“I have sent you the address. Just tell them that you're there for Mr. Calderon, and the doorman will know what to do."

Camila got the address and answered, "Got it."

“And Mila, don't tell anyone about this and don't ask any unnecessary questions. Just focus on treating the patient, okay?" Forrest added.

“Okay.” After hanging up, Camila took a taxi to the address.

It was located in a high-end neighborhood with top-level security.

The doorman stopped her from entering. As instructed, Camila informed him that she was here to see Mr. Calderon. The doorman called to confirm before finally granting her access.

It didn't take long before she found the house. Taking a deep breath, she rang the doorbell.

Soon, the door was opened.

Seeing that it wasn't Forrest at the door, Willie frowned and asked, “And you are?"

From the way Forrest sounded over the phone, Camila could tell that this patient seemed to care about his privacy very much. Not wanting to get involved, she wore a mask before going.

“Dr. Forrest Walters asked me to come here in his place."

Glancing at the medical kit she was carrying, Willie squinted at her.

“You know what to do?"

"Yes, Dr. Walters briefed me. I won't tell anyone.”

Willie figured that Forrest wouldn't ask someone unreliable to come here, so he let Camila in.

He Led Camila through the huge living room, up the stairs to the second floor, and stopped in front of the door to a bedroom.

The room was very dimly Lit. Glancing at Willie, she asked, “How can I treat the patient without Lights?"

When Isaac heard that it was a woman's voice, he pulled over his coat over his head to cover his face and said coldly, "Fine. You may turn on the Lights."

Willie obliged and turned the lights on. The room was instantly illuminated. The voice sounded familiar, but Camila didn't think too much of it. She approached the injured man, who was lying in bed. The blood on his white shirt had dried up, leaving a nasty dark red stain.

She tried not to look at his covered face. After all, she was here to treat him, not to pry.

Obviously, the patient didn't want others to know his identity, so it was only right that she respect his privacy.

She put the medical kit on the table and opened it. Then she took out a pair of medical-grade scissors to cut the cloth on the wound.

As soon as she pried off the blood-caked clothing, she saw that the man had two wounds, and that they had simply been bandaged with gauze.

She put the scissors down and immediately set out to clean the wounds. Every move was elegant and efficient.

“Are you allergic to anesthesia?" she asked.