Chapter 9 — The Hand That Carves Sin

He gazed at me with profound intensity. His eyes held traces of astonishment and awkwardness, but beneath it all lay a complex turbulence of emotion that I could not begin to decipher. He remained silent for a long time—so long that I expected him to simply wave his hand and walk away. Yet, he did not. Instead, he gave a curt nod and said, "I will convey your conditions to him. But whether he chooses to sign or not, I cannot guarantee."

"That is his concern," I replied coldly. "And yours, as well."

Once the words were out, I slammed the door shut. Leaning against the cold wood, my strength seemed to drain away instantly. I gasped for air, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs. Had I won? I did not know. I only knew that I had finally spoken the words I needed to say and set the ultimatum that had to be delivered. It was my first act of defiance, and the most significant one I had ever staged for myself, for the hand I had lost, and for the life that had been systematically dismantled.

The next two days were a stretch of agonizing, stagnant waiting. No one came for me. Life drifted back into its former quietude: grocery shopping, cooking, spending time with An An, and performing my physical therapy. It seemed as though that confrontation on the balcony might have been nothing more than a hallucination. I even began to wonder if they had surrendered, found another doctor, or if Tran Da had simply accepted his fate of amputation.

That would be for the best, I thought. If he would rather lose a hand than admit to his own crimes, it only proved that his arrogance and selfishness were etched into his very marrow, incurable. Such a person did not deserve saving.

On the morning of the third day, as I prepared lunch in the kitchen, my phone rang. It was an unfamiliar local number. I hesitated, then pressed the answer button. On the other end, a young woman’s voice emerged, tinged with timidity and nerves.

"Excuse me... is this Doctor To Hoan?"

"Yes, it is. Who is this?"

"I... I am the nurse in charge of Tran Da's ward. My surname is Truong."

My heart constricted. "What do you need?"

"It is... it is like this," Nurse Truong’s voice dropped, as if afraid of being overheard. "Tran Da... he wants to meet with you. He asked me to call you on the sly."

"Meet with me?" I frowned. "Is there something he cannot discuss with his commanding officers?"

"He said... he only wants to speak with you privately." Nurse Truong paused, then added, "Early this morning, the leadership and the rest of the staff left for an emergency meeting at headquarters. He is completely alone in the ward right now."

He was alone. Countless thoughts raced through my mind. What was his intent? Was he planning to beg, to threaten, or to orchestrate some new ploy?

"Doctor To, could you come by? I feel... I feel as though he has something very important he needs to tell you," Nurse Truong pleaded.

I fell silent. Should I go? Reason screamed at me not to go, not to entertain any further private contact with him. But another voice within me whispered: Go and see. Go and see this man—now that he has lost the right hand he was always so proud of, now that he faces the "verdict" I handed down—what has he truly become? I wanted to see his ending with my own eyes.

"Give me the address," I heard myself say.

After hanging up, I took off my apron and changed into a different outfit. Looking at myself in the mirror, I took a deep breath. To Hoan, do not be afraid. You are not the person who stood there four months ago, waiting to be slaughtered. Now, all his hopes lie in your hands. He is the one who should be afraid.

I stood outside the intensive care ward at the Military Regional General Hospital, peering through the glass window. Tran Da lay on the bed, his complexion as white as paper. The body that was once robust and imposing was now visibly gaunt. His right arm was wrapped in thick layers of gauze and suspended in the air; the empty sleeve hung like a silent, mocking taunt. Devoid of his uniform and his heroic aura, he looked like nothing more than an ordinary, fragile patient.

I pushed the door open and entered. Hearing the noise, he slowly turned his head. Our eyes locked. His gaze was convoluted—startled, wretched, regretful, and filled with a kind of frailty I had never witnessed before. Neither of us spoke. The ward was so quiet that only the steady, rhythmic beeping of the monitors filled the air. Eventually, he was the first to break the silence.

"You came," his voice was dry and raspy, as if he had not spoken in ages.

"The nurse said you wanted to see me," I stood three paces away, refusing to draw closer. This distance made me feel safe.

He tugged at the corner of his mouth, attempting a smile, but failing.

"They... have told you everything, haven't they?" He stared at the ceiling, his eyes hollow. "About my hand."

"They have," I answered, my tone devoid of emotion.

"They also told you... about your conditions, right?" he asked again.

"Yes."

He fell silent. The ward plunged into a deathly stillness. I watched him, waiting patiently. I wanted to see exactly what game he was playing. After a long while, he looked at me again, his eyes webbed with red.

"To Hoan," he called my name, every syllable forced and labored. "Must we... really take it this far?"

I looked at him, and suddenly, I felt it was all nothing but a cruel, bitter joke.