Chapter 2: A Barefoot Doctor’s Reputation

The rainy season in Lagos was like a trapped beast, wailing and roaring through the night. The torrential rain hammered against the corrugated iron roofs with a suffocating intensity, every echo sounding like a heavy sledgehammer striking metal.

Zura was marched into the mining dorms by two bodyguards in black. Rain dripped from her tattered sleeves, pooling into muddy puddles on the floor that swallowed the lines of her ankles. Her bare feet stepped onto the freezing earth with soft, wet thuds, the soaked fabric clinging to her spine as the chill seeped into her very marrow.

Amina’s shadow loomed over the entire room. The rhythmic click of her high heels against the floor was more nerve-wracking than the thunder, each strike drumming against the fragile nerves of everyone present. In the corner, resting on an old wooden crate, sat the rusted stethoscope left behind by Zura's grandfather. Its metal surface was mottled with green oxidation, yet it possessed a heavy, grounding presence that felt strangely comforting.

Zura’s gaze locked onto it, her fingertips trembling from the cold. It felt like her only anchor in this wasteland. On the fringes of this metropolis, where the air reeked of blood and greed, the laws of survival were simple and brutal: kneel, or vanish.

Zura crouched down, her fingers brushing the cold metal tube of the stethoscope. In an instant, time seemed to freeze. The roar of the rain and the chatter of the crowd faded into the distance, and the world shrank down to this single point of contact. A strange sensation surged through her mind, like a spring suddenly erupting from a dry well, flushing through her nerves with a piercing chill.

She saw a vision of the next three seconds: a miner, having misused a potent analgesic, slipping into shock. His face turned a sickly blue, his pupils dilated, and a rattling sound escaped his throat. The image was as vivid as if it were happening right now, down to the smear of dark blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

Zura snapped her eyes open, her breathing ragged. Cold sweat instantly soaked her back, leaving a dark stain on the muddy floor. She had to correct the treatment plan immediately. If she didn't, the next person to die wouldn't be the unconscious patient—it would be her, or worse, the patients who trusted her.

The black-clad bodyguards roughly dragged a miner lying on a straw mat in front of Zura. He was a new laborer at the mine, his left arm fractured and the wound jagged. Blood mixed with mud, emitting a nauseating, metallic stench. Amina’s private physician stood to the side, hands behind his back, watching Zura with pure arrogance.

He hadn't brought any medicine. He had brought a prohibition order—an official document designed to nail a person to a pillar of shame. He scanned the patient's pale face, a contemptuous curl to his lip, as if he were inspecting a pile of rotting garbage with zero redeeming value.

Rain surged through a broken window, soaking the doctor's leather shoes, but he didn't seem to notice. He cared only for his impending victory, his shoes leaving deep black prints in the murky sludge.

The doctor slowly adjusted his cuffs, his voice as cold as ice, cutting through the humid, oppressive air. He stated that the patient had internal bleeding and a ruptured artery; based on his years of clinical judgment, the man would be dead within ten minutes.

He warned Zura that any attempt to save him would be seen as a provocation against the Chamber of Commerce. It wouldn't just destroy the meager reputation she had managed to build; it would lead to her being blacklisted across the entire mining district, leaving her a complete outcast of the underworld.

In this city woven from capital and power, death was sometimes a mercy, while staying alive was an offense against the order—a glaring mistake. He suggested Zura let go, let the dead rest in peace, and let the living understand the rules. That, he said, was the only wise move.

Zura didn't answer. She simply rolled up her sleeves, revealing old surgical scars on her arms. The white threads flickered in the dim light, a record of past traumas. Ignoring the doctor's orders, she pulled three sharpened wooden slats and a roll of coarse hemp rope from a cloth bag at her waist.

Her movements were steady and swift, her expression vacant, as if the noise and threats around her didn't exist. In her eyes, life and death weren't numbers on a corporate balance sheet or chips in a power struggle; they were pain that needed to be stopped and human dignity that demanded respect.

She looked at the patient and whispered, "Don't be afraid. As long as there's a breath left in you, we haven't lost."

Tina huddled in the shadows of the corner, clutching a cloth bundle to her chest. Her face was as white as paper, her breathing shallow. She was a medical intern who should have been in a safe laboratory, but Zura had dragged her into this mire. Watching Zura prepare the crude fracture stabilization, Tina gripped the hem of her clothes so hard her knuckles turned white and blood seeped from her fingertips.

But driven by a blind idolization of Zura and a doctor's instinct, she quietly shifted her body and opened the bundle. Inside were a few dried turmeric roots and a set of sterile sutures, emitting a faint, bitter medicinal scent.

In a low voice, she reminded Zura that while turmeric could reduce inflammation and stop bleeding, the dosage had to be halved, otherwise it would burn the skin. This herb was a double-edged sword.

Tribal Elder Kwame stood at the door, his turban soaked by the rain. Water dripped from the folds of the fabric, but it couldn't wash away the wisdom and resolve in his eyes. He watched Zura stabilize the patient's violently shaking left arm with the wooden slats, then watched her apply crushed herbs around the wound. Every movement was as precise as a ritual.

Kwame didn't speak; he simply gave a slight nod, the water droplets on his beard shimmering in the dim light. He knew that in a territory controlled by the Chamber of Commerce, few dared to defy a prohibition, and those who dared to save lives using such primitive yet effective methods were rarer than phoenix feathers.

The way he looked at Zura was as if he saw an ancient, unextinguished spark through her, pulsing stubbornly in the dark.

As the splints were secured and the herbs applied, the patient's breathing gradually stabilized, the rise and fall of his chest becoming rhythmic. At four in the morning, as the first faint sliver of dawn pierced the heavy cloud cover and spilled into the dilapidated room, the patient let out a groan—the signal that life had returned.

His fingers twitched, and then he slowly opened his eyes. Zura's determined face was reflected in his clouded pupils. In that moment, the entire dorm seemed to be muted; even the sound of the rain felt distant and illusory.

The contempt on the private doctor's face froze. His eyes widened, staring intently at the patient's flushing cheeks, his lips trembling but unable to produce a sound. This was impossible. His diagnosis had been slapped across the face by reality. The shame of his authority collapsing made him nearly lose his footing, and his clipboard hit the floor with a loud *clack*.

The news spread through the mining district like wildfire. Miners poked their heads out from narrow bunks, their eyes flashing with disbelief, a spark of spirit returning to their previously numb faces. Some said the barefoot wanderer was sent by God; others said she possessed ancestral secrets that could bring the dead back to life.

The rumors traveled by word of mouth from the miners to the nearby refugee camps, then drifted toward the bustling markets, taking root in every corner. People began to talk about the unlicensed woman. Her name, "Zura," grew louder with every rhythmic rumor, becoming a symbol of hope.

A cult of personality, born from a desperate hunger for survival, was quietly taking root in the lower class and spreading outward.

Amina sat behind her desk in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, her fountain pen pausing in mid-air, a drop of ink gathering at the tip. The report presented by her subordinate was only a few pages long, the paper rustling in trembling hands like dry leaves caught in a wind. The report read: *Zura. No hometown, no education, no license. Orphan.*

But under the community reputation column, it read: *Deeply loved by the lower class; regarded as a Guardian.* Those words stung Amina's eyes like needles. A surge of irritation washed over her. Her monopoly on medical resources had been cracked open by a ghost; a hole had appeared in her seamless web of control.

She hated this feeling of losing control. It was as if a stray cat had broken into her meticulously arranged porcelain shop and knocked over an expensive vase, creating a crisp, jarring shatter.

She picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number, her fingertips pressing so hard they turned white. Samuel's coarse laughter came through the receiver, mingled with the sound of chewing food and the clinking of gold coins—a sound full of greed and danger. Amina said coldly, "A homeless wanderer without a license dares to touch my turf?"

Her voice carried an unquestionable pressure, every word like a cold blade. She needed to eliminate this liability—not through negotiation, but through darker means, teaching her the value of silence before she vanished.

On the other end of the line, Samuel licked his lips and gave a low hum of agreement, like a vicious dog catching the scent of blood, baring yellowed teeth in the dark as he waited for the prey to arrive.

Samuel's smile vanished abruptly. He tossed a gold coin, which traced a blinding arc through the dim room before hitting the floor with a sharp, cold ring.

"Amina, you're too merciful. Or rather, too stupid." Samuel lowered his voice, his tone like a viper's hiss, carrying a nauseating dampness. "That orphan is like an uninvited rat. She hasn't just chewed through your cheese; she's alerted the peasants who were supposed to be grateful to you. If you want me to handle it, I'll show you exactly how an 'accident' happens."

He stood up, his shadow masking his face, leaving only his eyes glinting with cunning in the dark.

"Tomorrow morning, I'll arrange for an overturned truck to appear on the outskirts of the refugee camp. If Zura goes to save people, she's a hero; if she doesn't, she's cold-hearted."

Samuel let out a contemptuous snort. "Either way, she becomes a target for the masses, or she ends up in a nameless grave. And once she falls, the order of the refugee camp will collapse. By then, your medical empire won't need any 'Guardians'."

Amina's fingers trembled slightly as she held the receiver, the cold metal sensation seeping into her bones. She looked out the window; a thick smog blanketed the city like a giant shroud, suffocating and oppressive. A strong sense of unease welled up inside her. That "stray cat" didn't seem to be getting crushed as she had expected; instead, it seemed to have sniffed out a new kind of life among the ruins.

Just as she was about to hang up, a series of hurried, heavy footsteps echoed from the end of the hallway, accompanied by the clanging of metal equipment. Amina whipped around, her pupils contracting—it was a heavy, labored breathing she had never heard before, coming from the underground black market, stepping closer and closer to her private office, while Samuel's cold laughter still echoed in her ears, refusing to fade.