I'm a Master in India

"Ron," Johnny said, his face pale, forcing a smile.

He looked terrible; a torn T-shirt was haphazardly supporting one of his arms. Blood gurgled out, drop after drop, silently landing on the carpet.

"You don't look so good; you should go to the hospital," Ron said, knowing with just a glance that he was rapidly losing blood.

"No, I can't go to the hospital!" A man beside him waved his arms, strongly objecting to the suggestion.

"Sir, I know a little about medicine. He really doesn't look good."

"Mr. Sur, are you a doctor?" Just then, a resonant voice came from the hallway.

It was Prakhar Hadhian, the black market foreign exchange boss whom Ron had only met once.

Although he was hurrying, he didn't seem flustered at all. He must have just received the news and rushed over immediately.

"Are you a doctor?" Prakhar Hadhian repeated, glancing at Johnny.

"I'm not a doctor, but I've had emergency rescue training. Johnny's current condition looks a lot like symptoms of excessive blood loss; he'll go into shock soon if he doesn't get help."

Ron had received such training in his previous life, and Johnny was someone he often encountered here. He didn't want anything to happen to this friend.

"Then you're a doctor now. Go get the first aid kit!" Prakhar Hadhian stated decisively and turned to instruct the people around him.

Without giving Ron a chance to explain, a super-sized first aid kit was quickly passed over by everyone.

They surrounded him, staring intently, their eyes seeming to say, "Doctor, save him quickly!"

Forced into the role, Ron had no choice but to grit his teeth and step forward to examine Johnny's wound.

Unveiling the tattered T-shirt, Ron gasped. "The wound is very serious, Mr. Hadhian."

It was a long and deep gash, almost reaching from his shoulder to his elbow. A large triangle of skin, resembling a coat lapel, was protruding from the wound.

"He needs to see a real doctor. He needs stitches. You shouldn't have brought him here."

"Hospital, no! Ron..." Johnny moaned.

"He can't go to the hospital, at least not today." There was an undeniable determination in Prakhar Hadhian's eyes.

The sound of police sirens came from outside the window. The iron door on the third-floor corridor had been sealed off, and the entire room was deathly silent.

Unknowingly, Ron's forehead was covered in sweat. Without a word, he opened the first aid kit and began to inventory the items.

There were medical sutures, thread, disinfectant, and some other miscellaneous topical medications.

"Go boil some water and sterilize these knives and needles."

Given the limited conditions, this was the only option for now. After giving the instructions, Ron began to examine the wound.

The more he looked, the less confident he became. "I've never stitched up such a large wound before. I'm afraid I can't do it."

"He can't go to the hospital, Mr. Sur. Please, proceed with confidence."

"If you give me the tools, I can do it myself," Johnny said, hissing through his teeth as he suppressed the pain.

Smack, Prakhar Hadhian angrily slapped the back of his head.

Johnny's eyes widened. He was filled with fear and dread, but also a sense of determination.

"Alright, I'll do it," Ron relented. "But it will be very painful; there's no anesthetic here."

"Pain!" Johnny exclaimed happily in a low voice. "Pain doesn't matter, as long as you're willing to save me!"

Ron didn't have time to joke with him. He had everyone put Johnny on the sofa and covered his shoulders with a blanket.

The boiled water had been brought over. Ron washed his hands and used disinfectant to clean Johnny's wound.

After drying it with clean gauze, he wrapped another gauze tightly around his arm.

He did this for ten minutes to allow the wound to close, making it easier to stitch.

"Give him some sweet tea."

Johnny was already drowsy. Replenishing his sugar levels could alleviate the symptoms of shock.

Despite this, he remained calm and trusted Ron completely.

Before starting, Ron also took a sip of tea to suppress the tension in his heart.

Without looking at anyone else, he lowered his head and began to stitch.

The suture needle was curved and thin. Ron used it in conjunction with tweezers, but the first few stitches were very messy.

The wound was slippery, making it difficult to hold steady. As he worked, Johnny's facial muscles twitched and contorted, but he didn't scream.

By the fifth or sixth stitch, he had found his rhythm and grasped the knack. Even Johnny no longer seemed to be in so much pain.

Human skin is more resilient than it appears on the surface, making stitching relatively easy. The thread could be pulled very tight without tearing the tissue.

But the process was by no means pleasant. Each time he pierced the skin with the needle, Ron felt a stinging sensation himself.

Even though the room had air conditioning, Ron was covered in sweat when he finished stitching.

"Wrap a bandage around it and remember to check the wound and change the dressing every other day."

"See, Ron, I told you it would be okay," Johnny said with a smile.

"Don't get too happy. You'll have a long and ugly scar."

"I don't lack women."

The room erupted in laughter, and the atmosphere suddenly became lively.

Prakhar Hadhian waved his hand, signaling everyone to take Johnny down to rest.

"This was risky. If I had messed up, his life would have ended here." Ron was a little annoyed that he had been forced to save him, even though deep down he would have made the same decision.

"You underestimate yourself. You're a competent doctor."

"I told you, I only received some basic training..."

"Ron, may I call you that?"

Ron made a uniquely Indian head-wagging gesture towards him, and the latter immediately laughed.

"I'm not joking. In India, someone with your skills is qualified to be a doctor."

This sounded like a compliment, but it was also a tragedy for India as a whole.

"How did he get into this state?" Ron changed the subject.

"Gang fight. He was ambushed. They used razors and axes."

Ron didn't say anything, which wasn't beyond his expectations. Beneath Mumbai's peaceful facade, violence was everywhere.

Some bloody conflicts were so intense that even the police dared only stand aside, and the government was helpless.

"By the way, did you come to exchange money today?"

"Yes, I have the last bit on me."

Prakhar Hadhian took out a cigarette and lit it, lost in thought.

"I heard your business has been doing well recently?"

"Barely making ends meet. I'm just trying to make a living off foreigners."

"That's good. They don't lack money, and you have a good business sense."

Ron couldn't figure out what he was thinking, so he remained silent.

"If anything comes up in the future, you can always find Johnny. He knows where I am."

"Thank you, Mr. Hadhian."

"Call me Hadh Bhai."

"What?" Ron was startled. He looked up at him, knowing the meaning of the word "Bhai."

But the other man only left him with a silhouette and a casual wave.

He glanced at the others in the room in confusion, only to find everyone coming up to pat him on the shoulder warmly.

It was a genuine smile, like a greeting between family members.

Just when Ron thought there would be extra benefits for him today, such as an increased exchange rate.

The money he received and counted was no different from usual.

Never mind. This private exchange of nearly three thousand US dollars had already earned him a profit of over seventeen thousand rupees.

Next, he should focus on developing his company, and he already had a target.

The Victoria Terminus was a good place.