This is an entry for Finish the Story Contest - Week #31.
Here is 
Barnard Hall, in the heart of the west wing of the medical school, the Asclepius sancta sanctorum. The light of the sunset dripped from the dusty double-glazed windows and mixed with the cedar scent of the wooden stalls, arranged in steep theatre. A visitor who had passed the heavy double door would have undoubtedly caught the note of animal musk mixing with the wood essence. Smell of anxiety. Smell of hunted prey. Smell of university student exhausted during a long, endless session of exams.
"I strongly advise you to think carefully about your next words," Prof. Angelus said to the student.
Spread over several rows, set in the narrow space between the back and the table top, the remaining students were crossed by the icy scalpel blade of that voice.
"Here we are," Luke thought in a flash of conscious resignation.
It was the sixth time he had to repeat that exam: after five fails in a row his whole life have been interrupted and swallowed up in that black hole. By now he knew every detail of "At Heart of Cardiology", the three volumes treatise written by Prof. Angelus, a widely recognised eminence of cardiology.
For an eternal moment his thoughts dissociated from the scene and flew to that day three years earlier when, at the head of a handful of fifteen other students, Luke had decided to protest the decisions of the seventy-year-old professor.
"Do you mind if I ask you.. do you really intend to graduate in this university?" A stunned secretary had told him at some point, after the insistent protests of the student committee showed no sign of blurring.
And at what levels could the power of an old ordinary professor, close to retirement, ever come? The answer did not wait and, just two months later, Prof. Angelus was acclaimed by the unanimous council as dean of the faculty. Luke was instantly fire-branded and he would never graduate from that university."Well?" The assistant, the professor's guard dog, broke the silence.
"The... the... commissurotomy can only be performed if the flaps are not calcified and the subvalvular apparatus is preserved. With a left anterior thoracotomy, the chest is accessed through the resection space of rib 5. Once the pericardium is opened through the left auricle, a diverter is introduced into the mitral ostium which, opening, forces the valvular flaps to separate the merged commissures." Luke answered almost without breathing, tense like a Vietcong in his tunnel paved of sleepless study nights.
The professor's nose had disgusting bright red veins, Luke did not know if he was breathing - or alive at all. He looked down at the white, protruding knuckles of his left hand, clinging to the arm of his chair, and waited for his fate.
"Twenty-six, do you accept?". A note of irony in that electric scalpel voice.
"Yes. Sorry, I'll take the transcripts." Luke stumbled into his bag, looking through the notebooks for the grade transcripts. He had not even brought the booklet with him since there was so little hope of passing the exam.The professor absent-mindedly drew a twenty-four and a signature in cuneiform spelling.
The cold light of the Pentaled surgical light-head outlined the instruments neatly aligned as efficient soldiers ready to execute his orders. It was almost pleasant to the watchful eyes of Dr. Luke Richards, a promising cardio-surgeon and head of the famous Royal Brompton Hospital in Chelsea, London.
"Doctor, we have verified that a serious heart attack is going on. The frequency is 207 bpm. We administered 50 mg of protamine sulfate, the patient did not react. Furthermore, his wife informed us of a complication deriving from senile cardiac amyloidosis."
"A very normal case that could be safely entrusted to the Mako-bot" Dr. Richards determined instantly by glancing quickly at the operating table, automated and managed by the hospital central A.I.
He snorted slightly. Evidently the patient had enough influence not only to obtain a human operation, but also to have the Chief Cardiac Surgeon out of bed at three o'clock in the night."Who do we have here, doctor?"
"This is a certain Prof. Daniel Angelus".
And this is my ending:
"You've got to be kidding me."
It was true. My college nemesis was lying on my operating table. I immediately recognized his veined lump of a nose, made even more unpleasant by the additional twenty years.
We tend to think of college students as adults, but they're just big kids. Clumsy, impressionable, frail. At that moment, I--a mature master of my field of expertise--I could not suppress a shiver, recalling the terrorized boy I had been.
The dreaded bogeyman of Barnard Hall was reaping what he had sown.
I performed the best surgery of my career. My fingers moved precisely and effortlessly. The assistants were in awe, admiring my skillful execution, while I regaled them with the sorry tale of my college failures. The A.I. recorded everything, ready to replicate my performance on other patients.
And with skill came success. Against all odds, Mr. Angelus was saved. It was a triumph! In a single act, I had overcome the medical emergency and vindicated the injustices I had suffered.
For a short while, at least.
Twenty-four hours later, I entered Mr. Angelus's hospital room. I had taken every precaution. My digital signature was at home, recorded by my phone, smart tv, self-driving car. This was my hospital, and I knew by heart the location of the surveillance sensors, and every hiding place, and which nurse was on which shift and for how long.
With gloved hands, I put the electronic equipment out of sync. And I silently approached the sleeping form of Mr. Angelus.
Let's not kid ourselves here: of course, I was going to murder the despicable asshole.
When I lowered the pillow on his face, I whispered in his ear, "twenty-six, not twenty-four." He heard me. And I very much like to think, in his last moments, he knew it was me.
As I left, I reverted the life support back on track. The alarms started immediately; by the time the doctors arrived, I was safe and descending the stairwell.
The following day I woke up refreshed. Far from feeling any guilt, I was elated. It was like an important piece of a puzzle had found his right place; like the world was in better order then, than it had previously been.
At work, I was informed that the ninety-year-old professor had died in his sleep. The cause seemed to be a respiratory failure, a common enough occurrence to the elderly after a difficult operation. Acting dismayed, I recommended an investigation.
Not that they would ever find anything against me. From my colleagues, I only received praise for my valiant effort. Later, when the Italian-named policeman came to my office, with his shabby raincoat and foul cigar, I explained in detail what the operation had entailed, and also divulged my personal ties with the deceased.
He thanked me and made to leave.
Then he stopped halfway, and without turning he raised a hand, and said: "Just one more thing..."
