The scalpel’s smooth incision exposes blood-drenched organs. The crew of doctors takes their positions and watches Head Surgeon Dr. Shellon remove the razor sharp utensil from the patient.

Dr. Shellon steps back to allow his team of specialists to prepare for the operation.

Double-checking the patient profile, he feels his pulse race.

“What is it, Dr. Shellon?” one of the doctors asks.

“Dr. Tolan, step outside with me for a minute.”

Stepping out of the Operating Room, Dr. Shellon grasps the manila folder in front of him with both hands.

“Tim, this is him” Dr. Shellon pleads.

“I thought he was on death row?”

“That scum-bag judge suspended the sentence; deemed inconclusive evidence. The dirt bag murders the first family and goes right next store to make sure the neighbors didn’t hear anything. They pleaded mercy, but he killed them anyways.”

Looking down at the murderer’s patient profile, Dr. Shellon slams it against the filing cabinet.

Tim Tolan trying to calm his Chief Surgeon extends his hand onto his right shoulder.

“Look, the guy’s sick, we know how f***ed up this situation is. We can try to page another surgeon.”

“It’s the middle of the night, it’d take forty minutes to get somebody else out here.”

“We could close him up and monitor him until another surgeon arrives.”

“We’re prepping him for a triple bypass. If we close him up, he’ll burst in minutes.”

“Well, then I guess it’s clear we don’t have much of a choice, Shell.”

Reopening the patient’s folder, Dr. Shellon looks at the photograph.

“This might as well be his mug shot.”

“I’m sorry, Shell, we don’t have a choice.”

Through gritted teeth, Dr. Shellon clenches the manila folder with white knuckles.

“S***. Alright, just give me a minute.”

Sweat perspires through every pore in his body, his face a frustrated red. Hunching over the sink, Shelly splashes cold water on his face. Slowly glancing up at the mirror, the face staring back at him is unfamiliarly enraged.

His staff of Ivy League doctors looks up at Dr. Shellon with focused eyes. With the stench of youth and inexperience, Shelly examines his prestigious team. They are the future of “Golden Hands” award-winning surgeons, greedy to absorb all that they can. Unethically killing this patient would traumatize them.

Slouching his head into the palms of his hands, he closes his eyes real tight, exhaling completely. His eyes are bloodshot as he almost tears the manila folder.

Dr. Shellon washes his hands and scrubs back up. As he enters the OR, his team is already in position.

Taking his place right above the exposed, pulsating heart, Dr. Shellon feels his fists clench.

“Scalpel” Dr. Shellon demands.

Dr. Shellon’s blood-red eyes examine the sharp blade. Then they shift to the medicated murderer cut open on the table.

The crew of doctors stand still as the Surgeon-of-the-year brings the blade in.