Roscoe, usually composed, showed a crack in his demeanor. His voice slightly hoarse, he implored, "Please, save her."

Looking at the usually stoic Roscoe, the professor inquired, "Who is this woman to you?"

Roscoe's thoughts drifted back to one summer when he first saw Nicole.

Back then, the eighteen-year-old Nicole accompanied her father to a charity event in the countryside.

She was dressed in a striking red dress, complemented by a wide-brimmed black hat, her skin delicate. Her smile was like that of a radiant, dazzling red rose.

He later learned Nicole's name and her identity as the daughter of a wealthy businessman known for aiding underprivileged children like him.

That fleeting encounter lingered in his memory, a moment frozen in time, leaving a lasting imprint on Roscoe's heart.

Roscoe had personally raised 50 million to help Nicole settle her debts. He sold his cherished patent and traveled abroad for medical exchanges, all to enhance his qualifications and increase his earnings.

Yet, Nicole was still here, grievously injured.

The once flawless lady was now marred by wounds, and he felt helpless to help.

His skills, formidable as they were, seemed insignificant in the face of the harsh realities of capitalism. He could only stand by as she suffered.

Determination burning in his eyes, Roscoe stated firmly, “She's the most important person to me."

In the operating room, despite his exceptional talent, Roscoe was helpless to aid Nicole.

Emotions could cloud judgment.

After the operation, only Roscoe and a nurse remained.

Nicole, barely conscious, recognized a familiar figure and felt a sense of relief.

Her eyelashes quivered, her voice barely a whisper. Through her Lips, she conveyed, "Ros... I don't want others to know about my illness."

She refused to spend her final days under the weight of pity and sympathy.

She yearned to maintain her dignity, to leave this world with grace and poise.

“I understand," Roscoe replied, comprehending her wishes.