piercing Tran Da’s frayed nerves. The crimson madness in his eyes erupted entirely.

“Bad, am I? Today, I’ll show you what is truly bad!”

He lifted his foot, clad in the hard-soled leather boots issued by his unit. Instinctively, I raised my left hand to shield myself. That was the hand I used to perform surgery, the hand that sustained my life. He saw my movement, and his lips curled into a cruel sneer. He didn’t aim for my face or my body. That boot landed with surgical precision, bearing his full weight down onto the back of my left hand.

“Crack.”

The sound of shattering bone was exceptionally clear in the quiet of the night. Agony, like a bolt of electricity, raced through my entire body. My vision blackened, and I nearly lost consciousness. But he did not stop. He twisted the heel of his boot, grinding it down over and over again with ruthless force.

“Ah—!”

It wasn't me screaming. It was An An. My daughter’s shriek pierced my eardrums, filled with sheer, unadulterated terror. I watched my hand deform beneath his foot, blood seeping from between my fingers to stain the floor. I smelled the metallic tang of blood, mixed with the cheap shoe polish on his boots. My mind went blank. I am To Hoan, one of the finest microsurgeons in the nation. My success rate for reattaching severed limbs exceeds ninety-five percent. Just last week, I had performed a twenty-hour surgery on a worker whose five fingers had been crushed by a machine, and I had managed to save his hand. My mentor once said that these hands of mine were born to grace the operating table. Yet here, they were becoming a pile of mangled flesh beneath the feet of my husband. Tran Da finally seemed satisfied. He lifted his foot, looked down at me from his height, and panted.

“If you dare show me that look again, next time it will be your right hand.” With those words, he slammed the door and left.

The room was left with only the heartbreaking sobbing of An An and the sound of my own breathing. I lay on the floor, unable to move. I didn’t look at my hand; I only looked at my daughter. Her small frame was huddled in the corner, trembling like a fallen leaf. She didn’t dare approach me. I used my right hand, which I could still move, to pull out my phone. The screen was smeared with blood; it took several tries to unlock it. I didn’t call the police, nor did I call the ambulance. I called my colleague, our department head, Old Truong. As soon as the line connected, I spoke only one sentence.

“Old Truong, come pick me up. The address is…”

My voice was so calm that it didn’t even sound like my own. After speaking, I tossed the phone aside and summoned the strength to force a smile at my daughter in the corner.

“An An, don’t be afraid. Mommy is fine.”

Blood trickled from the corner of my mouth.

The hospital lights were blindingly white. I lay on the stretcher as Old Truong pushed me at a breakneck speed. Around us were the shocked faces of our colleagues.

“What happened, Dr. To?”

“Good heavens, this hand…”

“Hurry, get her straight to the operating room!”

I watched the ceiling lights flash past, thinking only one thing: It’s over. As a doctor, I understood better than anyone what this meant. I didn’t need an X-ray; based on the pain and the sensation of total fragmentation radiating from my palm, I already knew that my metacarpals, at the very least, were shattered. More serious were the nerves and tendons. Tran Da’s twisting, grinding motions could never result in simple bone fractures. My surgical career was finished. Old Truong pushed me into the prep room, his eyes red and his hands shaking.

“Who did this?” he asked, his voice strained with fury.

“Tran Da,” I replied.

Old Truong punched the wall, causing flakes of plaster to fall. He was a university friend of mine and had known Tran Da, too. In the past, they had even shared drinks together.

“Bastard!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

The anesthesiologist arrived—it was Little Ly. Upon seeing my state, he nearly dropped the syringe in his hand.

“Dr… Dr. To…”

“It’s okay, Little Ly,” I said, looking at him, even wanting to reassure him. “Just follow the protocol. General anesthesia.”

He didn't dare meet my eyes, lowering his head to begin the preparations. The operating room door opened and then closed. I lay on the cold surgical table, the shadowless lamp blazing overhead. A place where I had stood for over a decade, saving countless hands, now saw me lying here as the patient. I closed my eyes as the anesthesia began to take effect. Before my consciousness faded, I still thought of An An. She was home alone, and I didn’t know how she was faring. I had already asked Old Truong’s wife to go fetch her. I don’t know how much time had passed when I finally woke. The ward was very quiet. My left hand was wrapped in thick bandages and a heavy cast, hanging before my chest like a leaden pendulum. It felt no pain, only a strange, alien numbness, as if it no longer belonged to me. Old Truong sat by the bed with an expression of fatigue and heaviness I had never seen before.

“The results,” I said, my throat as dry as sandpaper.

Old Truong remained silent for a long time before handing me a glass of water.

“Drink some water first.”

“I asked for the results.” My voice was quiet but resolute.

Old Truong sighed and placed an X-ray film on the viewing box by the window. The lights flickered on, piercing through the dark film. I saw my hand—or rather, a pile of bone shards that had once belonged to my hand. Steel plates, steel pins, Kirschner wires… they were packed tight like an ugly metallic monster, reluctantly piecing the fragments together.

“The third, fourth, and fifth metacarpals are shattered. The finger bones are almost all broken,” Old Truong said, his voice very low. “Seven tendons were severed, and the nerves… the main trunks of the median and ulnar nerves are severely crushed, with the branches torn apart. We tried our best, To Hoan. The surgery lasted twelve hours. The bones might knit together, but the nerve function…”

He didn't continue, but I understood everything. Bones can regenerate, and tendons can be reattached, but the microsurgeon relies most heavily on the sensory perception of nerves at a micrometric scale. It is both a gift and the result of thousands of hours of training. Nerve damage, especially crushing trauma, is irreversible. No matter how well I recovered, my hand could never hold a scalpel again. I might not even be able to hold a pair of chopsticks steady. Outside the window, dawn had broken. I stared at the X-ray for a long, long time. Then, the door to the ward was pushed open. Tran Da arrived. He had changed into clean civilian clothes, his hair combed without a single strand out of place. He carried a basket of fruit, his face wearing just the right amount of sorrow and remorse. He walked to the bedside, set the fruit down, and spoke in a husky voice.

“Hoan Hoan, I am sorry. I drank too much yesterday…”

He reached out to grab my right hand, which could still move. I pulled away. His hand hung in mid-air, looking rather awkward. He didn't look at me but glanced at Old Truong standing nearby, his eyes begging and threatening all at once. Old Truong scoffed and looked away. Tran Da sighed, sat down on the chair by the bed, and began to peel an apple. His movements were slow and attentive, as if he were completing some important ritual.

“What did the doctor say? Is it serious? You don’t need to worry about the medical bills; I’ll figure something out.” He spoke so naturally, so thoughtfully, as if he were just a husband caring for his wife, not the perpetrator who had personally destroyed me.

I looked at him and suddenly found it utterly absurd. This man was always like this. In public, he was a hero, a role model, the perfect man in everyone’s eyes. Only I knew what he was once the door was closed.

“Tran Da,” I said.

“Yes, I’m here.” He immediately raised his head with a “sincere” expression.

“Let’s get a divorce.”

The apple peeler stopped. The apple fell to the floor and rolled into the corner. A look of shock flickered across his face, followed by disbelief, and finally, it twisted into something dark and sinister. He looked at Old Truong as if to confirm something.

“Hoan Hoan, don’t say things you don’t mean. I know I was wrong. I’m sorry. I’ll even kneel and beg for your forgiveness.” As he spoke, he actually made a move to kneel.

I knew this was a performance for Old Truong.

“No need,” I cut him off. “I have thought about it carefully. My hand was crushed by you. This isn’t the first time, Tran Da. And I will not give you any more chances.”

His face went completely cold.

“To Hoan,” he stood up and leaned close to my ear, his voice only audible to us. “Don’t forget, An An is in our hands. If you dare to divorce me, I will make sure you never see her again for the rest of your life.”

“An An is in your hands?” I laughed, the motion causing my chest to heave, which sent a dull, throbbing pain through my left hand.

I looked at him and said, word by word, “Tran Da, have you forgotten that I am the one who gave birth to An An? She carries the To surname, and on the household register, the custody belongs to me. On what basis do you think you can take her away from me?” When we married, we had agreed that our children would carry my surname. It was my only condition. Back then, wanting to get married as soon as possible, he had agreed without a moment’s hesitation. Tran Da’s expression became grotesque. Perhaps he had forgotten, or more accurately, he had never taken the agreement seriously. In his eyes, everything belonged to him, including me and our daughter.

“Don’t you dare!” He lowered his voice, making no effort to hide his threat. “To Hoan, don’t push me.”