Chapter 8 — The Hand That Carves Sin

"A specialized device?"

"It is the latest neural signal amplification and feedback system developed by the military research division," the commander explained. "It was originally in the experimental phase, but due to the emergency, the higher-ups have granted special clearance. It can amplify the weakest neural signals in your hand and then transmit the tactile sensations from the tip of the surgical instrument back to you. Your mentor said that as long as your brain still remembers the sensation of surgery, and as long as your surgical instincts remain intact, this system will become your new set of hands."

I fell silent. I never expected that my mentor would have planned this far for me.

"Doctor To." Seeing my silence, Director Luu stepped forward, his voice hurried and desperate. "I am begging you. Tran Da... despite the wrongs he has committed against you, this time he is truly acting for the country, for his comrades. He is a meritorious hero; the country cannot afford to lose him! To him, his right hand is a second life!"

A second life? I looked at him, suddenly overcome with the urge to ask: Is my left hand not my own second life? When Tran Da destroyed my life, where were all of you? When he used the most vicious lies to slander me in court, inviting reporters to destroy my reputation, where were you then? Now that he needs me, you finally come looking. You invoke the name of the country, raise the banner of a meritorious individual, and demand that I—a victim destroyed by his own hand—save him. Could there be anything more absurd or ridiculous in this world?

"An An." I turned to call my daughter, who was peeking out from her room. "Go back to your room and close the door."

An An nodded understandingly, glanced at the two strangers at the door, and retreated quietly. Once the door clicked shut, the last trace of warmth vanished from my face. I turned into the house, rummaged through a dust-covered crate, and pulled out an X-ray film. It was the scan of my own hand. I walked back to the entrance and slammed the film onto the shoe cabinet right in front of Director Luu.

"Commander, Director Luu, look clearly."

I pointed to the steel plates and dense pins visible on the film.

"Comminuted fractures, seven severed tendons, and two major nerves severely damaged. This is the souvenir that your precious hero left for me."

My voice was not loud, but every word felt like shards of ice.

I was also a specialist trained by this country. These hands of mine have saved over a hundred patients. When he destroyed me, who came to tell me that the country could not afford to lose me? Who saved me?

"Now that he needs a hand, you finally remember my existence?"

"You want me to save him? Fine."

My tone shifted abruptly. The eyes of the commander and Director Luu lit up instantly. I looked directly at them, enunciating every syllable as I laid out the condition I had been harboring for four months—or, more accurately, the condition I had been waiting to set from the very moment my hands were crushed.

"Tell him to write one line on the surgical consent form with his own hand."

"What should he write?" the commander asked urgently.

I looked him straight in the eyes, speaking clearly and slowly:

"I, Tran Da, admit that I am a domestic abuser. The crimes I have committed against my wife, To Hoan, are unforgivable."

The air seemed to freeze. The expressions on the faces of the commander and Director Luu stiffened. Perhaps they had imagined I would demand all sorts of things: money, property, child custody, or the restoration of my job and reputation. They might have even prepared contingencies for those scenarios. But they could never have anticipated such a condition. It was a request that bypassed material compensation and struck directly at the soul. What I wanted was not restitution, but judgment. I did not want a compromise; I wanted a confession. I wanted Tran Da, the high-and-mighty hero, to publicly admit with his own mouth that he was a criminal.

"This..." Director Luu’s complexion turned ghastly, and he stammered. "Little To... Doctor To, this... this isn’t quite appropriate, is it? If he signs this and it leaks, the fallout will be disastrous. It will become a permanent stain on his record; his future will be..."

"His future?" I cut him off with a cold laugh. "When my future was ground into dust by his boot, why didn't he think about the fallout? When he called the reporters to slander me and ruin my reputation, why didn't he think that would be a permanent stain on my life?"

"The hand he broke was my livelihood! Now that he wants to protect his own, by what right does he think he can walk away without paying any price?"

My voice grew louder. The rage, the bitterness, and the resentment that had been festering in my chest for four months erupted all at once.

"You want him to be a hero? Fine! I will help you. But the title of hero is not a shield for him to do whatever he pleases! Being a meritorious person is not a talisman that allows him to escape his sins!"

"Tell him to sign. If he doesn’t sign, let them amputate. You choose."

Having said that, I stepped back, preparing to shut the door.

"Wait!" the commander called out, his voice hoarse and heavy.